Today is the day to stay away from my chicken strips.
As promised, the Virtual Book Tour (brainchild of Mr. Kevin Smokler) rolls through here today. I am currently reading said book that is being toured and I recommend it as a holiday gift for the book-lover in your life. It's called Devil in the Details, by Jennifer Traig, a memoir by a young woman who grew up with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a book that anybody who likes David Sedrais or Augusten Burroughs will enjoy. You may purchase it here.
Are you on the fence about buying it? Read some of these tales of quirks, tics and other behavior that may be deemed OCD (either tongue in cheek or not). Ms. Traig's is much stranger than any of these, but these are still pretty weird nonetheless:
Like most snackers, I enjoy an occasional bag of
Peanut M&Ms. (The bright yellow wrapper, those
animated peanutty characters... Who can say no?)
UNLIKE most snackers, it's my sworn duty to analyze as
I munch. Normally, I do your garden variety WASAW
review. Upside, downside, etc. Recently though, just
with Peanut M&Ms, I thought I noticed something quite
peculiar. Was I crazy, or was I consistently getting
a crapload of yellows? More than half a bag filled
with yellows? Was it just my imagination?
I decided to investigate.
Using a system whereby I'd eat a bag a day for an
entire work week, I turned my attention to the color
distribution in each bag...
MONDAY, DAY 1:
Total M&Ms in bag: 20
Blue: 2
Brown: 2
Green: 4
Orange: 4
Red: 2
Yellow: 6
TUESDAY, DAY 2:
Total M&Ms in bag: 21
Blue: 6
Brown: 2
Green: 4
Orange: 3
Red: 2
Yellow: 4
WEDNESDAY, DAY 3:
Total M&Ms in bag: 21
Blue: 7
Brown: 2
Green: 5
Orange: 2
Red: 4
Yellow: 1
THURSDAY, DAY 4:
Total M&Ms in bag: 21
Blue: 5
Brown: 4
Green: 2
Orange: 6
Red: 4
Yellow: 0
FRIDAY, DAY 5:
Total M&Ms in bag: 23
Blue: 2
Brown: 5
Green: 6
Orange: 3
Red: 4
Yellow: 3
Couldn't really find a rhyme or reason. The only
tangible result of my investigation is my newfound
obsession with separating M&Ms by color. I separate,
then eat them alphabetically. Blues first, then
browns, then on and on.
I'm not a weirdo, dammit. I'm a snacking
professional.
I only turn around clockwise, like when you stop walking because you've forgotten
your keys and have to turn around and go back to get them. I ALWAYS turn over
my right shoulder. I have been known (and seen) to actually turn myself around
twice clockwise to make up for turning over
my left shoulder. I think all of this may have to do with a rigid dance background
and doing outside vs. inside turns or some technicality like that or else
risk getting beaten with a wooden cane, but I could be wrong.
I also have an issue with having to do things in multiples of three. And I tend to count objects and find ways to make them mathematically divisible by three. It becomes a problem when I'm in a tiled bathroom and everything is in quadruples. And the worst part is that I loathe math.
Asking me to list and describe what compulsions I have actually sets off one of my compulsions: completing lists with ONLY an odd numbers of items (for example, if I'm writing a grocery list out, I won't list 20 items, but will list 19 or 21 items even if I have to add or subtract an item to make it so).
I actually have mild (maybe not so mild) obsessive-compulsive disorder. Some
of my abnormalities include:
* Won't set a microwave for any time that is an even number (i.e will rewarm
food at 47 seconds but not 50). Even numbers in general come from the devil;
odd numbers are divine.
* Before bed, must check the back door, garage door, front door, security
alarm and stove three times each before I can go upstairs.
* Will only carry an odd number of bills in my wallet, and if
possible, the total sum of the bills should also be odd. I've been known to
give money away or spend it unnecessarily to keep my wallet odd.
* I synchronize my watch with official US time every Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday at exactly 3:03 pm EST. Because I sync my watch so often, I usually
never actually have to touch any of the buttons -- but do so anyways, just
to make sure I click start right when the voice says "At the tone Verizon
time will be 3:03 exactly -- BEEP."
* In college I owned exactly 17 white Hanes T-shirts and 17 white Hanes underwear.
