I’ve been neurotic for a long time, at least since I was four, when my mother had to cut the feet off my pajamas because they were worn down to bits of thin, rubbery fabric hanging on by threads. I nearly lost my mind. It wasn’t so much an issue of fashion, but safety. A family of invisible alligators was living in my room, and now they’d be able to get me whenever I walked across the floor. Worst of all, no one seemed to believe me. Months before I turned five, I’d already matched the modern-day Olympic long-jump record, leaping from the doorway onto the bed in the far corner. No one believed that, either.
The word neurosis, as defined by Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, is “a functional disorder of the central nervous system usually manifested by anxiety, phobias, obsessions, or compulsions, but frequently displaying signs of somatic disorder involving any of the bodily systems with or without other subjective or behavioral manifestations and having its probable etiology in intrapsychic or interpersonal conflict.” I agree with the first half of that, but have no idea what the second half means, and worry that it’s the more serious part. I do know that as early as the third grade, I found myself getting fidgety in my chair when the teacher, having erased the blackboard, would leave a small, random smudge of chalk untouched. The board had been filled with her writing — the entire alphabet in cursive, for example, or a bunch of addition and subtraction problems. She’d grab the eraser and with wide, swooping motions, wipe out almost everything she’d written. Almost. For some inexplicable reason, she’d leave a piece of an uppercase Q, or the bottom half of a six, or just a plus sign. And that’s what I’d focus on, and the maddening realization that she was going to let it stay there.
The following year our class held a spelling bee, an unfamiliar kind of contest that required the boys and girls to line up in two separate rows along the front wall. During the previous week, Sister Agnes had devoted hours to drilling the I-before-E guideline into our dense skulls. I had put in an equal measure of effort to master the rule, because my teammates were counting on me to do well. It wasn’t that I was some kind of genius, but rather a reflection of the fact that most of the other boys couldn’t spell dog if they were holding a can of Alpo. In the very first round, I was given the word their, which I quickly and incorrectly spelled T-H-I-E-R. Before I knew it I was back at my desk, the only one sitting, with a clear view of several of the bigger guys staring at me and punching their right fists into their left palms. Had Sister trapped me on purpose? Was it a conspiracy to help the girls win? The experience taught me a valuable lesson: Trust nobody. It also taught me that there were probably exceptions to the lesson about trusting nobody, but that I would never be able to remember what they were. So I sat, miserably listening as my classmates struggled with words I could’ve spelled while under anesthesia. My heart raced with humiliation.
There’s a doctor in Florida named Michael Greenberg who’s been studying clams since 1955. In other words, since I was born. From the little I understand, his work has focused on the chemicals that affect the clams’ heart rate. I didn’t even know clams had hearts, and can’t imagine why someone would spend a lifetime fiddling around with them. I’m also trying to fathom what kinds of experiences would naturally cause a clam’s pulse to change — besides being pried open with the handle of a spoon, I mean.
My heart rate is about eighty beats per minute. This is within the average range, and I should probably leave it at that, but I can’t, because the neurotic area of my brain needs to identify the disturbing mathematical implications. And here they are: eighty beats per minute is 4,800 per hour — and 115,000 per day. I triple-checked that last figure, and when I got the same result all three times, I suddenly felt light-headed. My heart beats forty-two million times a year. Multiplied by my age, that comes out to almost two and a half billion, so far. It doesn’t seem possible. What keeps it pumping, and realistically, how many more beats could I have left? This reminds me of how I feel about my refrigerator, running constantly for years. It isn’t really a big deal, until I think about it, and then I’m sure it’s going to stop any second. The difference is, if my refrigerator breaks down I can go to Sears and get a new one, with adjustable shelves and built-in ice dispenser. If my heart gives out, the options are much more limited.
Last week, I had an EKG done. This test measures the rate and regularity of the heart’s activity. I don’t know what the outcome was, because my doctor gets that information and generally treats it as though it’s none of my business. What bothered me, however, was that the technologist — a woman considerably shorter than me — told me to take off my shirt and then began to shave my chest with no warning whatsoever. I found this unsettling. Everywhere else in public, people apologize if they brush up against me in the slightest way. And here’s this woman running an electric shaver across my upper body without a hint of acknowledgment. I’ve never shaved my own chest. I guess that’s what made it noteworthy.
