HI OCD

I have a confession to make. I am mildly OCD about certain things. I don’t wash my hands compulsively or check the locks on the doors obsessively before going to bed. My OCD is not life-altering and doesn’t interfere with my ability to lead a relatively normal life. I prefer to call my obsessions and compulsions “quirks” because I don’t believe they are severe enough to be a “DISORDER.” I don’t think I need psychological treatment, but after reading this you may disagree.

For instance, I don’t like odd numbers. If I’m eating cookies I don’t eat three, I eat two or four. But I don’t count potato chips. (Because that would be irrational!) When I adjust the volume on the TV or radio it has to be on an even number. The only exception to this rule is with five and six. Five is an honorary even number and six is evil. Six should be avoided at all costs. If fifteen is too low then the volume goes to eighteen, not sixteen.

As a parenthetical aside without the parentheses, my aversion to six probably stems from being raised in the Bible Belt and, as a child, being informed of the horrific things that will happen to those who “take the mark of the beast.” I remember purposely flubbing an answer on a junior high math test because it was 666 and I couldn’t bring myself to even write that number, fearing that I would be unintentionally signing my soul away to the devil. Public school educations are dangerous. You have to watch out for their tricks. My answer that day was 665. I didn’t make a 100 on the test but five saved my life, hence its status as an honorary even number. This is logical. Don’t question it.

My handwriting poses another problem, especially capital I. Let's look at that letter for a minute.

I

It is a straight vertical line with a horizontal base and a horizontal top. It is a perfectly balanced figure if one prints it correctly, which I cannot do. When I print a capital I, it comes out crooked every time. Maybe the top is too far to the right, or the vertical line extends below the horizontal base. Or the worst scenario, the top is longer than the base. The I will never balance in those conditions! It is going to tip over!

Logically, capital H has a similar problem since it is basically a sideways I. Okay, it has different line lengths, but it still traps me in that world of unstable letters, which is a land of inequality where H and I cannot escape the torment of the prettier letters like buxom B and graceful G which is really nothing more than C with flashy accessories, but even curvaceous C is still superior to hobbled H and incomplete I!

Clearly you can see the injustice caused by my handwriting, and since I believe in equality for all, I had to right the wrong I had created.

First I tried printing my I as just a straight vertical line. No base, no top, problem solved. But then I was imprecise. Was it a capital I or a lowercase L? Perhaps it’s just a number one. We don’t know. I had lost its identity.

I concluded that cursive was the answer. The cursive I cannot be mistaken for any other letter.

This is why I type.

Getting Political For a Minute

Everyone who knows me knows that I’m socially liberal and thus, no fan of Sarah Palin. I am usually among the first to roll my eyes at her latest hypocritical statement or snarky jab. I’m very supportive of her career in writing books and making reality TV if it keeps her out of politics. I believe she is far too emotionally driven and acerbic to be a good choice to represent our country effectively.

However I must disagree with the latest public outrage against Ms. Palin.

On Saturday January 8^th, 22-year-old Jared Lee Loughner opened fire at a political event in Tucson, Arizona, killing six people and injuring fourteen others including the apparent target of the attack, U.S. Representative Gabrielle Giffords.

Within minutes of news reports of the attack, people online began referring to Sarah Palin’s “Take Back the 20” website, where a map of the United States was displayed with crosshairs over districts in which incumbent Democrat leaders had voted in favor of President Obama’s health care bill. She had encouraged the voting public to “take back” those districts by electing Republicans. Gabrielle Giffords was one of the 20 Democrats listed on Ms. Palin’s map. The website was shut down shortly after the incident, but the damage control did nothing to quell the outcry that Palin was responsible for the shooting. And so the political media circus begins. (Or rather, simply continues in another ring.)

Was Ms. Palin’s map in poor taste? In my opinion, yes, even before the incident in Arizona. Do I believe her public relations staff when they claim that the crosshairs were never meant to represent gun sights? Not in the least. Ms. Palin is notoriously pro-gun and an avid hunter, and I don’t believe for one moment that she did not realize that the crosshairs looked like gun sights. Additionally, Ms. Palin tweeted “Don’t Retreat, Instead – Reload!” in connection with that specific campaign, and referred to the map as her “bullseye list” which easily leads to the conclusion that the crosshairs were purposely created to represent gun sights.

But poor taste does not equal culpability. There is no reason to believe Ms. Palin wanted Gabrielle Giffords or any of the other Democrats on her “bullseye list” to literally be targeted and shot with real guns, and the public demand that she be held responsible for the shooting only serves to increase the partisan rhetoric that has become the status quo in this country.