I actually numbered the T-shirts and underwear, and not only made sure to
wear the #3 T-shirt with the #3 underwear, but also wore each pair in numeric
order. Note: When I got married, my wife ended that little compulsion right
away. It took me a year to forgive her.
I'm going to stop listing my OCD behaviors since the very mention of them is making me itch to repeat one of these behaviors.
XYZ: Examine your zipper.
I would have to say that there's one tiny thing of mine that's just short of labeling me as having OCD. It is the constant zipper check; it's something I need to confirm, quite often (unfortunately, at times, in public). It's a need-- much like the compulsion to run home and check to see if the iron or if Mr. Coffee's still on.
Yes, it would be a facile assumption to say that as child several young girls laughed and pointed upon noticing. Yes, I can't deny that my Mother made it her duty to zip it up in public. And yes, this happened on more than one occasion.
Here's the move: hand on the belt buckle, as if to check the
'integrity' of the buckle, then forefinger sliding onto the zipper. (If no
belt, then feign a frontal shirt tuck) If you feel the YKK metal, you're in
heaven. If not, you immediately zip. Then you calculate the time elapsed from
your last visit to the loo and the people you've seen (standing or walking)
in said duration. And you pray your shirt wasn't hanging out like a semaphore
flag.
'Shouldn't this be second nature?' you ask. 'Don't you zip up every time afterwards?'
It's been discussed in several circles how guys can't multitask. Sure, we're
great at spatial crap; give us a shoebox and we'll make the two pumps fit
perfectly inside of it. Unfortunately, we are derailed so easily. Some time
ago, the task of warming pizza in the oven could've resulted in horror, all
because of a fleeting preoccupation with Amber Valletta's bit part in 'Duplex.'
Luckily, my wife was there to remind me, and that 'other task' of culinary
genius was pulled out of
obscurity.
That said, you wouldn't want to know what actually throws us off in the John
to make us forget to close the barn door on our way to the sink.
Funny that you asked that because I was thinking about it last
night...as I cut my piece of ham into small, equally sized squares.
What the fuck? If a piece of food lies flat on my plate, I can't
resist the urge to cut it into tiny squares. Pancakes. Steak. Ham slices.
Waffles. Meatloaf. Must. Cut. Them. All.
I do it in restaurants, too. It's compulsive, I can't help it. And I swear it tastes better that way.
My obsession is a hatred of things ajar.
The cupboard open a crack. The drawer left open an inch. Or, horror of horrors, the microwave left cracked so the light stays on.
If I see one of these things, I must fix it.
This also applies to manual feed paper trays on printers (close it!) and photocopiers. When I worked in a large office, I could not pass by the copy room without sticking my head in the door to make sure the lid was down on the copier. It would drive me nuts if it wasn't.
I am very careful not to berate the people who commit these sins. I grit my teeth, wait until they are gone, and then arrange things properly when I am alone.
I don't think that's so bad. I think they are the ones with the problem.
When I wake up, it's one teaspoon of honey in my oatmeal, one cup of nonfat milk. I have a horrible day at work if this isn't done. I will chew my pens until they burst and ruin my jacket, and will do so twice.
I have an hour for lunch. Speeding home to take care of important matters,
I will run several red lights (only certain ones). I reach my apartment, and
very importantly check my mail (which I know will not be there yet), and then
I place myself in front of the elevator in a position where I cannot see the
concierge (this is important), and touch the button for the thirteenth floor
twice, making sure that The elevator recognizes its destination. I then spend
thirty minutes cleaning my apartment, making my bed (seriously, every day),
doing
dishes, even dusting. I then heat up one cup of soup, and,
importantly, eat my lunch (again, every day--one cup of soup).
At work, my desk is meticulously organized. My inbox is at 45 degree angle on my desk, my stapler is at a 45 degree angle. My car shaped white-out, my calculator, my yellow Big-Chief tablet, my computer monitor, my mouse pad, my stamps-- 45 degrees. My assistant even lays important materials at this angle, and it is imperative that she do so.
After work, I run the same routine upon arrival (although, my mail is there
by this time), and I have exactly one cigarette and one glass of wine (every
day) as I click through the internets of my choosing. Then feeling complacent
in my OCD, I devolve into less strict behavior. Apparently, I am able to cope
with my problems if I get them out of the way early on in my day, which is
why it is important that I do so.