Speaking of shaving, whenever I’m in the bathroom and have the water running, I think I hear the phone ringing. It must be the acoustics in there, because the phone actually rings only about three times a month, and usually it’s the car dealership wanting to know how I enjoyed that last oil change. When I’m outside cutting the grass, I always hear sirens. It’s a small lawn but it takes me forever because I turn the mower off every five minutes to see if my house is on fire. And then I notice the bull terrier in a wild rage across the street. He’s barking at me, while I’m standing on my own property. It’s hard to express how irritating this is. As I finish mowing, I prepare a well-reasoned lecture that I plan to deliver to the dog at some future date.
None of this is to say that I’m not aware of how neurotic it all sounds. I am. Most telling, I think, is the fact that I’ve been lugging around that massive dictionary since 1978. Although the online services are much faster, I continue to flip through this enormous volume, hoping to locate the desired definition without becoming distracted by others along the way. Frequently, I’ll get lured in by an odd noun with four consonants in a row or an illustration of the human skeletal system, and forget what I was trying to find in the first place. Once in a great while, I’ll somehow open it right to the exact page I needed, interpreting this to mean that, however briefly, I’m in harmony with the universe.
I’ve kept the dictionary all these years, I guess, because I feel a strong attachment to its sheer bulk and delicate texture, the thankless work that went into its thousands of thoroughly-researched explanations, and the knowledge that even if the power goes out I can light a candle and look up somatic, etiology, and intrapsychic. Most comforting is the thought that I could lift that book, which weighs as much as a bushel of peaches, and drop it onto the head of the obnoxious dog across the street. Not to mention those invisible alligators that still patrol my bedroom floor.
aspergersandwich
May 27, 2012
Can’t wait for part 2, part 3, etc. I totally feel you on the incompletely erased blackboard. I used to be like you were until I went to a Catholic boarding school in Germany for a year, where one of the students’ tasks was to wash the blackboard between classes. There were rules for everything and this was no exception. First the board got erased, and then whoever was washing the board that day took a big sponge from the bucket of water and wiped down the board in perfect vertical stripes. Once I had seen a board so perfectly wiped down, I could never again feel settled even if everything had been erased, because I could still see those swooping arcs, tracks of chalk dust. Oy. I am gradually becoming less high strung. I figure if I don’t, by the time I’m old enough for my kids to need to help me with stuff, I will be so insufferable that no one will want to spend time with me. It’s never too early to worry about that.
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bronxboy55
May 28, 2012
At our school, we were also assigned the jobs of erasing and washing the boards, as well as going outside to clap the erasers clean of chalk dust. Somehow the nuns convinced us that it was an honor to do those things, and I guess it was.
Now that I think about it, I did have one teacher who methodically removed every bit of chalk from the board, usually taking minutes out of class time to do so. He looked kind of ridiculous.
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aspergersandwich
May 27, 2012
This is brilliant, by the way!
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She's a Maineiac
May 27, 2012
This has to be one of your funniest posts (if not most neurotic)! You had me laughing from start to finish. The chest shaving! The dog barking! Good stuff.
And I have kept an old beat-up red dictionary that weighs a ton since my high school days. Once every few years, my husband will hold it up, spine practically broken in half, the cover falling off and he’ll say, “Why are you keeping this?” But I will never part with it. It’s got sentimental value. (how ridiculous does that sound?) I’ve spent many a time sifting through it, trying to find that word, getting lost along the way with other words and definition. I guess I like words. I have no idea why I still have it, but I’ll probably want to be buried with it.
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bronxboy55
May 28, 2012
Thanks for the great idea, Darla. I think I’ll be cremated with my dictionary. No one else will want it anyway, and it’ll keep the fire going for a few extra hours.
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She's a Maineiac
May 28, 2012
Haha! I am still giggling…you’ve got this all figured out.
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frances
May 27, 2012
Love, love, love your blog! I think we must have been separated at birth……I was actually sent down to the principal’s office once…..by a nun……because I could no longer sit there staring at yet another left over piece of letter…..number…..anything really. It drove me crazy……so I got up and rectified the situation. The principal……another nun……was not in the least sympathetic…..I was on board washing duty for the remainder of the year. And till this day……I cannot sleep with even a toe hanging over the bed…….cuz you never know what is lurking under the bed, right? Looking forward to part ll.
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bronxboy55
May 28, 2012
I have a dim memory of doing the same thing: when I just couldn’t stand it anymore, I got up, walked to the board, and erased the lingering smudge. I’m just not sure it really happened. Maybe I invented the memory because it’s what I’d do now if I were back in that situation. Thanks for the kind words, Frances.
