Wanted: Crazy, quirky confessions

The cover of the May 2010 Reader's Digest beckoned me: "Normal or Nuts?" it screamed. "Your habits, quirks, and fears explained." I immediately had to read the article because I think I have a lot of weird habits, quirks and fears and I hoped the article would prove there are folks with far weirder habits, quirks and fears than mine.

Unfortunately, it didn't. Despite the intro comment that "... it's a sure bet that your nutty quirk -- the one you think is freakishly unusual -- is shared by plenty of other people ...", the habits highlighted by the readers were pretty darn normal, if you ask me. There was fear of speaking in public, flying in an airplane, loving one child more than another, talking to oneself, being depressed about layoffs at work, blah, blah, boring blah.

Okay, yeah, there were two truly weird obsessions highlighted in the article: One in which the person didn't like to have his or her feet touch the ground ... except for when they're in motion; and another in which the person pulls out stray arm hairs to ensure all the arm hair is the same length. Yep, those two are weird.

But I was hoping for some enlightenment, actually, hoping for some companionship when it comes to the quirks that make me feel like I'm crazy. Comments from my daughters such as as "You're so weird, Mom" are a regular occurrence, and after years of trying to fit in, I've come to accept that I don't really fit in much of anywhere in any way. I follow the beat of a different drummer, a lone drummer, one that plays a song not many understand. Or so I think. But maybe I'm wrong.

Which is why I'm coming to you all. Because Reader's Digest couldn't help me out, I'm hoping you can. I'd like to propose that today we all fess up to one or two of our quirkiest quirks, our craziest thoughts, words and deeds that we think we're alone in conducting. Then we'll see what the consensus is. Are we all weird? Are we all crazy? Or are we just quirky enough to be charming ... and interesting.

So I'll go first. Then I'd like you all to comment with something that similarly worrisome to you, that you think you may be the only one in the world doing. Nothing too dark, nothing too revealing, nothing so bat-crap crazy that I block you from commenting ever again ... just something that you wonder if others do as well -- or if others think that's just too far outside the spectrum of normal human behavior.

We'll comment back and forth and together we'll see what happens. Who knows? Could be crazy, could be quirky, could be an utterly idiotic thing to ask of my readers. We'll see ...

So here I go with mine:

I absolutely must cover my neck with the covers in bed each night, regardless of how hot the weather may be. If my neck is exposed, I fear a vampire will claim the fleshy space between my head and my body. It has nothing to do with Twilight or True Blood; it goes farther back than that. I've done it since I was a kid ... a kid who grew up unable to take my eyes off the TV when Barnabas Collins had his way with the women and more in the original serial called Dark Shadows. The show was kind of sexy (to a kid, at least), definitely scary ... and obviously quite scarring, as you can tell by my neck-covering obsession more than 40 years later!

Now you tell me: crazy or quirky? And, what crazy or quirky confession do you have to share so we can all weigh in on your obsession?

Today's question:

See above ...!

**Oh my! In researching to verify what year Dark Shadows ran on ABC, I found on Wikipedia that Johnny Depp will play Barnabas Collins in the 2011 movie from Tim Burton. Aack! The neck-covering continues!

Getting comfortable

Some of you may find this hard to believe, considering how much I babble on this blog, but I was excruciatingly timid for the first 20 or so years of my life. I was scared of many things, but most importantly I was scared of other people because in my mind they were bigger, better, smarter, sweeter and certainly better looking than I would ever be.

But then I had kids. And I had no choice but to play Mama Bear. I had to go against my natural instincts and be brave, strong and protective -- for the sake of my daughters. And I got pretty good at defending my family.

Then I became an editor and had to ramp up the courage another notch or two. I had to be brave, strong and protective -- for the sake of my staff. I got pretty good at that, too. (Of course, I couldn't save our department from being cut, but that's another story.)

Because of my role as mom and my role as editor, I learned to not care too much what others thought of me. But in the last two weeks, I've had two experiences that point out that in my current role of grandma I've finally aged enough, evolved enough that I truly am comfortable with who I am, regardless of what others may think of me.

