It's time to be honest about my OCD.

Looking at my house, you would NOT think the people who live here could be obsessed with anything except movies, video games, and sleeping because every pillow we've ever owned seems to have come back from the landfill and camped in our house.

And the blankets. All of my blankets are here, except for the ones my mom made when I was young because she thought polyester double-knit rummage sale clothes were a wonderful material to make into quilts.

Yep, for a while I slept under my dead grandmother's--and heck, maybe even your dead grandmother's--polyester pants suits.

I know. Ew.

So, all these blankets except ONE. I "inherited" one blanket from my grandfather. Not a quilt or anything. Just a store-bought blanket that smelled like little old man when my mom gave it to me. I don't have it any more.

I don't care if it was Grandpa Shorty's. It was butt-ugly. It was pink and green and I think it was supposed to be watermelons. Not that I have a certain decorating style or anything. I have more like a decorating intention; eventually, maybe, some day, my house will look like it does in my head. Meanwhile my walls are still white with primer spots where I've tried to cover the cheap crayon drawings Stick Girl did 7 years ago.

Anyway, it's not like this thing just wasn't my style. It wasn't ANYONE'S style except Grandma Shorty's and honestly--that woman owned some of the butt-ugliest crap I've ever seen. Her earrings were famously ugly, and I'm still kind of ticked off that she was buried in earrings that were actually tasteful.

Oh, crap. I just remembered that I still have the blanket. I saved it at the last minute because it was butt-ugly and reminded me of Grandma Shorty.

All the blankets, all the afgans, all the pillows. I'm drowning in tasteless bedding.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. How I'm OCD. A little.

Here's where the OCD comes in. I can no longer remember if I have the Butt-Ugly Watermelon Blanket or if it went to a charity. I'm going to have to go through my linen closet and look for it. Then go through my clothes closet and look for it. Then my kids' closets.

Then, and only then, will I be able to get back to my task at hand (which is irrelevant except for the fact that it has nothing to do with going in any closets at all).

Because if I don't figure out if I still have the blanket, it will sit in my subconscious forever and eat away at my karma. There is nothing to be gained by finding the answer but I still have to....

What was I talking about again? OCD. Um, yeah.

Reminds me of a bumper sticker I just saw: "Genius has its limitations. Insanity? Not so much."

Power Of God

Michelle, er--SaxyGal requested a story like this, so I gave it a shot.

1981 was a horrible year for me.

Somewhere around the end of May, all my friends decided they hated me and would no longer speak to me. They maintained their silence until December or longer. It was probably December, because that's when I decided I was sick of people fucking with me. Their silence no longer had power over me, so they ended it.

So there I was, 13 years old, had braces, had to cut off all my hair because I was given a bad perm and literally couldn't comb through my hair. Well, it was maybe 2 inches long, but it was a "cute" haircut. I hate cute hair. Don't ever tell me my hair is cute; I will take it as an insult and tell you so.

Then my grandma died suddenly. I didn't have any friends to call and talk about it.

So from May until December of 1981, my life was once continual craptacular, except for ONE thing: I got my braces off and my teeth looked great. But, once again, I had no one to tell.

That December was really cold and really empty; facing your first Christmas without Grandma when you're 13 is depressing, and not in any way that anyone can help you. It sucks, it's going to continue sucking, until one day it doesn't, which as I recall was somewhere around 1983.

You'd think our family would have--being God-fearin' Minnesotans--taken comfort in our church and the fellowship it offered. You could think that, and you'd be wrong.

That December, on an average week I spent two hours every Sunday morning, two hours every Wednesday afternoon and one every Wednesday evening, and three hours on Saturday for the Sunday School Christmas Program rehearsal. Plus there was the Program itself, and the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day church services. That's a grand total of...43 hours, give or take, during December 1981, when I was in church. And I felt the presence of God...um, maybe for an hour on Christmas Eve. The rest, I just felt the presence of a bunch of busybodies and an arrogant pastor.