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Carol Deminski
May 27, 2012
omg, don’t even get me started.
I want to see what you have to say about neurosis and writing…. Oy Vey.
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bronxboy55
May 28, 2012
I think we could all contribute to that one, Carol.
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Carol Deminski
May 28, 2012
LOL, I might have already written a few words on that on my blog, yes… (I think it’s called Ways for Neurotic Writers to Torture Themselves… lol)
😉
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Noreen
May 27, 2012
You are definitely nuts and that is one of the reasons I love you.
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bronxboy55
May 28, 2012
I never said I was nuts. I said neurotic.
Did somebody say I was nuts?
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earthriderjudyberman
May 27, 2012
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Keep up the great work that keeps us laughing, Charles.
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bronxboy55
May 28, 2012
I don’t think I’m paranoid, Judy. I just pay attention.
And they are out to get me.
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Allan Douglas
May 27, 2012
Ah, well… I feel much better now that I’ve read this. I now realize that when it come to neuroses, I’m an amateur! Although, that two and a half billion heart beats does stick in my mind.
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bronxboy55
May 28, 2012
That’s an amazing number, isn’t it, Allan? Almost unimaginable.
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Juniper
May 27, 2012
Love this! I used to have OCD, or have some weird form of anxiety that manifests as OCD only when particularly stressed. Generally this just means if I start noticing myself stepping over cracks and counting the steps in stairways (they’re almost always 16 by the way), I probably need a Xanax. Laughing through things always helps though, so thanks for sharing this!
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bronxboy55
May 29, 2012
I wonder if a behavior qualifies as OCD if it only shows up under stress. It’s interesting how so many of us have these quirky things we do that we could never explain logically. Thanks for the nice comment, Jooni.
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Val
May 27, 2012
D’you know what I love best about your posts, Charles? It’s the way you manage to sum everything up so neatly in the last paragraph. How do you do that? I wish I knew.
As for the neurosis… got the T-shirt. (Though I was once declared maladjusted, too.)
The remaining chalk made me both laugh and wince, by the way. I used to fret about that, too! 🙂
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bronxboy55
May 29, 2012
Declared maladjusted? I’m picturing you standing on a pedestal in the town square while an official reads a proclamation to the crowd. What’s the opposite of maladjusted: well-adjusted? If so, I must be maladjusted, too.
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Val
May 29, 2012
Lol! They might’ve tried the pedestal business, but wouldn’t have succeeded! (This was when I was at school and didn’t fit in…) You, maladjusted? Really? 😉
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greenroomgallery
May 27, 2012
My monday morning is already looking brighter. Can of course relate to pretty much all of that. Thanks Charles. 😀
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bronxboy55
May 29, 2012
I hope your week is still looking bright, Charlotte. Thanks for taking the time to read this post.
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Elyse
May 27, 2012
Charles, as a phony medical specialist, I can tell you that this: “having its probable etiology in intrapsychic or interpersonal conflict” means it’s all your parents fault.
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bronxboy55
May 29, 2012
Only a real specialist would ever admit to being a phony, which, I’m sure, is a reflection of some underlying neurosis. But thanks to you, we can both blame our parents.
Congratulations on your blog’s first birthday:
http://fiftyfourandahalf.com/
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buckwheatsrisk
May 27, 2012
you have me laughing so hard it’s difficult to read all your neurosis, as i have to stop and wipe the tears, and catch my breath! you must get tired! 😉
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bronxboy55
May 29, 2012
I get tired only when I stop to think about it — which is pretty much all the time.
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buckwheatsrisk
May 29, 2012
ahahaha!
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smashticles
May 28, 2012
Loved it – I was waiting for you not to finish the last sentence. Just to be cruel! Thank you for not.
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bronxboy55
May 30, 2012
Thank you for reading, Smash, and for taking the time to comment.
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Worrywart
May 28, 2012
Yep, this almost explains why we are all friends ( I also loved the almost erased black board, but was not quite prepared for the neurosis that followed even though . . . ) . . .
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bronxboy55
May 30, 2012
You have one of my favorite blogger names. My mother used to say to me, “Stop being such a worrywart.” I don’t think it helped.
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Sandra Parsons
May 28, 2012
You know, the older I get the more I find myself in situations where I worry about the dishwasher being filled properly (as in: everything in its place, all the knives together and not mixed with forks and spoons etc., and for crying out loud, don’t put the mugs on the left hand side, that’s where the glasses go!) or my laundry being hung up for drying with matching pegs (but not socks, please, no pegs for socks!). I realise I make my own life harder by being pissed at my husband when he does it the wrong way but I just can’t help it.