The first involved the Roto-Rooter man. Sounds like this could lead somewhere disgusting, but stay with me ... it doesn't. You see, we have lots of trees on our property, lots of roots clogging up our plumbing system and lots of backups that flooded our basement in the few years we've lived here. So this year I decided to be proactive and have the Roto-Rooter-type guy clean out our system before the backup could happen. Well, turns out the hole for him to work on such things is right below the tree where the mourning doves have returned to nest and hatch their babies. So once the cleaning was done, I pointed out to the guy the mama bird who had sat above his head the entire time. He apparently wasn't much for birding and didn't know what the mourning dove was. So I told him. "They're the birds that do this ..." and I proceeded to do the mourning dove call: "ooh AH hoo hoo hoo." Ten, even five years ago I would never have done such a thing, would have been mortified if such an embarrassing sound escaped on its own, much less vocalize it on purpose. The guy glanced at me sideways and mumbled "Oh, I think I know which one you're talking about," and left it at that. I know he thought I was a nut, but I didn't care. At all. And I realize in retrospect what a giant leap that was for me.

An even bigger leap came this past week. Because we have all those trees I mentioned, when hurricane-strength winds (no exaggeration!) hit town a few days ago, one of those trees broke ... right over the neighbor's fence. So we had to call our trusty tree service dude to make the final cut that would save the fence and save us from our wacky neighbor who still carries the bullet in his head from a stint in Iraq. (A sad, sad story, but again, one for another time.)

Before I go any further, let me say that I have really, really, really dark circles under my eyes. (Stay with me; it comes into play.) They're not bags, just circles, gifted to me by my dad. And I hate them. And I never, ever, ever allow anyone to see me without at least some cover-up under the eyes. When the girls had friends stay the night, I'd get up early to shower and slap on some makeup before the kids awoke. Same goes for when relatives would visit. Even when I was in the hospital for a fairly lengthy visit, I made sure I had my cover-up and a mirror for applying it as I lay in the bed. My dark circles were my dark secret.

But now that I'm older and wiser -- and a grandma -- it seems I don't give a cuss about circles anymore, dark, light or otherwise. For when the tree guy -- who has been to our house several times, all for which I was fully prepared and fully covered -- came to fully amputate our tree, I met him at the door fresh from my morning walk with the dogs, smelling I'm sure not so fresh in my sweaty T-shirt, shorts and ponytail ... and no makeup. Not a speck, not a drop. And I hadn't even considered racing to the bathroom to swipe the cover-up stick under my eyes before his arrival. Because I no longer care.

That, my friends, may be one small step for most women but an unbelievably huge leap for this grandma. Trust me on this.

I make weird bird noises. I have dark circles under my eyes. I am no longer timid. I am no longer afraid of what others think of me.

I am grandma. And I am comfortable with that.

Today's question:

What have you become more comfortable with as you've gotten older?

Wheat, chaff and baby teeth

As I mentioned yesterday, Jim and I spent Saturday with three of Jim's five siblings plus a couple nieces and nephews clearing out the storage shed that held everything from the last apartment Jim's mom lived in, her last home and the place she resided when a stroke unexpectedly ripped her from her life and plopped her down in a hospital bed to wait out her days.

My mother-in-law was always a fastidious housekeeper, a truly tidy grandma. But the unexpectedness of the emergency medical situation meant she never had the chance to tie up her life belongings into beribboned bundles or to even discard such things as drawers full of hair-color conditioner tubes and expired grocery coupons. Which meant her kids had a lot of stuff to go through, a lot of work to do paring her possessions into piles to pass along to her children and grandchildren, honoring her by not pitching it all into the charity bin.

To be honest, it was a relatively quick task as Jim's mom lived a spare and simple life. And, as Granny prided herself on being ever the educator, the task indeed taught me a few lessons about getting my own things and my own life in order so my kids and grandkids have an easier time separating the wheat from the chaff once I'm gone.

Here are a few of those lessons:

Keep a notebook or journal -- placed in a prominent spot -- detailing which possessions you'd like to go to whom. There were thankfully no arguments over my mother-in-law's goods, but we all could only guess what her desire may be ... and I'm pretty sure we missed the mark on at least a few. A will may be the answer, but how many wills go so far as to say which kid gets the red afghan versus the white or the flowered teapot versus the striped?