I did, however, feel the power of God for a short while. This is the moment when I decided I was sick of people fucking with me.

We were at rehearsal for the Sunday School Christmas Program. It was maybe the second week of December. It was probably our second rehearsal.

These programs were always a case of too many cooks in the kitchen. The pastor wrote it. This woman named Betty tried to direct it, though I don't know if that was even her job. Carol was the organist, and she was the only one who had any competence and the wisdom to shut up.

Another thing about these programs is that there's only one story to tell, right? It's always the same story, however it gets told. But the pastor would always write a new script. It usually rhymed. I don't know why; maybe it was cute. And we all know how I feel about "cute." For some reason, no less that FOUR times, four separate years, guess who got to be the FIRST PERSON TO SPEAK? Um, yeah, me. You'd think, being there were at times as many as 30 kids in this Sunday School (and it was a tiny little church) that perhaps ONCE I would get stuck with that job? But four? FOUR???? It was a conspiracy. I truly believe that.

So, since I was first, they would spend a stupidly long time evaluating my performance.

"Okay, read your line."

They would realize no one had turned on the mike. So they'd turn it on, too loud.

"Okay, read your line."

AHHHH FEEDBACK!

Plus, being short, the damn microphone was always to high for me, and they would alternate between telling me to adjust it for myself, and telling me to NOT TOUCH THE MIC!

And then, the thing I heard the most:

"Speak up. SPEAK UP! WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

I will now point out--I was shy. I had a quiet voice. And I didn't WANT to be speaking AT ALL. All of which, added together, means yelling "Speak up!" at me from 10 feet away (it was a TINY church) did not have the desired effect. Then they'd complain that they couldn't understand me through the speakers in the back because my words were mumbled.

I asked my mother, and later my Sunday school teacher, and even the Pastor, why I had to be first? Their answer????

"Because you have such a good speaking voice!"

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

Anyway, After spending 10 or 15 minutes on just me, they'd remember they had 29 other kids with parts to read, whom they would spend a much more reasonable amount of time, each, rehearsing their lines. Which rhymed.

So, as happened on that fateful Saturday, that Second Rehearsal Of Four Of The Year, we struggled through all the speakers. We struggled through the logistics of how to handle the microphone. We struggled through the props, and we even suffered through the Pastor's daughter's singing solo.

The child had a horrible voice. She didn't even ATTEND our Sunday School--she went to the pastor's other church in town. And yet she had a fucking SOLO in OUR program? Yeah, even the worst of the church ladies thought THAT was fucked up.

We'd been through the whole thing, we rehearsed the recessional. We'd been there since 9am, missing the Laff-A-Lympics and American Bandstand, waiting for noon so we could go home and get on with our lives.

It was 11:55.

Then Betty, the "director" said, "Okay, that was great. Let's go through it again!"

I thought, what? What about lunch? The whole program that just took us three hours, she wants to do in 5 minutes? And here's the deal: no one objected. No one said anything to contradict her!

She turned to me. "Janice, you're first! Come up and read your line!"

Dumbstruck, I lined up, my classmates behind me. I stepped up to the mic, looked out at the pews, opened my mouth, and began, "W..."

I choked. I was about to cry. I was going to cry in front of the whole Sunday School because of that bitch! And I realized it was wrong. Just.Wrong.

I also realized that God probably agreed with me. He would NOT strike me down for doing what had to be done. If I acted, everyone else would have to follow.

So I dropped my script, and I walked out of the church. I went into the basement. All churches in Minnesota have basements. By this time I was freaking out, because though I knew God wouldn't punish me, Mom still had that option. So I sat down and started to cry. I didn't get far though, because just as I sat down, my Mom walked into the basement, carrying my jacket along with her own, and her purse. And here's the cool part: she was followed by the parents--that is, all the parents who were not currently teaching Sunday School.

They all thought Director Betty was as fucked up as I did.

"I have a hotdish in the oven that's going to be done in ten minutes," my mom said loud enough for the other moms to hear. A lot of them said they did too.

