Y, I insist that I'm really very non-compulsive. I guess that's a quirk, or does everyone insist that they have no OCDs?
However, some thinking took place,
Some thoughts were thunk
(No matter what you're thinking
I know I'm not drunk)
Somebody stop me. Caught myself by my metaphorical collar and am now serious.
1. I share the obsession with reasonably correct grammar and spelling with you and many others out there. I have friends whom I love very much, but whom I would prefer to talk to on the phone than ever receive letters from them, since I get so put off by poor writing skills. My husband is a brilliant thinker and speaker, but doesn't write well by my standards, so I tend to edit all his personal mail. ( I seriously wondered whether or not I should marry him because I didn't like his handwriting. A good friend whose brothers had equally unbeautiful handwriting convinced me of how trivial an issue it really was. Of course there are days when I wonder why I ever listened to her, but that is neither here nor there).
What to do- I seem to have the soul of a sub-editor.
( I also know that I can make weird mistakes myself. Kindly do not point them out)
It also helps me make an idiot of myself in judging people- they may be complete so-and-sos, but if they speak good English I tend to like them even against my better judgement.
2. Related but different: would love to correct each and every mis-spelt sign board I've ever encountered. ( Neha- I can never forget the CHILD BEER)!
3. If, as my kids insist, talking to inanimate objects is the first sign of insanity, well.... I talk to some weird things, particularly the cobwebs in my house. (Not out loud, for goodness sake, only inside my head). Sample: Yup, I've got my eyes on you, Mister. One of these days I'm gonna get you. ( The villains in my life are inevitably male: now what does that tell you about me?)
My eldest daughter gets it from me: she spotted herself being looked at askance by passers-by when she was talking to the flowers in her balcony.
4. I have a high tolerance for dust. I would like my house to be self-cleaning, but since it isn't, I dust only when the spirit moves me. (Usually once in three/four days). I tidy up, make beds, sort out laundry etc. quite regularly, but dusting is somehow low priority, which is ridiculous because dusting the drawing room wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes.
It helps that my husband leaves before any self-respecting household ought to be dusted, and comes back when the dust has the inalienable right to have settled again. I no longer squirm and feel guilty when I see him pick up the Colin and some cotton wool and clean the various remote controls that we have. Good for him. Once again, this is something I have my eldest child to thank for: in her house, whosoever comments on the dirt has to clean it. Don't talk about it and you are safe! No guilt anywhere in the picture.
As I said, 'tidy' is my stronger point: I actually fret and fume until I have achieved 'reasonably tidy'. I do dust when I know that someone is coming over. I can also make out if your house is dusty, but I promise I will not hold it against you- the world needs many more tolerant people like me.
5. If someone tries to bulldoze me into anything it puts my back up, and then even if I need something I just refuse to buy it. I'm getting very upset with the vegetable sellers whom I frequent since they start yelling and screaming and insist on showing me vegetables which I mostly don't need. Goddammit, I'm a grown up woman who's been running her household for decades. I don't need to be told what vegetables to buy. I can see them. And my poor brain has no tolerance for heavy sales-pitches. The trouble is that the super-markets never have such fresh stuff. I often scold the poor chaps and they shut up for a bit, but their habits of screeching die hard.
I'm also one of those weirdos who is not happy unless the fridge is loaded to bursting.
Major conflict-of-interest here. Bah.
( Again, the eldest daughter figures: we were buying sarees for her s-i-l's wedding, and the salesman was a royal pain in the butt. She almost walked out on the whole deal. I (patting myself on the back) was the one who told her that the salesman would not come home with us, while the sarees would. Why doesn't it work for me and my wretched vegetables?
Minimum five quirks/obsessions/OCDs.