Always label photos with the names of those in the pictures and the date. As we perused the hundreds of photos, we were at a loss again and again without Granny around to let us know which baby belonged to whom and why one wacky woman wore the getup featuring what appeared appeared to be a bikini-clad sumo wrestler.

Minimize the mementos from your children's early years. Mother's Day gifts made in preschool, unidentifiable art-class and woodshop projects and every scrap of sentimentality have their place, but it's a very limited place. Save only those that really tug at the heart strings, not every crayon-scribbled, glitter-pocked piece of paper.

Speaking of paper, get rid of (most of) it. There's no need to save every single greeting card, every single receipt, every single recipe that one may have intended to try but never did. A paper shredder -- of which we found an unused one in Granny's possession -- comes in handy for such things.

Same goes for toiletry samples and hotel freebies. As Jim and his siblings chuckled about the blue tube after blue tube of the Clairol conditioning cream that comes with the hair color but is far too much for any normal woman to use as directed on the tube, I had to fess up that I have a handful, okay a basketful, of the very same conditioning cream tubes in my own bathroom cabinet. I'll be pitching those ... soon.

Thank you for these lessons and more, Granny. I'll do my best to soon institute them in my life, my home, my piles of stuff. I'll do it in honor of you -- and to nip in the bud the giggles, grins and guffaws sure to come from my daughters if they were to one day discover the Ziploc baggie I have filled with baby teeth individually wrapped in tissues, all deftly pulled from under pillows by this grandma formerly known as the Tooth Fairy.

Today's question:

Which of the "lessons" from above are you most in need of instituting in your life?

Flushing Grandma's potty mouth

I don't swear a lot, but I do swear. Probably more often than I should. Most often of the H-word, S-word, D-word variety.

I never ever use GD, and the F-word only flies in my head ... when I stub my toe, poke my eye with the mascara brush or get really, really, REALLY angry at Jim. But like I said, it's only in my head.

I do try not to swear around Bubby at all, but I'm thinking that I should probably just clean up my language a tad so I don't have to consciously consider what's coming out of my mouth when around him. Yeah, he's 819 miles away, but eventually I'll have grandkids nearby that I see more often and being a potty-mouthed grandma isn't what I aspire to be.

So I've decided I'm going to follow the lead of George Clooney ... as Fantastic Mr. Fox. He cusses all the time ... but he uses the actual word CUSS in place of the cuss words. Take a look:

How cussing cool is that!? I think I even picked up on an F-word replacement here and there. Which means I can actually tell Jim what I'm thinking at those times I'm really, really, REALLY angry and I'll still be a relatively clean-mouthed grandma!

So if I start using the "cuss" word around here, you'll understand, right?

Oh, and if you've not seen "Fantastic Mr. Fox," what the cuss are you waiting for?

Today's question:

What cuss word do you say most often?

My answer: The one most often flying from my mouth is the H-word ... and it's not when I'm reading the Bible.

How I compute: then and now

My computer has become a sinking ship and this week I started frantically trying to rescue what I could from it before it's totally sunk. The lifeboat in which I'm transferring my bits and bytes: a laptop, my first laptop ever.

I purchased my now-dying desktop in 2004. It's been a good six years, with lots and lots and LOTS of changes, not only in computing but in my life. Those changes are evident in the way I spend my time on the computer, then versus now.

Then

Here's how I spent most of my computer time in 2004:

• Reading parenting, entertainment and news articles.

• Writing parenting articles ... for print publications.

• Keeping tabs on my middle and youngest daughters who were 539 miles away at college, via MySpace, chatting and e-mail.

• Regularly accessing the Occupational Outlook Handbook to help my youngest daughter figure out what degree/career to pursue.

• Playing computer games: Mahjong, You Don't Know Jack, Wheel of Fortune.

Now

Here's how I now spend most of my time on the computer:

• Blogging about my grandson.

• Researching ways to improve the blogging about my grandson.

• Reading other blogs -- 52 subscriptions in my RSS Reader.

• Looking for work, freelance or otherwise.

• Wasting timePromoting my blog on Facebook and now Twitter.

Good thing my shiny new laptop has a pretty darn good graphics card because by the looks of this comparison, I've become blog-obsessed, boring and in need of a game or two.

