We’re Actually Quite Normal

We all have our little obsessions, our compulsions. We have certain ways of doing things, patterns we’ve established that are now habitual. These can consist of the simple order that we put our clothes on. It doesn’t really matter what goes on when, with the exception that the underwear does need to go on first, along with putting socks on prior to shoes. If you see someone walking around with jockey shorts on over their jeans and socks stretched over the outside of their shoes then you know that individual has a problem.

For example, Jan has to finish. Some refer to her a “doer”. If she can’t think of the name of an actor she’s seen in a movie she either has to jump all over the internet or start frantically knocking on doors asking quiz show questions to neighbors until she gets the name. Similarly if she’s lost something there’s no rest until it’s found. This is behavior that could be upsetting to a spouse but I use it at times to my favor. If I can’t find something I only have to mention it then she can’t sit still until she’s located it. It’s sort of fun…I’m sitting on the couch watching TV, she’s in the bedroom on the computer. I say, “Hey, honey…I’ve looked everywhere for my glasses. Have you seen them?” Then I kick back and feel the anxiousness swell like rising lava within her until a few minutes later she’s got them in her hand. The funny thing about this is she knows she does this and that I have a bit of fun with her but, she can’t help it.

Several years ago I noticed one of our visiting church leaders pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of his pocket and squirted a couple of drops on his hands prior to having lunch. I was sold. Since then I keep a small bottle of liquid germicide handy and use it particularly before I eat out. Some may think I’m going all Monk on this but I’ve been in enough public restrooms and have seen how many men don’t bother to wash their hands. The thought of touching a sink faucet, or door knob after one of these heathens gives me the shakes. Then picture picking up a sandwich with your bacteria laden fingers and you might share my nightmare.

Last week we went to the Southern Oregon Home Show at the expo. The home show is comprised of several hundred vendors who jump out at you as you walk down the aisle trying to get your attention. Some have drawings for you to sign up for, some have brochures about their business, some have candy. Some are giving away fabric bags with their logos emblazed on the sides. One plumbing booth gave away yard sticks. We couldn’t go home until Jan found the booth giving away the yard sticks.

So, as we’re wandering around Jan finally pulls a kid over carrying one of these yard sticks to ask where he got it. After getting directions we expand our search pattern until I walk by a booth with two men standing out front of the tables.

While reaching toward my face the man grabs my glasses and says, “Hey, let me clean those for you.”

Before I can respond he’s squirting something on my lenses and rubbing the liquid with his thumbs. He then takes a cloth and rubs them like he’s thinking he’s getting three wishes from a magic lamp.

“See, take a look at how clean those are," he barks as he holds them up for me to look through. He then brings them toward his mouth and to my horror he lets out a steady “hhhaawwwww” on each lens. He holds my glasses up again. “See, this stuff makes them fog resistant too.” He then sticks my glasses back on my face. I don’t remember the rest of his pitch.

I’m tensing up. I’m getting ready to flip out. I’m getting ready to call the bacterial unit of Homeland Security. I’m thinking this guy’s “hhhaawwww” breath is just micro milligrams from my eyes. I picture my eyes getting inflamed and oozing out the sockets like the Nazi’s head in the original Raider of the Lost Ark movie.

I put my glasses in my shirt pocket, take Jan by the hand and say, “Let’s get out of here!”

“But I need the yard stick!" She pleads.

“You have plenty of yard sticks!” I yell back.

Then she sternly looks into my eyes, “No, you don’t understand. I NEED to find the yard sticks!”

Luckily, we stumble upon the booth giving away the yard sticks by the exit. We speed home as I squint my eyelids together to keep my eyeballs from leaking out.

I fumble for the door key, run into the bedroom and give multiple shots of sanitizer to my glasses then rubbing them so hard I’ve probably altered the prescription.

At last relieved, I settle down on the couch next to Jan who’s fallen asleep holding her yard stick close like a teddy bear. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that one of the lenses from my glasses has now popped out. I guess it's better that than my eye ball.