("Hotdish" is Minnesotan for "casserole.")

A couple of minutes later the rest of the Sunday School was released from servitude by Dictator Betty. Mom let me go out to the car ahead of them, so I could finish crying.

Oppression upsets me, okay?

But that one time, I got to smite oppression, with the Power of God behind me. And the Power of Mom, too.

Tax

You know, I have no reason to complain. But yet I do.

This morning I was busy 7:30 until 11:30 trying to get my homestead tax exemption filed in such a manner that I could prove it's been filed. Tried the OurTown office. "Nope, we only mail them." Tried the CountySeatTown office. "Nope, we only mail them." Wha???? Turns out the tax administration building is separate from the tax payment offices, and in fact is nowhere near the tax assessor himself. The lady who finally did help me was wonderful. The other people? No so much. Oh, and I had to stop home in between the first and second stops to have a fight with The Dave. Then I left the kids by themselves while I tried the second time, but since I couldn't call or anything to let them know I'd be very late (Stick Girl's phone didn't work) I had to go home to tell them I would be gone another hour.

So I've totally blown my diet--which I just got back onto Tuesday--by eating half a tube of fat-free Pringles and since I went that far, I'm now having beer. I will not, however, go out and buy cigarettes because if I want to throw away money like that, I may as well buy a lottery ticket.

We bowled ONCE.

When I tell my Texas friends that I used to hang out at the bowling alley all the time, but only bowled once, most of them are confused. A lot of them think that's weird, but a few "get it."

With explanation, they all get it. "Oh, it had an arcade. NOW I understand."

It makes me want to say, "No, I don't think you do. We never called it the arcade. We never referred to the games as arcade games. It was "The Alley." And they were just VIDEO games. No need to fancy it up with such a title as "arcade." That word was for other places--bigger places where we obviously weren't.

It was a rare occasion for me to even play one of the games. Mostly I watched others play.

In particular, my brother The Boy's best friend, Spec. Forces Ed, was a phenom on Pac-Man. He could play forever, until he got distracted or tired or just bored with playing. He usually had a crowd around him. Then the Powers that Be replaced the Pac-Man machine with Ms. Pac-Man, damn them!

I never thought about that before--obviously, very little money was being made off Pac-Man if Ed was playing it for an hour at a time on $.25, when usually a game like that should bring in several dollars an hour.

Mostly we all stood around, playing games or watching others, leaving to drive around town for a while and then coming back. You know--hanging out. Well, I was mostly tagging along. But as long as I wasn't a pain in the ass and didn't embarrass them, The Boy and Spec. Forces Ed would allow me in their presence.

The Alley was also, of course, a bowling alley and pool hall. We got to go there every fall for gym class, and I would compete with the older girls to get the "best" pair of size 5.5 bowling shoes. (I usually got them, BTW.) Then there were the requisite birthday parties that were held there, and we went a few times when we needed to find someone's mom during Afternoon Leagues.

But only ONCE did we ever go there and just bowl. It was probably a Saturday or Sunday after New Years', so there were no Leagues going on, and the place was dead because the rest of the world was hungover or out drinking somewhere. The Boy, BeerHound, and I along with each of our best friends decided to bowl on a lark. Now granted, all of our friends were excellent bowlers, and it was us that were the charity cases, but it was fun. A lot of fun.

But then, that was The Alley.

*This was written because yesterday, The Alley, whose real name was Cactus Lanes, suffered a serious fire. All of us who spent a large chunk of our youth, and particularly those like Spec. Forces Ed who still spend a large chunk of their adulthood at the place, are concerned and heartbroken over this. We hope it can survive this. The place epitomizes what's missing today in a lot of people's lives: real face-to-face human interaction, physical activity, mindless entertainment, or to quote from the movie Dazed And Confused, "...good ol' worthwhile visceral experience."

So, to Steve, the current owner of the place: I hope you choose to keep on with the provision of visceral experiences. Because a bowling alley ain't just a bowling alley. Thanks.