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Posts Tagged ‘Obsessive Compulsive’

I am a big fan of Monk. Tony Shalub acted the part of an Obsessive Compulsive with great  skill, as he does all his parts.  I will miss the show.  However, there is a reality show, based on an Obsessive Compulsive that is absolutely NOT fun to watch.

Jeff Lewis, the lead (gosh, I so want to say ‘lead Cretin’) of the reality show “Flipping Out” is definitely NOT funny or sympathetic or even bearable to watch

I am not sure if there are levels of Obsessive Compulsive or not.  I believe there is because my mother has dealt with it all her life.  She has not let it make her a miserable, mean person to deal with.  She is considerate and compassionate.

Let’s just look at a quote or two from Mr. Lewis.

In discussing an employee, obviously hired (in his mind) as a servant, and who now has her citizenship, he stated:

I have to find a way to get my power back.  I used to dial INS and she would… (here he snapped his fingers, as in jump to kiss his behind.)

The next quote:

We’re a fast paced office here, you gotta be quick. 

This from the man who becomes paralyzed because someone is not carrying his umbrella, for him and to protect him, or a man who becomes less than professional by apologizing for an employee’s hair, or spends two hours of his work time sitting and fretting and haranguing another employee because a new employee is late.

Mr. Lewis is not happy until he has that new employee in tears, then he can get back to work.

Frankly, after watching for those fifteen minutes, I am making a new diagnosis.  Mr. Lewis is NOT OC, he is sadistic, arrogant and rude.  And, I want to know why we are making a tv star/wealthy man out of someone who treats others the way he does.  Here we are again, Home flipper/supposed decorator behaving badly.  And, you know how I hate those “behaving badly” shows.

I wasted fifteen minutes of my life watching Jeff Lewis make big bucks from a television conglomerate.  Frankly, I think they owe me big bucks to give me fifteen minutes of my life back.

The man is an obnoxious turd

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Growing up with an obssessive compulsive mother, it is not at all strange that I should have a tick or two.  It is always nice to learn that you are not the only person in the world with a particular tick.  So, when I read Me and Your Mouth « XUP  this morning, I about fell on the floor laughing. 

 

 

Now, I do not gag when others talk with their mouth open, when eating, but I do not look long either.  I do gag, wretch and about lose it all however, when people put live wiggly things in their mouths on television.  I imagine, in person it would be even worse but I tend not to hang out too long with people who  eat live, wiggly things.  This explains, only one reason,  why I do not watch things like Survivor.

 

 

 

I had a friend who could not eat in front of others.  She would take her plate over in a corner and turn her back on you to eat.  At the very least, if cornered, she would sort of turn around and chew.  She was a dear, sweet girl and I always wondered just how bad her home life was.

 

 

 

But, Gum chewing, Gosh I am with you XUP.  Mom chewed gum constantly.  She has a bad breath phobia.  She constantly thinks her breath is bad, even when it isn’t and used to chomp gum to cover up the non-existant bad breath.  She also popped her gum.  Talk about grating your nerves!

 

 

 

I cannot chew gum, to this day, because she made me chew it too.  Perhaps my breath was bad?  Whatever the case, I gag over gum in my mouth.  I’m okay until the flavor is gone, which takes about 2/10ths of a second, then it’s like “GET IT OUT OF MY MOUTH!”

 

 

 

I also gag over wet hair.  Yes, that is right, wet hair.  Now, this is not hair on a head after showering.  Hair, clumped in great numbers, is safe. This is one hair, detached from the head, wet on a sink or counter.  I do a gag or two and then start drive heaves.  I’m almost gagging just envisioning a wet hair.  This started when I was pregnant and has not gone away. 

 

 

 

I can usually brush my teeth without gagging, but cannot hold that toothpaste in my mouth for long either.  I don’t mind others brushing their teeth though. 

 

 

 

I also do not like the sound of chewing.  There is a very distinct sound to each persons chew.  Someone, who shall remain nameless, in my house sounds like a chipmunk when he chews.  Since he takes very large bites (Warning, digression here!  He was once told by a dentist that he has a very small mouth.  Hence, he feels he needs to cram food in because his mouth is small.  Perhaps this is also why he feels the need to use so many words.  You know, they have to come all out because they could get jammed up in his mouth!) I don’t know why he sounds like he is nibbling, but I’m sure that justifiable is the term the police will use someday. 

 

 

I cannot hold a pen in my mouth, or hair pins, or dog biscuits (don’t even ask).  Even on the very tip of my mouth, yuck! Gag!

 

 

  

 

But, as far as that last thing, XUP, I guess it just goes to show that if you are having enough fun, you won’t gag.

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Both of my parents had a spot, or more, of Obsessive Compulsiveness in them.  My dad once took the effort to get up from his lounger, and perhaps miss a few minutes of television, to move a nick-nack, ½ inch over.  I had dusted and not gotten it exactly the same distance from the center nick-nack as the one on the other end, of equal height. 

 

 

Mind you, this is the man who built a house to line up with the road and came home from WWII, raised his house up on jacks to dig a basement and spent the time and effort to move the house like two inches so that it would line up with east and west.  My mother was not happy as we were the only people with a house crooked to the road. 

