I’ve always taken a kind of perverse pride in being a little strange. The highest compliment Millie Durfee paid to me in 4th grade was, “When I first met you I thought you were weird”. Ahhh…. music to my young ears.
Anyway, today came the realization that I’ve crossed some sort of line. So long to the pleasant “I actually got to play my ukulele in church and no one threw tomatoes” kind of crazy – welcome “ummmm….maybe we should start collecting the names of nursing homes”.
Exhibit 1: (There have been other instances, but this was the first one shocking enough to document)
I was cutting up one of Lloyd’s tattered undershirts into teeny, tiny 2-inch square (roughly) rags to wipe up the counter and toss in the trash with less eco-guilt than using a paper towel. (I was going to toss the shirt anyway.) No, that’s not the crazy part.
The crazy part is that I wanted a container to keep said squares in, and I looked under the bathroom sink. There was a ceramic canister I had been given years ago – perfect! As I got it out it was strangely heavy. Hmmmmm.
What the what? There’s some watery substance, a bunch of corroded change, and a drinking glass inside. What?!?! Did I do this? When? How? What could I possibly have beeen thinking? Is that water? Is it vinegar in there? Am I stashing money and drinkware at night?
Next comes leaving the oven on all day and locking myself out of the house dressed only in a bathrobe and galoshes holding a flyswatter.