There are several reasons why it is illogical to hold Sarah Palin accountable for Saturday’s attack, but the most compelling reason is the shooter himself. According to one long-time friend of Loughner’s, he has had a grudge against Ms. Giffords dating back to at least 2007, a year before Sarah Palin was a household name in the continental United States. Other friends and acquaintances paint Loughner as an intelligent but socially deficient young man bursting with paranoia, occupied with conspiracy theories, and who had a high level of distrust in the government in general. A cursory look at Loughner’s YouTube channel reveals mostly incoherent ramblings. As of right now there is no evidence to suggest that Loughner might have identified closely with Sarah Palin or her ideals, that he was motivated by her call to political action, or that he had ever even seen the map in question. There is a strong indication, however, that he was a mentally and emotionally unbalanced individual.

If we are going to blame Sarah Palin for the actions of Jared Loughner, we may as well blame music, video games, or other incidental forms of entertainment. A rational person will not be moved to commit murder by words or graphics that depict brutality or refer to the instruments of aggression. A person who is capable of planning and carrying out an act of violence such as the one Loughner perpetrated is a person who is, to some degree, already mentally unsound even in the absence of potential outside influences.

But if Sarah Palin is not even indirectly accountable for the attack in Arizona, why then was she so quick to disband the website with her “bullseye list” after the shooting?

Recall, if you will, the things that were deemed objectionable in the months following the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001: the original cover art on a hip-hop CD from The Coup, Starbucks’ “Collapse Into Cool” promotion, and even the release dates of certain movies that portrayed hijackings or other acts of terrorism.

As a native of Oklahoma I remember that some country stations in the area refrained from playing certain songs in the wake of the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, namely “I Was Blown Away” by Pam Tillis and “Boom! It Was Over” by Robert Ellis Orrall. They weren’t ordered to stop playing them; they simply felt that, out of respect for the victims and their families, these songs were best left off play lists for a while.

It is apparent that Sarah Palin and her advisors, in a manner similar to the above referenced incidents, recognized that the crosshairs map would be considered exceedingly insensitive in the aftermath of the shooting. The removal of the website and offending graphic was not an admission of guilt.

In closing, I would like to make a plea to my readers, whether right, left, centrist, or otherwise:

I believe that there are ways to make valid points without being disrespectful or hateful to those with dissenting opinions. I not only believe this, but I also try to apply it. Being that I am only human, I admittedly sometimes fail at this task. But the furious rhetoric that is so common today is reaching frightening new heights. If we don’t work together to calm the agitated political climate, it will only be a matter of time before “Divided we fall” becomes the eulogy of this country.

The Balloon of Utmost Importance

I have epic dreams. When I say epic, I mean EPIC. I once had a dream with opening credits. I know from my dreams that the soundtrack to the end of the world is Pink Floyd. (What else would it be?) When I was imprisoned in a futuristic P.O.W. camp with Morgan Freeman, our prototype for a personal levitation device helped us to escape. (Thank you Shawshank Redemption and whatever weird crap I had for dinner THAT night!)

As you can probably imagine, my dreams can be a great source of inspiration for my writing endeavors. The only problem with this is that unless I get up and immediately write down every detail I can remember, the dream fades and by the time I'm out of the shower and mostly awake for the day I have forgotten all but one little snippet, usually meaningless when taken out of context, and often somewhat confusing.

For instance, last night a balloon played a key part in my dream. It was inflated, attached to a string, like any other balloon one might see at a birthday party. But there was something special about that specific balloon that I unfortunately lost sight of shortly after my alarm jolted me from my pleasant dream state.

My day job is repetitive and my mind has a tendency to wander while my fingers are tapping away, tending to the tedious task of matching purchase orders to invoices so the bills can be promptly paid. (Okay, alliteration overload.) Naturally the Balloon of Utmost Importance intermittently floated through my thought waves and I began playing dream detective.

What was so important about that balloon? Was there something inside of it? A map to a treasure chest, perhaps? I could deal with being wealthy. No, that's too simple and self-serving.

What color was it? Maybe that's the key. It was light, possibly pink or orange. Warm and inviting. Maybe the balloon was filled with a magical substance that would bring us world peace when released. No, that's too grand of a scale, and I'm not competing for Miss America.

Instructions for salsa dancing? The formula for reanimation? A time machine? What was so special about that damn balloon?

Realistically I probably just wanted to inhale the helium and sing Metallica in a chipmunk voice to make everyone laugh. But the not knowing is going to make me crazy.