Or maybe, just maybe, what I really need is to step away from the computer and appreciate the aspects of my life not measured in bits, bytes and Google page ranks.

Which I'll definitely do -- after I get my shiny new laptop all set up and ready for blogging.

Today's question:

How do you spend the majority of your time on the computer?

Greeting card quandary

Today is my dad's birthday. He's 71 years old.

I always, always, always have a horrible time buying him a birthday card. Everything on the greeting card shelf is either sickeningly, cloyingly sweet while waxing moronic about "My dear father" being the rock and dispenser of lifesaving advice, or they're goofy greetings mentioning dear ol' Dad's obsession with his recliner and remote and/or his flatulance problem.

Neither type fit the kind of relationship I had (and continue to have) with my dad. So I stand in front of the racks of "For him" offerings for about 15 minutes, then move on to the musical ones but don't want to spend $5 on some silly chicken dance or "We Will Rock You" goofiness, then on to the "Funny: General" options because it's slightly easier to find a fitting one-liner than anything remotely sentimental.

I even consider the blank cards ... but that just seems so wrong.

I'd be oh-so happy if Hallmark would come up with something like:

Cover:

On your birthday, Dad, I want you to know ...

Inside:

... my childhood sucked.

But from the looks of things, it seems yours did, too.

I understand that now.

It no longer matters.

I'm so over it.

And I still love you.

Happy birthday!

I've yet to find such a card.

So I just settled on one from the "Funny" section. "General." For anyone.

And gosh, only three months 'til it's time to look for a Father's Day card. Maybe I'll start my own line of greeting cards before then -- cards for real people and real relationships!

Today's question:

Do you usually give sentimental greeting cards or humorous ones?

My answer: I used to give sentimental cards to everyone but in the past few years I've gotten to where I give humorous ones more often because the sentimental offerings are usually too mushy, gushy and unrealistic.

"Balk, balk," says the chicken grandma

I admit it: I'm a big ol' chicken. I'm not afraid of bugs or scary movies -- most of the time -- but I quake in my briefs at the prospect of being confronted with new situations, new places, new faces. I'm especially afraid of new situations and new places that include new faces to which I'm supposed to speak and seem intelligent ... or at least not come off like the timid, blithering numbskull I worry about being at such times.

To put it more succinctly, I'm afraid of social situations. I'm afraid of them (and often avoid them) because I don't see myself as someone good at small talk and definitely not as a confident and courageous speaker.

Surprisingly, I've recently learned that some folks -- folks I've known for years -- consider me anything but timid, and more like a capable and confident conversationalist.

Jim and I were invited to a friend's house for dinner Saturday night, a friend who used to be my boss, a friend who has seen me at my worst as I struggled through the teen years with my daughters, and at my best as I wrote some pretty darn good articles for the publications for which he served as editor. I thought the guy knew me fairly well.

But as we slurped our French Onion Soup (a culinary delight made by his wife), the conversation somehow turned to my fear of speaking to strangers -- a certain obstacle for a writer expected to conduct interviews on a regular basis. My friend/former editor stopped mid-slurp, surprised by my admission, and said, "I've never considered you timid. I'm surprised to hear you say that."

Wow! I was more than surprised that he thought I was anything but timid.

He's not alone, apparently. One of my four sisters, the one with whom I've spent the least amount of time throughout our childhood and adulthood but recently partnered with in a writing venture, has expressed again and again in the last six months that she thinks -- despite her previous perception of me as the "quiet one" --  that I'm actually the "mean one" of the sisters, the tough one that takes no bull, the "beeyotch" as she lovingly called me while expressing her confidence that I'd succeed in small claims court because of my beeyotchiness and way with words.

Wow again! Wow! Wow!

Really, guys, I truly am a chicken.

But I'm apparently a chicken who has mastered the cover up, the faking it til making it, the ability to feel the fear and do it anyway with the guarantee that -- as I often told my daughters who were scared of upcoming social situations or confrontations -- no one can see the fear rattling around inside your heart and head and thus have no idea how darn scared and lacking in confidence you may be.