Maybe hubby has more experience in not getting too worked up about things he can’t change anyway. Like people misspelling his name “Niel”. Drives me up the walls. Probably because I learned my English from books rather than speaking it, like a native.
At least some of us are able to put their neuroses to good use by entertaining their readers with accounts of them. Don’t take this the wrong way, Charles, but in a way I am glad you are somewhat neurotic. Makes for a fantastic read! Can’t wait for the next instalment.
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bronxboy55
May 30, 2012
Our tendency to worry about every little thing drives those around us crazy. But there’s another side to the neurotic behavior, and it’s that we remember their favorite dessert, we know how they like their pants folded, and we recognize instantly when something is bothering them. And we never misspell their name. I’m glad you’re somewhat neurotic, too, Sandra. I bet everyone around you feels the same way.
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Sandra Parsons
May 30, 2012
You know, I never thought about it like that but you are absolutely right, Charles. Thank you for making me feel better about my little tics.
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mcgulotta
May 28, 2012
Great post! I can picture everything.
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bronxboy55
May 30, 2012
And I’m still trying to understand why your resting heart rate is 50. How is it possible?
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writingfeemail
May 28, 2012
Don’t you find that most writers are a bit neurotic? I think it comes with the ability to see beyond the everyday world – at least that is what I keep telling myself.
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bronxboy55
May 30, 2012
I agree, Renee. The idea of complete mental health doesn’t seem appealing at all. Actually, it sounds kind of boring.
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Michelle Gillies
May 28, 2012
I never thought I was neurotic until I read this post. With the exception of the shaved chest hairs I have pretty much experienced all of the above. I still mouth the “i before e, except after c and in words like neighbour or weigh” when I am spelling and then list in my head all the words that the rule doesn’t apply to. I’m glad I laughed through this whole post because if I am neurotic I at least want to enjoy it!
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bronxboy55
May 31, 2012
I’m sure we all have these little personality quirks, Michelle, and we see them in each other. We tend to label them as either endearing or neurotic, depending on how we feel about the person.
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Joseph M Kurtenbach
May 29, 2012
Love it, Charles. I thought I was the only one who hears phones and sirens only during the noisier moments in my life when I am most likely to miss them. It would be just my luck to miss the phone call telling me I’d won a new car just by answering, or realize the sirens I finally heard were on the way to aid a neighbor who’d been yelling and waving at me for help but I’d been too oblivious to notice. Somehow the imagined scenarios always involve a failure on my part that would make me feel miserable if it really happened. I guess the miseries of real life aren’t always enough for me; sometimes my imagination tries to come up with more. Must be part of the neurosis thing. At any rate, thanks as always for the smiles and laughs, Charles. You always make me feel better.
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bronxboy55
May 31, 2012
I think you nailed it with this, Joseph: “I guess the miseries of real life aren’t always enough for me; sometimes my imagination tries to come up with more.”
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icedteawithlemon
May 29, 2012
Charles, your posts always manage to make me feel better … not just because of the laughs they elicit–you had me at (Who Am I Kidding?)!–but also for the realization they spark that I am not alone–there really is someone out there (and, judging from the above comments, several someones) who is just as neurotic and worrisome as I am. Isn’t it odd how some things don’t bother us at all while others send us over the edge? I have learned to enjoy flying and can even relax to the point of falling asleep on the plane–UNLESS I know the plane will be flying over a body of water, in which case my palms will sweat, my legs will quiver, and my heart will pound uncontrollably. I am terrified the plane will crash into that body of water, and I will not survive because … get this … I can’t swim.
Thanks for another great read!
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bronxboy55
May 29, 2012
I have more helpful information for you, Karen. It isn’t necessary to know how to swim. In the event the plane slams into the ocean and shatters into a billion pieces, your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device. (When the flight attendant is explaining the safety features of the aircraft, I’m usually the only one listening.)
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icedteawithlemon
May 29, 2012
Charles, if we ever ended up on the same flight, there would be TWO people listening. And you think that’s neurotic? Before my first flight I researched the best seat location in the event of a crash (it’s in the back) … and then I researched it again before every flight thereafter just to be sure I wasn’t remembering incorrectly. I’ll see your neurosis and raise you one … 😀
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bronxboy55
May 31, 2012
Yeah, but the people in the front of the plane have more leg room. Don’t you get squirmy on long flights? I think they also get bigger pillows.
