It is always fascinating for me to read interviews in which people of varying degrees of fame or notoriety are asked a question along these lines: "What interesting fact about your life do you think our readers would NOT know about you?" This, of course, assumes that the readers of the said newspaper or magazine have any interest at all in the interviewee. (Is there such a word I wonder? It is 11.15 p.m. And I have had a long, long day, so if there was not such a word before, there is one now!! Who ever made a law that only words included in dictionaries by lexicographers were valid? I am feeling tetchy, which IS a word. So is interviewee! I decree it to be so.). Back to the question. We also have to assume that the readers know enough about the interviewee (I insist on persevering with this newly minted noun), to have the capacity to be astonished at some bit of previously unknown trivia.
So I was suitably astonished to read a newspaper article about my only daughter in which this question was posed. Let us remember that I am Christie's mother, she is 25 years old, and has always lived with me. One would imagine a mother would not be surprised at a daughter's revelation. One would be wrong. Christie announced that she organizes her cosmetics and toiletries alphabetically, and I was gobsmacked. (My spellcheck didn't believe that is a word either. Apple need to Anglicize their dictionaries.) To my mind that is a ridiculous way of organizing bottles, tubes, and jars. OBVIOUSLY they should be arranged by colour, fragrance, or size! Alphabetically? Good grief! I had to restrain myself from rushing to her bathroom to check. Maybe this was a bizarre attempt at humour? Not a bit of it. She had given a truthful answer.
Today, driving in to work, I began to ponder the question. I thought of people I know. I have a friend in Australia, a Swiss lady who married an Australian, with whom I have stayed on a number of occasions, and who is a wonderful hostess. Irene's idiosyncrasy is that she makes fresh ice cubes every few days, and she won't let me keep leftovers in the fridge. I LOVE doggy bags. This is South African for any leftover food at a restaurant. I am so addicted to leftovers that I leave some food to take home even if I am still hungry, for the sheer delight of eating the morsels of last night's dinner at lunch the next day. To my deep and abiding distress I would go to the fridge with the gleeful expectation of opening my styrofoam doggy bag, and retrieving its contents, only to find that Irene had already disposed of it in the trash. "That one is old," she would tell me firmly, "so we buy you a new one." It was pointless to beg to be allowed to eat my "old" food. Irene's Swiss fastidiousness does not tolerate her guests eating anything but the freshest and most organically delicious meals. So in Perth, doggy bags are for doggies, not people.
My niece, Tasha, has a tooth brushing fetish. Not only does she carry toothbrush and toothpaste in her bag, she brushes her teeth with such gusto that I am surprised she has not dislocated her neck. A number of years ago Tasha and I, together with a group of friends, spent ten days on a yacht sailing among the islands off Mozambique. It was a blissful and fun time. Tasha and I were doing our scuba diving course, but the rest of the party were more experienced divers. I shared a cabin with Adele, my best friend, who is the pastor of His Church London. A yacht is a small and intimate environment, and it is impossible not to find out a good deal about the personal habits of the other passengers. Several times a day we were all treated to the sight of Tasha brushing her teeth. Besides needing to do this more times a day than is normal, she also didn't want to miss out on anything going on on board. So out of the tiny bathroom she would pop, left hand moving at unnatural speed and agility (Tasha is left-handed), while simultaneously moving her head vigorously side to side to aid in the torture of her teeth. Adele and I would lie in our cabin at night, giggling uncontrollably, as we listened to the final nightly exercise of the toothbrush. Tasha wears out a toothbrush each month.
I had a neighbour a few years ago who fought loudly and regularly with her husband with such ferocity that I wondered whether to call the police. She fed our local monkey troop whenever they visited, which was frequently, because monkeys know a good thing when they find one. I arrived home one afternoon at the same time as the monkeys. My neighbour was out in the garden, snacks in hand, doling them out to the bolder members of the troop, who would advance, paws out, to receive the largesse from their benefactress. "Look!" she announced to me proudly. "They know me. I call them all by name. I call them all 'Monkey!' " I only just managed to control myself before rushing indoors to roll around hysterically, while my peculiar neighbour called out, "Here, Monkey, Monkey, Monkey!" as she dished out bananas.