St. Paddy's Day Pride

On the morning of St. Patrick’s Day before school I’d be rummaging through the closet, drawers, under the bed anywhere in search of something to wear that was green. I never wanted to find something that was too green, didn’t want attention, only wanted enough green to thwart the pinchers. The best was sort of a “green-o-flage”, green that wasn’t initially noticeable but if someone pinched I could show them my green spot. Then, according to Irish law, I could pummel them with several slugs to the upper arm.

It was always best to be a little nonchalant about St. Patrick’s Day. You never wanted to appear to have intentionally donned green garb. That would just not be cool. If you came to school wearing green pants, or shirt you’d be considered Leprechaunish. Sort of like wearing a Santa hat or Easter bunny ears to school. You’d be asking for a pounding. So it was best to find a piece of green thread and place it on your shirt or have it come out of your pocket. The rules of green were that it had to be in a place where it could be seen with the naked eye. So, green underwear didn’t count. Socks were good but only if you had flood water pants on.

If you forgot your green one way for a quick acquire was to go slide around in the field before school to get grass stains. You’d come into class smelling a little gamey and there would be Irish penance to pay when your mother took a look at those new pants but the price was worth it.

An unwritten rule was that if you claimed to actually be Irish you might be able to ward off the painful nips. I had always been suspicious if Loo Wang was really as Irish as he claimed to be.

Living in Ireland on a mission for two years changed my perspective a little. Wearing green wasn’t a big deal. I suppose since we breathed Irish air no one would even consider you didn’t have Ireland inside you.

Since children have come along we always celebrated by hanging up my Ireland flags, listening to twangy Irish pub songs, and eating green pancakes. I think I remember putting green food coloring in a milk jug when Jan and I were first married. However, now that I think about it I’m not sure we could have afforded food coloring so I’m not sure how the milk became green. Did they put expiration dates on things 35 years ago?

So, once a year I put on my Irish plaid tweed tie, turn up the pipe and fiddle music and prance around the living room, jigging and jogging off the furniture and twirling in Irish dervish spins. Then I put my clothes on.

So, if that image is difficult to get out of your head you now know how the Irish men celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Sort of weird, isn’t it?

Crazy Talk

I know when I was growing up there was a guy who wandered around town carrying on a conversation with the air. Not that he addressed the air as such, but there was no one else around when he spoke. Seems like we called him Crazy something or other. Not that we included “something or other” when we referred to him it’s just that I can’t recall what we called him, other than the Crazy part.

Throughout the years I’ve seen and heard a few other crazies; people who talk to themselves, out loud. They don’t whisper or mutter, I mean, it’s like they’re using a conversational tone in their voice. I can’t say I heard them asking questions then answering those inquiries, but again, there’s no one they’re addressing their voices to. Now, I don’t generally really listen to what they’re saying. When I come across someone talking to their imaginary friend I tend to avoid them. You know, like walk to the other side of the street, turn my head, don’t make eye contact, make the sign of the cross with my fingers… I realize the cross is to ward off vampires but I don’t want anyone to suck away my sanity.

These days I’ve noticed a notable increase in the number of those crazy chatterers, especially at places like Costco. For example today, I had parked the cart next to the vitamin shelves while Jan went to look for something. She tells me to stay put so I do, I don’t want to wander off somewhere because then I get into all sorts of trouble. So, I’m leaning against the shopping cart looking around when this woman comes walking down the aisle chatting away. There’s no one around her. She’s talking about not finding calcium tablets and swearing she saw them in this aisle the last time she was here. She didn’t realize I was standing in front of the calcium tablets, blocking them with my cart, but she was a crazy, and I wasn’t going to move or acknowledge I knew where these were. After all, she wasn’t talking to me…

She kept on talking so I went into my self taught avoidance skills. I turned my head and avoided eye contact. She was sounding more irritated so I took my hands out of my pockets and made the sign of the cross. She stopped, turned toward me and said, “Oh, you say the calcium tablets are in aisle “T”? Thank you.” And off she went, turning her conversation back to herself.