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icedteawithlemon
June 1, 2012
Umm, since my feet barely touch the floor anyway, I’ll gladly sacrifice the leg room in exchange for the safer seat in the back. But bigger pillows? That’s just not right.
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Jac
May 30, 2012
Not only will you have enough for 2 parts, but you have enough for a set of encyclopedias. It might even be therapeutic for you to alphabetize your neuroses. I would be happy to collaborate with you on this, as I seem to possess the other half of your crazy brain (or our brains are running parallel with each other in another universe). It sounds like most of your readers think (and I use the word loosely) the same way that we do, so maybe we should each just take a letter and write one volume each.
Get back to me on this whenever you finish mowing the lawn or shaving. Hopefully, I will be done in the shower, which is when I think I hear the phone ringing, so that takes up most of MY day. Now that I think about it, it might be better to call me in the middle of the night since I am awake most of the time, mentally telling my brain to shut UP!!! Not sure why it doesn’t listen to me…
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bronxboy55
May 31, 2012
I had a really good reply to your comment, but then I got stuck staring at the word, encyclopedia. There are probably people now old enough to read who have no idea what that word means. Does anyone have sets of encyclopedia anymore? It looks like something from ancient Greece. How old are we, anyway? And another thing…Wait, I think I hear the phone ringing. I’ll call you back.
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Stacie Chadwick
May 30, 2012
I’m not wired to worry. I’m a planner and a little OCD by nature, but a worrier? No. I have somehow spawned a daughter, however, who worries to the point of distraction, similar to your own experiences described above. So now I worry about her, because I’m her mom and I don’t want her to stress the small stuff. As a parent, even though you don’t necessarily worry by design, you end up worrying on demand. Ugh. Any advice for an overly thoughtful 10 year-old little girl who freaks out if her book report isn’t done two weeks before it’s due?
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bronxboy55
May 31, 2012
The idea of a ten-year-old who needs to get her assignments done ahead of time sounds like a beautiful dream to me. But then, I’m a parent who’s been shaken repeatedly by this announcement, usually delivered around 7:30 in the morning: “Oh, Dad, I just remembered. I have a social studies project due today. A ten-page paper. I think.” As I said, it sounds like a dream, Stacie. I just wish I could believe it’s possible:
http://geminigirlinarandomworld.com/2012/05/10/i-think-im-smarter-than-you/
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dreamingthruthetwilight
May 31, 2012
This is the first of your blogs that I’m reading and I was smiling all the way.Thank goodness for a bit of neurosis in this world…at least for the ones who can write about it and make you smile:-) I came here from Souldipper’s page and aren’t I glad!!
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bronxboy55
June 3, 2012
Thank you for the kind words, Nadira. I also enjoyed your blog — it’s filled with beautiful poetry, prose, and photographs.
http://nadirafromkannur.wordpress.com/
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mirroredImages
May 31, 2012
Ah, Charles, I feel your pain on the neurosis bit — tho I’m pretty sure there are no alligators in my bedroom, I know for a fact that there are alligators roaming the territory of my new home state. Your writing is flawless as ever — how you always manage to mine the same life for humor and reflection continues to amaze me. I before E doesn’t work in many cases, least of all the alphabet, and it’s just one more of those rules that only work once in a while, and usually on Tuesdays, after 5, when it’s daylight savings time. Excellent blog post. I am always glad when I remember to make my way over here and check up on you.
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bronxboy55
June 3, 2012
You know I can’t agree with the “flawless” part, but you’re my sister in neurosis, and I always appreciate your feedback. Please stay away from those alligators. And keep writing those amazing posts:
http://plettahar.wordpress.com/2012/05/26/putting-a-price-tag-on-a-lifetime/
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Betty Londergan
May 31, 2012
Charles, has it ever occurred to you that every single one of your readers is equally neurotic? I was going to write a comment enumerating all the ways in which your post spoke to me (does that make me neurotic, too?) but obviously, I’m one of a very big crowd. Do you think you just attract neurotics — or do you think everybody’s in our boat?? I laughed all the way through — and especially loved your title!
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bronxboy55
June 3, 2012
Betty, I think everyone in the world is equally neurotic, just in different ways. Maybe that’s the real purpose of DNA — to produce new combinations of weirdness. It’s always great to hear from you. Now I have to visit your blog to see where in the world you are this week. I’m sure it’s someplace amazing.