A young man who used to attend our church, and who is a hairdresser, had enough "interesting" habits to warrant a blog all to himself. Whenever I had my hair done he would make a point of pulling up a chair and entertaining me with whatever currently engaged his mind. One memorable day he asked if he could get something off his chest. Of course he could, I replied. He drew his chair closer, gazed at me intently, then leaned over and spoke softly and conspiratorially. "I REALLY think it's time I stopped stockpiling dead relatives, and I wondered if you agreed with me?" After a stunned moment of silence, I said that yes, I thought it a very good idea to get rid of his stockpile, and where exactly did he keep them? "In my cupboard, in jars," he explained earnestly. I soon gathered that the dead relatives were actually in ashes, and suggested that a memorial scattering of the ashes of the assorted relatives seemed a healthy option. He duly went off to our local theatrical costume hire shop, rented Anglican priest's robes, and conducted the ash scattering ceremony on his own in a park.
What, you may ask, are things you may not know about me? If you are a regular reader of this blog you will already know that I have an encyclopedia of serial killers among my bibles, I love my poodle, and tie her ears in a pony tail with a scrunchie when she eats her dinner. I would love to know more about you, my reader. People are the most fascinating of all of God's creation.
And that is just the point! I think that all our individual quirks are flourishes of God's signature as He signs His Name on his individual creation, which is what each of us is. " No two pieces alike. Each individually hand-crafted and unique" is the proud boast in a sculptor's studio. You are God's living, handcrafted original, signed by His hand. Whatever your idiosyncrasy is, it was put there by the One who delights in the unique markings etched into your soul. So whether it finds expression in feeding peanuts to squirrels, or bungee jumping, or anything that sets you apart, He knows it all; He is familiar with all your ways, the psalmist declares. I don't know about you, but it thrills me to know that you can be you and I can be me, and our differences are meant to be.
Till next month, God bless, and good night.
So I was suitably astonished to read a newspaper article about my only daughter in which this question was posed. Let us remember that I am Christie's mother, she is 25 years old, and has always lived with me. One would imagine a mother would not be surprised at a daughter's revelation. One would be wrong. Christie announced that she organizes her cosmetics and toiletries alphabetically, and I was gobsmacked. (My spellcheck didn't believe that is a word either. Apple need to Anglicize their dictionaries.) To my mind that is a ridiculous way of organizing bottles, tubes, and jars. OBVIOUSLY they should be arranged by colour, fragrance, or size! Alphabetically? Good grief! I had to restrain myself from rushing to her bathroom to check. Maybe this was a bizarre attempt at humour? Not a bit of it. She had given a truthful answer.
Today, driving in to work, I began to ponder the question. I thought of people I know. I have a friend in Australia, a Swiss lady who married an Australian, with whom I have stayed on a number of occasions, and who is a wonderful hostess. Irene's idiosyncrasy is that she makes fresh ice cubes every few days, and she won't let me keep leftovers in the fridge. I LOVE doggy bags. This is South African for any leftover food at a restaurant. I am so addicted to leftovers that I leave some food to take home even if I am still hungry, for the sheer delight of eating the morsels of last night's dinner at lunch the next day. To my deep and abiding distress I would go to the fridge with the gleeful expectation of opening my styrofoam doggy bag, and retrieving its contents, only to find that Irene had already disposed of it in the trash. "That one is old," she would tell me firmly, "so we buy you a new one." It was pointless to beg to be allowed to eat my "old" food. Irene's Swiss fastidiousness does not tolerate her guests eating anything but the freshest and most organically delicious meals. So in Perth, doggy bags are for doggies, not people.
