Talk Much??

I’ve noticed recently a new quirk. I guess the quirk itself isn’t new, but it’s become more prominent. And I only do it when I’m alone, either in my car or at my house. THANK GOD FOR THIS! If i’m at someone’s house or have people over, I can leave the room if I have to. It hasn’t gotten THAT bad yet though. And I mean yet.

It will start with a thought. Sometimes the thought is a completely rational thought, other times it makes no freaking sense at all, and sometimes it’s sing-songy (WTF?). And I’ll think it, and think it, and think it.

Finally, the thought will start getting on my nerves because it will keep crawling back in. The thoughts are generally a sentence or two and that’s it.

The only way to get the thought out of my head is to say it out loud. So, picture me, wandering around the house or driving down the road, randomly spitting out one or two sentence thoughts that sometimes make no fucking sense. Like none. Or worse yet, singing a sentence or two that is obviously not meant to be sung.

My cat must think i’m just a riot!

Man, I’m fucked up Thank God it’s me though, because I don’t think anyone else could handle being me as well as I do. Woo Hoo!

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Party poooper?

So I survived a birthday slumber party with several eight and nine year old little girls over this past weekend. Let me just say first off, I quit smoking in January and have rarely craved a shmoke. I dearly wanted one at 6AM this morning as they woke me up screaming and running through the house.

I knew that the girls would be in and out, in and out all day/night long so I didn’t make the house spotless before they came over. Yeah, it was clean. But, it coulda been cleaner, and I wasn’t too afraid knowing that my floors weren’t mopped, and the child’s room wasn’t spotless, and so on. I knew that once they left, I’d have the opportunity to fix and clean everything.

And I didn’t set any rules. No, I didn’t want to throw a bunch of rules at the girls, and expect them to actually listen. I didn’t want to sound like an old, biddy so I let them do what they wanted. Oh my freaking gosh . . . a mad house, I was in a freaking mad house.

I was literally going, OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG .. ! Oh – My – FREAKING – Gosh! Look at my floor! Look at my couch! Look at my kitchen! Oh my poor poor kitchen!!! Don’t worry cabinets, they won’t slam you shut much longer. No, they’re parents will pick them up soon. Oh, ‘fridgerator, don’t cry. The spilled milk on your shelves can be cleaned up. Oh there, there .. let me get it!

I cringed. And I cussed under my breath. I held my breath. I looked away, and covered my eyes. I peeked through my fingers and saw them pillow fighting with my couch cushions, and I was like ohhhh myyyy freeeeaking goshhhh!!

I finally got them all to settle down and eat some breakfast. Cake and ice cream for breakfast, all around! I sugared them up and sent their little butts home. And then I got to cleaning! And I cleaned. And I smiled. And I loved every minute of it.

Online banking

A few years ago, my bank account was totally wiped out. I don’t know who did it. I don’t know why. All I know is that I went to the ATM one morning, and I was 500 bones in the red. The bastid had taken all of my money, plus some. I don’t have much to begin with, so when someone stole my money, I was completely heartbroken. I was devistated. I was angry. I was scared.

After many phone calls, trips to my local bank, and waiting patiently for two weeks, my money was back in my account. I was relieved, somewhat.

That was a few years ago. To this day, I still check my online banking at least ten times a day. TEN times. A day. Sometimes more, if it’s been stressful. I have to check it. I have to make sure that nobody is trying to take my money. I have to make sure that if something changes, I know then and there what it is, why it changed, and how much money is left. I never want to be in the situation I was in ever again.

:: :: :: Red :: :: ::

A little down time

Okay, so I threw my back out the other day causing me to be bed-ridden most of the weekend *ughhh!* which in turn made my house completely and totally unruly. It was a mess, noone picked up after themselves. The dishes were piling up. There were empty glasses in the living room. Dirty clothes were spewed everywhere. The dog was starving and becoming quickly dehydrated. I was not happy.

But then . . then, the husband decided he wanted “to help”. He did laundry. He cleaned the kitchen. He attempted to fold my towels. And he rearranged the bathroom towels. And he put dishes up where they don’t belong. And he folded my towels! And he swept the kitchen floor the wrong way. And he didn’t pick up the poop off the floor. And he folded the towels! And he left wet laundry in the washer. And he gave the dog too much water *yes, he can have TOO much* And and .. and he folded my towels!!!