I just checked: Nepal, then Cameroon. I have some catching up to do.
http://heifer12x12.com/
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magsx2
June 4, 2012
Hi,
I also have a very much loved dictionary. My parents gave it to me back in 1971, signed: To our darling daughter love from Mum and Dad, written by Mum, I will always treasure this very well used book, that is still in fairly good condition as well. 🙂
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bronxboy55
June 12, 2012
That’s a wonderful gift and a beautiful inscription, Mags. It’s no surprise that you treasure it.
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happykidshappymom
June 5, 2012
What an enjoyable read! I really liked it. This line was perfect, when you talked about the chalk mark which escaped death, “And that’s what I’d focus on, and the maddening realization that she was going to let it stay there.” I’m with you on that one. I think a lot about teachers, and the view they present to the classroom. For most of us, what we wear is about as unimportant and unnoticed as a grain of sand on the beach. But ask any student what color and shape his or her teacher’s earrings were this morning, and I bet the child could describe them exactly. What else is there to do, after all, when you’re sitting there staring at a fixed background of chalkboards and posters filtered under fluorescent lights? The teacher becomes the center of the universe. Much like your pounding heart and pulsing refrigerator. Once they fully occupy your mind, you notice things about them and wonder things about them just like you said.
A writing friend of mine recently introduced me to the term, “gestalt.” As I understand it, it’s seeing the whole picture without bothering with the details. A fascinating concept, and one that, once reversed, will lead to highly enjoyable posts such as yours.
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bronxboy55
June 12, 2012
I’m sure most teachers would be disappointed if they knew what their students were really focused on during class. I spent a lot of time looking at the clock.
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mostlikelytomarry
June 5, 2012
As always, an absolute pleasure to read your post. So funny. I notice I have become increasingly neurotic as I have gotten older. I blame it on children 🙂 Thank you so much for your beautiful and witty writing and for always making me laugh.
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bronxboy55
June 12, 2012
It’s good to be able to blame things on the kids, isn’t it? Thanks for the comment, Tammy.
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Amiable Amiable
June 6, 2012
First, I clicked “Like.” But, because I’m neurotic, I don’t know if it’s okay to just do that. I’m leaving a comment, too, so I can get on with my day (the next step of which will be reading Part 2). Here’s the comment:
I’ve been on the fence about eating clams for about a year. Just their appearance makes me question any reason to consume them, though my husband has made me join him in their consumption for over 20 years. Thanks to Dr. Greenberg’s research, however, and the whole heart rate thing, I’m done. Ick.
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bronxboy55
June 12, 2012
Sometimes I try to imagine what it would have been like if I’d been born a fish. For one thing, I’d have to eat seafood every day. Actually, that’s as far as I ever get. Ick is right.
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Nectarfizz
June 12, 2012
Good God we MUST be related. The Alligators, the Dictionary, the stupid partials left on the chalkboard. If you tell me you were mesmerized by the crazy bit of under-skin that went nuts when your teacher wrote on the blackboard I just might pass out under my chair. No, seriously pass out right there dead center..of course.
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Nectarfizz
June 12, 2012
Whoops. I forgot to mention Dead center..of course. So the gators cannot get me.
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bronxboy55
June 12, 2012
Dead center on the bed was the key spot. Somehow the alligators made it all the way to my house, got inside, came up the stairs, and found my room — but they would not be able to reach me as long as I stayed in the middle of the bed. If it makes sense to both of us, Bekki, it must be true.
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tersiaburger
June 15, 2012
You are a very gifted blogger! I enjoy your blog! Thank you.
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bronxboy55
June 16, 2012
I appreciate that you took the time to read and comment.
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Catherine Kennedy
July 1, 2012
Brilliant!
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bronxboy55
July 3, 2012
Thank you, Catherine. I hope you’re doing well.
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marymtf
October 29, 2012
I think it’s a gene I’ve inherited but my sons assure me that it’s the way I raised them.
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bronxboy55
November 1, 2012
It must be a combination, don’t you think?
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marymtf
November 2, 2012
I’ve (almost) always believed that how children (and their parents) turn out is in equal parts due to nature and nurture with just a dash of free will tossed into the mix.
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bronxboy55
November 7, 2012
I think you’re right, although I suspect nature is more than half of the equation.
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marymtf
November 7, 2012
What’s happened to your picture?
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