I realized after she left she was talking through her cell phone hands free device. I hate these things when people use them in public places. I had one woman stand next to me as I was pulling canned chicken off the shelf.
“What do you want on your pizza?” she asked.

I was a little puzzled, “well, I guess Canadian Bacon and pinapple is my first favorite.”

“OK, I’ll go pick one up.” she replied. “So when are you coming over?”

My self esteem did puff a bit when she said she was taking my pizza topping advice but the when are you coming over part threw me.

“I don’t know you. I’m not really comfortable coming over. Of course I’d bring my wife, but I do love pizza. Couldn’t we just eat outside?”

She started to walk away, “OK, I’m giving Mandy a bath then putting her down for a nap.” she responded. “She’s worn herself out.”

I started to quiver as I realized she wasn’t talking to me. I’d just been lured into one of “their” worlds.

I really feel sorry for those who suffer with schizophrenic conditions. But, with more people talking to themselves out loud more frequently it’s difficult to tell who actually is just talking on the phone or really is a bit on the crazy side. It’s even more difficult for me. I find myself walking across streets to avoid people more often, not looking anyone in the eye, and if one more police officer tries to take me in because I’m making the sign of the cross with my fingers at everyone, I swear, I’ll just go crazy.

Happy Year!

I know it’s been awhile since I did anything on this blog. I’ve been updating and reworking a favorite family Christmas story that I have plans for submitting for publication soon and just hadn’t felt creative in the blog sphere. Also I began coming off some medication I’ve been taking for several years and the withdrawals left me murky minded.

Which brings me all to this:

In November I passed my 30^th year of working at the newspaper. Now, that’s a long time and why anyone would work at the same place for that long is questionable. Our advertising staff is divided into three teams. Each team includes several sales people and an assistant. When it was mentioned I’d been here for 30 years several of my team mates quickly responded they hadn’t been born yet when I started. In fact, only one other sales rep of the five on our team was earthbound when I began my first day of work and he was in diapers. Am I really that old?

Getting older is funny; it’s something that happens to everyone else. Jan and I enjoy a daily comic strip named “Pickles.” The strip is described as: “Pickles tells the story of Earl and Opal Pickles as they enjoy their golden years surrounded by friends and family.” Yeah, that doesn’t sound funny but the comic can sometimes be hilarious. Jan and I used to think the characters acted like our parents. Now, we’ve recently discovered the characters are acting like us.

A few days ago Jan was sharing one of the strips with me. She read, “Opal says: “Earl, are you wearing your hearing aid?” Jan quips, “I don’t remember the man’s name but this character reminds me of your dad.” I quickly responded, “Do you mean you don’t remember Earl’s name? You just read it, Jan!” (It was very early in the morning and I was still half asleep, Jan explains.) It was my nature to rub that memory lapse wound deeply for the rest of the day.

Monday Jan, her sister Jeanne and I went to see War Horse. Standing in line I overheard one ticket buyer mention she was a purchasing tickets for two seniors. I don’t mind being older if it will save a buck so I wondered how old I needed to be to receive the discount. It was 62 so I’m still too young for some things.

The theater was filling quickly but we found seats in the last row. Soon after we sat down two teenage brothers came in and stated they needed 5 seats. So, one brother left the seat next to me open while he settled in next to it. His brother quickly pointed out that he needed to scoot all the way down. In his words, “Sit in the chair next to the old guy.” I turned and looked down the aisle toward the whippersnapper.

“Did you just call me an old guy?” I asked incredulously. Now, I had a smile on my face while I said this but the fact I called him out on his comment really flabbergasted the young ‘un. He almost crawled in humility toward me, begging for my forgiveness. “Did you know I asked if I could get the senior discount ticket and they wouldn’t even give it to me? How can I be an “old guy” when I don’t even qualify for the senior discount?”

He begged for forgiveness again, explaining he didn’t mean what he said and that he didn’t know what he was talking about. I guess my knife had plunged deep enough so I just shook my head and waved him off as I laughed.

I’ve decided to drop all age/time adjectives from my vocabulary. So, my holiday greeting for this weekend is “Happy Year!”