I understand he was trying to help, but he wasn’t helping. Once I’m up and running again *which I’m hoping is tomorrow!!* I’ll have to redo everything. Until then I’ll just wince and cringe at everything he touches.

:: :: :: Red :: :: ::

Nail fetish

I’m a nailbiter. I have done this disgusting habit for as long as I can remember. Heck far, I probably even came out of the womb with fingers in my mouth, trying to chew off nails with my soft gums.

It’s a nervous habit I have. It’s something I do when I’m bored. It’s a time passer for when I’m driving or riding in a car. It’s something I do when I’m waiting, even though I try to be patient, those nails always find their way into my mouth. It’s gross, I know it’s gross and completely unlady-like to chew on fingernails. I know this, I have been made aware of this all throughout my 28 years. I know already!

But, alas, I don’t chew my toenails, as I do know some that do. Oh nooo, my toenails are something completely different. The nails on me toes are always perfect.

Buffed and sanded, moisturized and gleaming. They’re rounded and shaped, oiled and painted. They’re top-coated and beautiful in a deep shade of red. Always. ALWAYS.

Even in the winter time when absolutely noone sees my footsies, my toes are always pretty. And they stay pretty. I make sure of that as I give myself a weekly pedicure. If the paint chips or smudges just a little smidge, just a fraction of a tadbit, I have to do it over again – All the nails. I have to make them perfect, even if noone sees them. I know that there’s a mistake and I just won’t have it. My fingernails may look like shit, but my toes? My toes are perfection.

:: :: :: Red :: :: ::

Bathroom shtuff

This entry was taken from this post over at my other joint.

There are very few things in this house that are sacred just to me. Everyone seems to have their hand in my shtuff, no matter how much I tell them it’s M-I-N-E, not yours. Don’t fuck with it. It’s mine. There are few things under this roof that noone, besides me, dares to touch: My teeth being #1, my Reverend Horton Heat CDs because “they’re just too fucked up“, my guava juice because “it’s just soooo nasty!” and my underlovelies. Everything else seems to be community property and that erks the living shit out of me.

Even my feminime products. What the fuck is he plugging up with them?

My OCD kicks in, and I don’t want my shit touched. I don’t want it moved, used, breathed on – fuck, don’t even look at it. If it’s mine, it’s mine and that means it’s not yours.

And this is when the shit hits the fan . . .

In our bathroom, we have a double vanity. Two sinks. One is his, one is mine. I keep both of them clean and tidy. He has his toiletry items on his side, I have mine. I have 4 items. He has a variety of colognes, a beard trimmer, aftershave, razors, soap, plus several other things. If I go through the room 20 times a day, I’ll make sure everything is squared away, perfect, in their places. If they aren’t, I fix it. And I’ll do it 20 times a day if I have to.

I go in there the other night to take a shower and get ready for bed, and all my items, are turned around. I wasn’t too happy. I questioned my husband and he laughed, saying I was silly to be that way, to be so ridiculous about my things, that I shouldn’t worry about that sort of thing. “They’re just turned around, geeez!” he says.

It’s my shit, I like it a certain way, I’ll keep it a certain way. Don’t fuck with it.

About 10 minutes later, his shit was gone. In the trash. Done. Gone. I then proceeded to clean out the fridge, and the dog’s mess. And all of that went into the can as well. On top of his shit. If he wanted his things back then he can dig through the trash and get them. Oh he was beyond pissed, and I was already seeing red. If you don’t have OCD, you don’t know. You don’t know how it feels. So I did what came to mind first, I got rid of his shit. And smiled the whole time he was digging through the trash.

Moral: Don’t . Fuck . With . My . Shit.

/rant

:: :: :: Red :: :: ::

I am unable to pass by….

I am unable to pass the copy machine at work without getting rid of the papers sitting on them.  No, I’m not nosy, it’s just that they DON’T belong there.  There they sit all “willy nilly” and it drives me nutz!

If I am at my workstation and print something out (personal or otherwise) I get off my duff and pick it up.

But 9 times out of 10, I walk by the printer and there are usually a handful of miscellaneous papers that just need to BE GONE.  It makes me very uneasy!  There is only one person that knows about this and she just chuckles and I riffle through the papers and find their proper places

Does this one get you too?