Gleek, tank tops, and hairy ice cream

Have you ever had one of those days where you are so totally disillusioned with your life that you can’t even manage the simplest of tasks? Like you’re at work and your spreadsheet is one penny off and instead of searching for the penny difference you declare a major FAIL on your part and give up, and then you yawn and gleek all over your desk but you don’t even realize it until you stick your elbow in it and wonder why it’s all wet, and then you remember that you haven’t taken your meds yet which has likely contributed to your outlook for the day so you go ahead and take your pill and but it gets lodged in your head somewhere between your nose and mouth and you can’t get it to go down or come back out either way so you start wishing you were at home eating ice cream and watching Roseanne reruns while lounging on your couch in a wife beater and underwear because even though the air conditioner works it doesn’t cool down the house enough because it’s poorly insulated and has crappy windows and it’s 103 degrees outside, and the discovery of a random hair in your first bite of ice cream is the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back and sends you over the edge even though the whole ice cream/Roseanne/wife beater scenario was a fantasy you were creating to distract you from the penny you’re missing in your spreadsheet and the gleek on your desk?

Well have you?

M'eh

I had to add the word "m'eh" to my phone's dictionary for texting purposes but when I added it I capitalized the M so now when I text m'eh it's always going to be capitalized even if it's in the middle of a sentence and that is going to bug me monumentally from now until I get a new phone, which will probably be a long time because I get attached to my electronic gadgets and I hate upgrading and figuring out new devices.

I Accomplished Something.

I came home last Sunday afternoon to the *bleep* of my dying smoke detector battery. This presented a problem on several levels.

1) I couldn’t think of any reason why I might have a random 9 volt battery lying around.

2) I’m far too short to reach the smoke detector without assistance, and my daughter’s step stool wasn’t cutting it, which meant I’d have to go out into the scary garage and get the step LADDER.

3) I’d have to unfold the step ladder, and it was sure to be all cobwebby and spidery, having spent most of its life in the scary garage.

4) I’m not capable of doing anything like a normal person. I need melodrama and fanfare.

5) It was Sunday. Isn’t Sunday supposed to be a day of rest or something? I can’t be expected to journey into the scary garage AND climb up a step ladder on the same day, and neither on the designated day of rest!

6) It’s not fair. Why do batteries have to die?

At first I thought, “Well, if it doesn’t beep very often, I can just deal with it until tomorrow.” No sooner than the thought entered my mind, the smoke detector said, “HA! That’s what YOU think!” Well actually it bleeped again, but the intent was clear.

I sighed dejectedly and began searching through the kitchen drawer for a 9 volt battery, which I knew I would never find. Hm. I don’t believe it. Not just one, but a still sealed pack of TWO 9 volt batteries! Jackpot!

I took a deep breath and plunged into the depths of the scary garage, windmilling my arms wildly to cut a path through any potential spider webs. I grabbed the cobwebby spidery step ladder, and quickly made my way back into the safety of my living room, holding the ladder in front of me to ward off any divebomb-y type creatures like wasps, bees, or pterodactyls.

Back in my living room fortress, my smoke detector still sounding its death rattle, I unfolded the step ladder without incident. I climbed up the two steps and deftly gave the dying detector a twist, backed off the ladder, and began trying to unlock the mystery of opening the battery compartment. I placed it on the table to get a better look at it when a tiny spider raced across the table directly towards my abdomen.

After jumping around like a rabid monkey and making a noise that resembled a drunk turkey that had just inhaled a balloon full of helium, I gathered my wits, made my way back to the table and replaced the dying battery with the fresh new one. I knew I had inserted the battery the right way because the detector let out a loud, high-pitched, and completely unexpected scream of joy which set off a reflex reaction in my arms causing them to smack my nose. I once again gathered my wits (what little I had left at this point) and climbed the ladder to re-attach the smoke detector to my ceiling.

With a sense of accomplishment, I took the ladder out to the scary garage leaned the ladder up against the wall in the spare room, dusted off my hands, and spent the rest of the night on the sofa.

Dear Monday:

I realize you feel as though you are the red-headed step child of the Weekday Family, and sometimes you are not given the thanks you deserve. Without you, there would be no Monday Night Football. Without you, Garfield the cat would have nothing to complain about. Without you we wouldn't have ... um ... we wouldn't have ... that song from The Bangles.

Having said that, I have noticed that you seem to be arriving earlier and earlier each week. My clock tells me it's Monday, but my body and my brain never feel as though they've had a full 63 hours of rest. I have reason to believe that you are engaged in some sort of tomfoolery in order to cut the weekend short, and I have a feeling that Sunday night is your accomplice in this trickery.

I appreciate the fact that you are anxious to greet us bright and early and show us all the things Friday didn't get around to completing. (By the way, Tuesday can probably handle half of those things. There's no need to burden yourself with an overload of work.) However, I must request that you put an end to the encroachment of my weekends and return the extra hours at once. Please leave them with Saturday night (I don't trust that sneaky little bastard Sunday) or I will have no choice but to involve Wednesday and Thursday for mediation purposes. (I would call Friday in for assistance, but he thinks he is God's gift to the calendar. He's been insufferable since they opened that blasted restaurant chain.)

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
Me