The revelation elicited by the admissions from my friend and my sister has me wondering how Bubby will see me, how he'll view his grandma. As part of my inner circle, will he, like Jim and the girls, see the real grandma, the chicken grandma who's scared of strangers, of her inability to speak eloquently, of her paralyzing paranoia that something bad is bound to happen the moment she steps outside the confines of her home if she's required to open her mouth and speak while out in the real world?

Or will Bubby see me as a kooky and courageous grandma who's willing to scramble around the bouncy house regardless of who may see? Or bang on the piano with him regardless of who may hear? Or read him stories loud and proud with nary a concern about anyone else hearing her rumbling and grumbling and roaring like a monster if that's what the story demands?

I hope that's the grandma Bubby sees. I hope that's the grandma he loves, the grandma who makes him grin ear to ear by saying "screw it" to speaking eloquently (out of his earshot, of course) and simply settles comfortably into just being herself.

Not only do I hope that's the grandma Bubby sees, I hope that's the grandma I truly will be.

I just need to let go of the timid little wrinkled-and-too-old-to-be-so-darn-self-conscious me I see in the mirror, embrace that beeyotchiness others see, and be the grandma I'm meant to be.

So here goes.

Watch out, world!

Today's question:

What are you afraid of?

My answer: In addition to the above, I'm also afraid of revealing too much about myself ... which I think I just did!

Blowin' the game

I've always felt like I'm a pretty hip mom, a pretty with-it grandma.

Apparently I've been deluding myself.

Brianna and her boyfriend, David, were visiting recently and we, along with Jim, somehow got on the topic of Facebook, of which I'm a member (see, I'm sorta hip and with it).

Brianna said, "Yeah, I just became a fan of 'When I was your age, we had to blow on our video games.' Did you see that one, Mom?" She and David laughed as if it was the funniest thing on earth.

Jim's face went blank as he's not on Facebook and didn't get any part of the conversation. My face went blank as I tried to figure out what the heck that group could be about. All that came to mind was the old games in which miniature metal football players or hockey players moved across a metal playing field via magnets under the players' feet. I didn't remember those ever having to be blown into position, but then again, I never really played those games.

Brianna quickly realized I saw no humor in the blowing on video games group.

"Don't you get it?" she asked.

Uh, no.

She and David tried to jog my memory -- and Jim's -- with tales of having to blow on the Nintendo cartridges when the game froze up. They laughed and went through the motions of cartridge blowing.

"Everyone did it. Don't you remember?" Brianna asked again, as if maybe it were just a matter of diminished memory.

No, I don't remember. I don't remember because I never did that. And I never saw the girls do it while playing the Nintendo. (Sheesh ... what kind of mother am I to not notice such a weird thing?)

It was a moment of generational differences made oh-so clear. A moment that shattered my Cool Mama/Cool Grandma facade.

A moment that was to bound to come, I guess. Because I'm old. I'm uncool. And I never blew on my video games.

But, ya know what? If there's a Facebook fan group called "When I was your age, our video game was a dash-shaped paddle that volleyed a two-dimensional black ball back and forth across the screen" I am so all over that one.

Because, believe it or not, I am still hip in some circles.

Today's question:

What game do you remember playing most often as a kid?

My answer: I did play PONG as a kid, but more often than not, I was out and about, making up imaginary lives with my BFF, in games that didn't include boards or technology of any sort.

With this kiss, I thee wed

Jim and I will celebrate our Kiss Anniversary tomorrow. We used to call it our First Kiss Anniversary but we got lazy at about our 15th and it's now known by the slightly shorter name. This is our 29th year celebrating it, usually with just a card ... and a kiss.

I'm not a mushy gushy kind of person. I don't watch Lifetime television, I'm not a fan of Nicholas Sparks, and my musical preferences lean more toward hard rock than ... gosh, I don't even know the name of mushy gushy love-song singers. Oh, wait. That's probably Celine Dion or someone along those lines. That kind of music does bring a tear to my eye, but it's usually because I'm trying to control the waves of nausea that come over me when I hear anything from that genre.

That being said, I've always recalled the date of our first kiss ... but only because it was the date of my older brother's birthday. My brother wasn't there for that chaste but fateful kiss; it just happened to take place on his birthday.