Numba Tree

It’s my majik number!

Oh how I love things in T-H-R-E-E . . .

:: :: :: Red :: :: ::

All Kinds of Nervous

Hey there!

I have to say, i’ve been pondering doing this post on my own blog for a while, but just cannot.  I am a nervous wreck even posting it here. 

I feel like i’m sitting here naked for the world to see, and to know.  It’s taking every ounce of courage I can muster to even tell you what i’m about to tell you.

I can’t tell you when it started, I was very small.  I  know, that to date, it’s my biggest compulsion.  I never talk about it.  I’ve never said it out loud, til now. 

Oh my god, my stomach is actually queasy.  *deep breath*  here goes.

Some people have the compulsive tendencies like washing their hands or checking locks/keys.  I talked before about how I can put my keys in my purse and immediately check to see if they are there.  The whole time in my head going “gee dummy, you KNOW you just dropped them in there, where the fuck they gonna go?” 

But compulsion is a main component in OCD, as we all know.

My biggest compulsion (I feel like i’m gonna get kicked out of the cool club right now, I swear to God)

I feel really embarrassed.  I cannot believe i’m gonna tell you, but I have to.  I feel ashamed of it and I shouldn’t.  This blog, and the people in it are all open and honest, and I know it hasn’t been easy for any of you.  You are all so brave, and now I’m gonna be brave too.

I smell my hands…..constantly.

There, I said it. *peeking through hands over eyes*

I’m still alive.  *huge breath out* 

I don’t know why I do it.  But I have done it forever. And, no matter how I try, I can’t stop.  My mom used to scream at me. “Quit sniffing your goddamn hands!  Go fucking wash them for christsakes!”  But it’s not because they smell bad, or good,  or like anything for that matter.  I just honestly cannot stop myself from doing it.  It got to where if my mom caught me doing it, she would hit me across my fingers with a ruler or worse, a belt.  She would make me put them out and she would smack them.  I was ashamed.  Something was wrong with me.  So I got real good at hiding it.  I’m still ashamed, and I still hide it.  I think some of my closest friends may have caught on, but they don’t say anything.  Bless their hearts.  It’s easy to mask.  Much easier than you might think.

I feel like going back and deleting everything I just wrote.  Like you are all gonna hate me now.  I guess that sounds crazy, but hey, that’s conditioning for ya.

My son does it.  That’s what even brought this post to life.  My son is a smeller.  Not just his hands though.  He smells his first bite of food, his clothes before he puts them on, and his shoes.  He’s always smelling his shoes.  I tell him that might not be the greatest, being he’s in sports and his shoes stink pretty fucking bad most of the time. 

When he first started, he was pretty little.  3 or 4 I think.  I remember seeing him and being just mortified.  “Oh God, he’s like me”  I thought.  “He’s gonna feel ashamed like I do.”  So, I asked him, once after I saw him do it.

“you got something on your hands? do you want to wash them?”

“no,” he said, ” I just like to see how they smell.”

“why?” I asked.

“don’t know, just do.” he replied. 

I’ve never said another word about it.  I worry that someone will tease him over it, but I think he’s gotten clever about it like I have. 

I’m not sure how I feel telling you this, but at least I have finally told someone.  And if you let me stay in the cool club, I’d certainly appreciate it.

Counting

I’ve been thinking about the whole OCD “counting game”. It occurred to me that while I do some things similar to you other OCD bloggers, my counting rituals are a bit different.

I guess I AM a bit supersticious? 6 is a badluck, evil number to me so I avoid it at all costs. If I grab a handful of creamers for my coffee and wind up with 6 (OMG, NO!!!) I will put one back or grab another. 13 is also NOT on my (+) list.

When I kiss my kids on the cheek or goodnight, I kiss them 7 times. WHY? Because, don’t you see, 7 is an “ok” number. 7 happens to be 1/2 my goodluck number of 14). I don’t want to kiss them 14 times, otherwise I’d be standing there all day, so I opt for 7 – it’s still part of “lucky” and it wont take as long – or make my kids crazy because their mamma is hanging off of their face trying to get her OCD fix.

All of this and more…. I’ll post more as I recognize them for what they are. Little quirks that make me, ME.

Can you imagine if I weren’t on medication?

*Bella*