 

 

And, to think, I lived there seventeen years and never once noticed that our house did or did not line up with the sun, the directions or the road.  

 

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Mom used to sit in the window, even if I was outside all day, and watch me. I knew I was under her watchful eye and I was used to it.  But, I was also sure, that she was convinced that someone was going to kidnap me.  Hence, she was on alert. There had been Romany’s camped at the edge of their property occasionally, when she was a girl.  They came to her mother and purchased chickens and even paid mom’s little sisters to sing and dance for them. 

 

Now, from what I have read, in the fifties, when I was little, most people felt safe and secure, except from nuclear fall-out.  They still seemed to have some faith in their fellow Americans, but not my family.  Dad’s credo was, “If it happened once to someone, somewhere in the world, it will happen to us.”  This led to a lot of fear of—well, of everything.

 

For this reason, it became a joke between my brother and I that we had actually been stolen from a Romany camp.  The reason mom watched out the window was her fear that they would come and take us back one day.  After all, we did seem to have different politics from our parents, and neither of us seemed to have much of the Obsessive Compulsive gene.  But, we certainly inherited their “not so good” health genes.

 

I am sure mom agreed that I did not belong to her when I went through my “late hippy” period. 

 

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There is an Obsessive Compulsive gene in our family. My mother’s brother once refused to visit her house for three years because the minute he flicked an ash in the ashtray, she would jump up from the card table and wash it; the ash tray not the ash. Since she had given him the ashtray at his place at the table, he mistakenly presumed she meant for him to use it.

 

Mom is good natured about her foible and we have all learned to live with it. If I ever write about my life, I have threatened to title it: My Life in a Ziploc, for I am certain I was born in one. She could not have dealt with the mess otherwise and has worked hard to ensure that everything she owns is wrapped and bagged, preferably in ZipLocs. She alone may be responsible for the success of the company.

 

What happens with children of Obsessive’s? They turn out to be, well, Not-Obsessive. I would rather paint a picture or be outside taking photographs than cleaning stoves and corners. Somehow, I have decided that, since I could not afford a self-cleaning oven, I will just give it away when the dirt creeps under the aluminum foil. Presuming I have sold a book by then. Ah, another thing to spur my novel on.

 

I do have an excuse; my husband has been disabled with COPD for nearly twenty-five years now. We live in a pollution free (note, I did not say dirt free) atmosphere. No smoke, no perfumes (I use Vanilla upon occasion-sounds weird, but what greater scent to evoke love than Mom’s home cooking?), no scented cleaners or shampoos, etc, and certainly no oven cleaner. It’s my legitimate excuse. I am also quite sure this was a big reason why my mother moved into her own apartment. She was in withdrawal for the scent of Lemon Pledge and hairspray.

 

My husband smoked for about a month, until cigarettes hit 25 cents  pack, but his family has “weak” lungs. He was under thirty when we were hiking out east and contracted a virus. It never left him, and damaged his lungs. He is 56 now and he looks 90. Children think he is Santa with his white hair and white beard, and often point at him through their car seat window when we drive past.

 

Once, during a high school concert, a family of six children was sitting in front of us. One little girl kept turning around and looking at my husband, until the end of the concert, when she stage whispered to her dad. “Daddy, did you know Santa was sitting behind us?” Then, there was the little boy who came up to him in a store and thanked him for the presents he (the child)had received last year.

 

My husband’s chubby cheeks have taken on a sunken look in the past year and, when we go to a restaurant, they give him a seat next to mom and a senior discount. There are perks.

 

What happens to the grandchild of an Obsessive? Since the gene skipped my generation, they may be obsessive too. I have a granddaughter who is “my girl.” Other children cling to their brothers or their grandfather, but this girl took one look at me, when she was three months old and decided I belonged to her. The look was pure adoration. It is so nice to be adored by someone. However, this poor thing has inherited the Obsessive gene.

 

At two, with a baby sister ensconced in her room, Rachel would wait until sister, Leah, finished her bottle, then she would get up and bring the bottle down to someone to, either: 1. Get it out of her room and/or 2. Have it cleaned. Her brothers used to torment her by rearranging the Christmas presents under the tree as she took her nap.

 

Occasionally, I have caught myself doing things that frighten me; counting steps, color coding clothing and coat hangers. I stop, mix them up and don’t look back. I do not want to even go there. Perhaps that is why I don’t want to spend time cleaning, because I love a clean house. I really do. But, what would happen to me if I started cleaning. I might not know when to stop? Do you buy that??? If so, see me about some property.

 

I do like my studio straightened up before every new project and I loved having a clean house when I had a house large enough to do that. I seem unable to keep this small one, with six adults, clean. There just isn’t enough closet/storage area and things spill out and about. When the table gets too piled, I make the boys put there things away. It looks nice for a day. I do NOT pile things on the table myself, I have a dresser for that, which has a printer on it and two years worth of filing and paperwork.

 

Told you I did not inherit the obsessive gene and one day the boys will move out and there will be room to keep things clean. Darn! I will miss them.

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