My niece, Tasha, has a tooth brushing fetish. Not only does she carry toothbrush and toothpaste in her bag, she brushes her teeth with such gusto that I am surprised she has not dislocated her neck. A number of years ago Tasha and I, together with a group of friends, spent ten days on a yacht sailing among the islands off Mozambique. It was a blissful and fun time. Tasha and I were doing our scuba diving course, but the rest of the party were more experienced divers. I shared a cabin with Adele, my best friend, who is the pastor of His Church London. A yacht is a small and intimate environment, and it is impossible not to find out a good deal about the personal habits of the other passengers. Several times a day we were all treated to the sight of Tasha brushing her teeth. Besides needing to do this more times a day than is normal, she also didn't want to miss out on anything going on on board. So out of the tiny bathroom she would pop, left hand moving at unnatural speed and agility (Tasha is left-handed), while simultaneously moving her head vigorously side to side to aid in the torture of her teeth. Adele and I would lie in our cabin at night, giggling uncontrollably, as we listened to the final nightly exercise of the toothbrush. Tasha wears out a toothbrush each month.
I had a neighbour a few years ago who fought loudly and regularly with her husband with such ferocity that I wondered whether to call the police. She fed our local monkey troop whenever they visited, which was frequently, because monkeys know a good thing when they find one. I arrived home one afternoon at the same time as the monkeys. My neighbour was out in the garden, snacks in hand, doling them out to the bolder members of the troop, who would advance, paws out, to receive the largesse from their benefactress. "Look!" she announced to me proudly. "They know me. I call them all by name. I call them all 'Monkey!' " I only just managed to control myself before rushing indoors to roll around hysterically, while my peculiar neighbour called out, "Here, Monkey, Monkey, Monkey!" as she dished out bananas.
A young man who used to attend our church, and who is a hairdresser, had enough "interesting" habits to warrant a blog all to himself. Whenever I had my hair done he would make a point of pulling up a chair and entertaining me with whatever currently engaged his mind. One memorable day he asked if he could get something off his chest. Of course he could, I replied. He drew his chair closer, gazed at me intently, then leaned over and spoke softly and conspiratorially. "I REALLY think it's time I stopped stockpiling dead relatives, and I wondered if you agreed with me?" After a stunned moment of silence, I said that yes, I thought it a very good idea to get rid of his stockpile, and where exactly did he keep them? "In my cupboard, in jars," he explained earnestly. I soon gathered that the dead relatives were actually in ashes, and suggested that a memorial scattering of the ashes of the assorted relatives seemed a healthy option. He duly went off to our local theatrical costume hire shop, rented Anglican priest's robes, and conducted the ash scattering ceremony on his own in a park.
What, you may ask, are things you may not know about me? If you are a regular reader of this blog you will already know that I have an encyclopedia of serial killers among my bibles, I love my poodle, and tie her ears in a pony tail with a scrunchie when she eats her dinner. I would love to know more about you, my reader. People are the most fascinating of all of God's creation.
And that is just the point! I think that all our individual quirks are flourishes of God's signature as He signs His Name on his individual creation, which is what each of us is. " No two pieces alike. Each individually hand-crafted and unique" is the proud boast in a sculptor's studio. You are God's living, handcrafted original, signed by His hand. Whatever your idiosyncrasy is, it was put there by the One who delights in the unique markings etched into your soul. So whether it finds expression in feeding peanuts to squirrels, or bungee jumping, or anything that sets you apart, He knows it all; He is familiar with all your ways, the psalmist declares. I don't know about you, but it thrills me to know that you can be you and I can be me, and our differences are meant to be.
Till next month, God bless, and good night.
I lay my nail clippings out in size order. All the right hand clippings together and all the left hand clippings together - the same for my toe clippings. Just to admire them one last time before I flush them away.
ReplyDeleteI tend to wring out my umbrella as I step inside, whether it be a bus or a house. I find that it's more polite to carry less water indoors to where people can slip on it.
ReplyDeleteI look for heart-shaped anything on the ground as I walk, and used to collect heart-shaped rocks. When staying with a policewoman friend of mine a number of years ago, I picked up the habit because it is a reminder of God's love for us. Interestingly enough, unless you're looking for it, you'd never guess how much guano is shaped like hearts! lol
And one more thing: I'm a big Tony Shaloub fan... at least when it comes to the show Monk. Having a few compulsive tendencies, I find it really hilarious watching someone else who has many more than I, and at the same time, it scratches the itch I have for mystery. I was a huge Perry Mason fan, and still like it, but Monk just makes it more entertaining!