It was Jim -- who's a little more mushy gushy than I -- who started the tradition of celebrating the moment that changed our lives. Only that first celebration wasn't all that fun. In fact, it scared the hell out of me and, for a few moments, I was pretty sure I wouldn't live to see another day, much less another celebration of any sort.

Jim had an apartment of his own and I lived a few blocks away with my mom and sisters. We lived in an old house that had only a bathtub, no shower. And I hated taking only a bath. Jim had a shower, and I regularly drove the few blocks to take a shower at his place.

This one particular day, the date of our first kiss anniversary (although I didn't consider it any big deal) Jim was leaving for work as I was arriving to use his shower. Like I said, we kissed hello, kissed goodbye, he headed to work, I headed for the shower.

As I got out of the shower, I heard noises. In the apartment. An apartment that wasn't in the best part of town and had creepy weird guys living upstairs. I froze and listened. Yep, there was someone in the tiny apartment, moving stuff around, going through Jim's record collection.

What do I do? I searched the cabinets for a weapon and found nothing more than a brush and a Bic shaver. I held my ear to the door. Still there was shuffling. I couldn't open the door -- my clothes were in the bedroom and I refused to be seen naked by some killer. I couldn't climb out the window for the very same reason ... plus, I'd already checked it and there was no way I'd be able to reach the opening far above my head.

I sat on the toilet lid and started to cry, as silently as possible so the killer wouldn't realize there was some frightened naked girl hiding out in the bathroom.

Then music started playing. The killer had put on a record. A Led Zeppelin record ... one of the more mellow songs. Well, if he's playing "Thank You" or something similarly sweet from Zeppelin, he can't be that mean and horrible of a killer ... but a killer just the same.

I once again assessed my situation. No weapon, no way out, no clothes. And no choice. I had to get out of there.

I slowly, quietly turned the door handle ... and cracked open the door, trying to survey the tiny bit of the living room I could see. I heard music, but saw no one. I wrapped the towel tighter around myself and crept into the hallway. Peeking around each corner, it became obvious that the killer had left.

But wait! The killer had left something on the table. I scooted closer and closer ... and found a Hostess Ding Dong on a saucer, one lit candle in its center. And a greeting card next to it.

"Freakin' crazy," I thought to myself as I opened the card, imagining serial killer scenarios involving wooing the victim into eating Ding Dongs and listening to Zeppelin as the killer stealthily dropped from the ceiling brandishing a long, sharp blade of some sort.

No serial killer dropped. And my heart swelled as I read the card: "Happy 1st Kiss Anniversary. Love, Jim."

While I showered, Jim had dashed to the store, grabbed the celebratory goods, arranged them on the table and turned on our version of a love song. Yep, this was the guy for me, the guy I'd spend the rest of my life with.

And the guy who almost made a scared, naked me crawl through a tiny opening in the bathroom in hopes of escaping some wacko Ding Dong-obsessed, Zeppelin-lovin' killer.

Now that I think of it, maybe it's that, the manner in which the first anniversary of our first kiss was recognized, that makes it a date impossible to forget. It really has nothing to do with it being my brother's birthday after all.

Regardless, I'm glad to still be celebrating Kiss Anniversaries with Ding Dong-obsessed, Zeppelin-loving Jim.

I'm even more glad I didn't smash out that bathroom window and shimmy through the shards of broken glass to save my naked butt from an imaginary killer. I'm pretty sure Jim wouldn't have stuck around to celebrate a second kiss anniversary if that had been the end result of his sweet gesture.

Today's question:

What's one non-traditional celebration you share with your loved ones?

My answer: In addition to the Kiss Anniversary, we had family-only Period Parties when each of the girls had their first period. The honoree received a box of sanitary pads, we ate Black Forest cake (ya know, the cherries and all), and we blasted Urge Overkill's version of "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon." It was a tongue-in-cheek way to mark a major milestone in the lives of our little women.

Fave photo of the week

'Twas a happy birthday for Jim!

Brianna, Jim and Andrea

Today's question:

What expression do you normally have on your face?

My answer: Concentration. I have to occasionally remind myself to stop furrowing my brow and open my eyes in wide surprise to reverse the big ol' wrinkle thinking too hard creates between my eyes. My mind is always going 631 miles an hour -- and not necessarily on anything of any importance.