My family has referred to me as the "Female Woody Allen" over the years. This name was first coined by my brother-in-law, Adam, and I suppose it has remained appropriate although, after years of therapy, I do believe I am getting better. For instance, I can actually deal with it when someone takes a sip of my drink. I can even pick up that same drink and take a sip of it myself after it has been "tainted." I do, however, turn the glass away from where the person sipped from and drink from the opposite side. If there is more than one person who wants a taste of my drink, I cringe a bit, but I allow it. It simply makes it more challenging as to where exactly I am going to resume drinking.
I don't eat fast food anymore, or meat for that matter, but when I did, before I took a bite of my burger, I removed the bun and checked for hairs or anything that didn't look right to me. This thorough investigation meant taking apart the entire hamburger before putting it back together and eating. I rarely eat out at this point in my life unless it is a special occasion, so that pretty much takes care of that obsession. I do have one thing I make certain to do when we eat out and that is to make the waitress or waiter as comfortable as possible. You see, my mom had considerable experience as a waitress in one of the finest restaurants of her day in Pittsford, New York, and often, when she'd come home from work, tired and irritable, she'd relay stories from the restaurant kitchen. Disgruntled waiters, waitresses AND cooks would play very mean tricks on their unknowing diners when those diners were less than polite, were difficult or who had a reputation for leaving bad tips. My mom was not one of those who partook in such diabolical behavior; rather, she would lament the fifth grade mentality of her co-workers. But because of this knowledge and the potential for such behavior, I practically invite our server to sit down, have a drink, take a load off, and "don't hurry with our meal! We'll be fine!"
If that neuroses isn't enough, fear of the impossible, the strange and the illogical is another one of my little personality quirks. When I was 14 years old, my Uncle Pat took me to see "The Exorcist." Simply the mention of that movie should leave some of you quaking in your seats right now, especially if you saw the movie. On the night in question, my grandmother handed each of us a pair of rosary beads and off we went to the movie theatre, ready to be scared out of our minds. Truthfully, I was not only scared out of my mind, but I was freaked right out of my sense of logic, calm, normalcy and instinct. It took me years before I would sleep without a bottle of holy oil stuffed under my pillow at night and still, to this day, before stepping into the shower, I make the sign of the cross and I'm not even Catholic anymore. That holy gesture I make each time I approach the shower is a vestige of the night of terror Uncle Pat and I experienced. Whether it changed him or not, I don't know because he was always a bit crazy anyway. I do recall overhearing him talking on the telephone with the Blessed Mother several weeks later. Whether that phone call (and, as it came to be, many more after) was prompted by the same movie, I don't know. I didn't ask. All I know is that I left that movie theatre in silent hysterics after prying myself off of the seat and trying to think happy thoughts all the way to the car and, quite literally, for the rest of my life.
There have been other moments when my neuroses has plagued not only me, but those around me. One lovely summer day, my husband thought he would surprise me by taking me and our children on a hike through a beautiful forest about an hour from our Massachusetts home. This in itself was not anything to become alarmed about, but his big surprise was that he was going to cure me of my fear of heights. On that little sojourn, he decided we'd climb up the side of this rocky crag that was, from the starting point to the top of the next level, only about 15 feet. But 15 feet for me might just have easily been 15 hundred feet. Our children made it up in no time flat as he coached them and they stood at the top, jumping up and down, gleefully shouting, "C'mon, mommy, you can do it!" At my husband's insistence and a great deal of trepidation and my pathetic begging to go a different way, I began up, digging each foot into little cracks in the rock and holding onto jutting pieces of slate. About halfway up, I made the mistake of looking down. "Don't look down!!!" My husband shrieked, just a bit too late. "Oh, dear God," I screamed. "I can't do this!" Although Druck continued insisting I could, and the kids had already grown bored of this lengthy climb and had taken to chasing each other around a meadow, I began to sob, telling him this was not the kind of surprise I had expected. Rather, the surprise I had imagined was more the kind resembling a romantic dinner for two on a candlelit porch amidst the sound of chamber music and murmured conversation, gently feeding one another off of real silver forks.
"Well, honey, this can be romantic too. Just think how proud of yourself you're going to be once you get to the top! What a feat! What a success story!"
"I hate you," I called back. "I will always hate you for this. Where in the world did you ever get the idea...." With that, one foot slipped and I screamed.
"Now, you're going to have to listen to me," Druck hollered up, much firmer at this point. "Because you can't come back down and so you've got to make it up."
Still crying and unable to see, my neuroses got worse. "ok, ok, ok, Ok, Ok, Ok, OK, OK, OK, Okay, Okay, Okay, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY!!!!!"
"Are you done?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes......."
"All right then. Now..." and he proceeded to tell me how to get up that rocky cliff even though I didn't listen to a word. I finally hoisted myself up over the edge, dragged myself on my elbows over the top, through gravel, dirt and sticks, with the kids circling, whooping, hollering and clapping, as Druck bounced over the top behind me, as if he were Spiderman.
"Not a word," I said, holding up one finger like a teacher giving the class an important instruction. "Not one word." I got up, brushed myself off, wiped my tear streaked face with my filthy hands and watched as the other three burst into laughter at the sight of me.
This is only the tip of Maggie's very neurotic, very stiff, pointy, unmelting iceberg. And, by the way, I am still afraid of heights. And I no longer like surprises.
Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma
