Quirk # 2: The Nose Knows

I've always found reading among the plethora of things I thoroughly enjoy. My mother used to catch me still awake under the blankets with a flashlight at 4:00 in the morning, my nose stuck in a book and by golly, IT WAS A SCHOOL NIGHT. When it came to books, I wasn't a casual reader, I was completely and hopelessly addicted. I'd plunge headfirst into a book & the only way to get me to come back up for air was to physically shake me. Yeah, my parents learned real quick that grounding me or sending me to my room wasn't punishment. They finally changed tactics and simply took away the book I was IN THE MIDDLE of reading. That's just cruel.

I don't devour books like I used to and mind you, not for lack of interest. I simply made a commitment to a full-time job, husband and a whole host of additional responsibilities, but I'll tell you what, that commitment weakens when a book steps into the picture. The love affair that ensues is hot, steamy, and completely absorbing.* Books become the other woman in a weird, twisted, backwards sort of way. Once an addict, always an addict I guess. So when I say that at some point I will have a beautiful library full of the books I've come to love, my husband is a little worried. It's like your unfaithful spouse asking for all his/her lovers to move in. That's just awkward.

Now I wouldn't place reading in the category of quirks, maybe of obsessions, but not quirks. That which I place in the category of quirks is the process by which I purchase the books that will one day reside in my beautiful library. So I suppose the above two paragraphs really don't mention Quirk #2 at all, but are simply background info to understanding Quirk #2 more fully. I don't have many requirements to read a book beyond being filled with words and the pages in numerical order, but to actually buy the book, well now, that's a different story (no pun intended). Often times, the same novel is published in a handful of different ways. Hardback, paperback, large, small, abridged, unabridged, various cover art . . . um . . ya get it. When in the market for a new book, I explore all my options. I consider the weight and sturdiness of the book, the texture of the paper and after much deliberation I employ the tried and true method of book selection. I smell it. Yes you read right, I SMELL IT. I open 'em up and take a whiff RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STORE. Needless to say my husband always makes himself scarce at these times. Do you think he's jealous? Maybe he just can't handle seeing me that way with another . . . . .um, novel. The whole sniffing thing seems strange I know, but I LOVE smelling books. I find myself smelling everything I read and have discovered that there are a lot of different scents that accompany their hosts and, to be honest, some are downright terrible. Others have a certain musk that lays hold on my nostrils and all I can think about is how much I want to get that book alone and dive between the sheets of paper. I have been known to buy random books based on scent alone. I told you I was quirky. So if you catch me in a Barnes & Noble with a book plastered to my face, you'll know why. Not only will my beautiful library be full of the books I love, but it's gonna smell AWESOME.
What can I say, I'm head-over-heels for having my nose stuck in a book (ok, ok pun totally intended).


*To clarify in case anybody misunderstood, no, I do not read literary pornography, unless you count The Twilight Series in that class, then I'm totally guilty. So when I talk about my love affair with books, it has nothing to with the content of them.

Quirk Nombre Uno

My friend Esther tagged me with 6 Quirky Things About Me. While I typically don't participate in the whole tagging thing, I decided to give this one a shot, but in my own way. I won't be tagging anybody else (mostly because there is no one left to tag) and I'll deliver one quirk per post. I can't seem to handle doing all six at once, which is due to another quirk of mine that I won't get into now. So I guess if you care just how screwed up I am, you'll have to check back another FIVE TIMES to get the rest.

Quirk #1
My husband works nights and is often gone for work or school. I've become accustomed to being alone and even revel in it because I can watch, read, or do whatever I want without disturbing or being disturbed (mostly I just blare my music and dance around our small space like a gypsy). While I enjoy the freedom of being a single wife, it does have it's downfalls, one of which being that every now and then my imagination punches into overdrive and I effectively freak myself out for NO REASON. My most common mind-induced freak-out occurs when I come home after dark and try to unlock my front door. Having not been home, there are never any lights on. You'd think I'd learn to leave an outside light on before leaving, but I just can't bring myself to willingly turn on a porch light in the middle of the day. I'd worry that my mom would pass by and see how irresponsible and wasteful I was being. Then she'd feel like a failure as a mother. Not wanting to be responsible for doing that to her, I walk alone in the dark to my door. It's about this time that my imagination kicks in and my perfectly safe yard in my perfectly safe neighborhood turns into a dark alley in the city with rapists and murderers lurking in the shadows, waiting for me. Subsequently I walk a little faster and breath a little harder. My mind fills with horrible images of scary men as I fumble with my keys, trying to unlock my stupid door! CURSES! Why did I lock the door? I locked it to keep the scary men out while I was away and now they're gonna get me anyway because I'M SHAKING SO BAD THAT I CAN'T GET MY KEY IN THE LOCK! It takes about another, oh . . . um, 0.5 seconds for my freak-out level to jump off the charts and all I can think is MUST. GET. INSIDE. My rational at that moment is all I need to do is close the door behind me and I'll be safe. It never occurs to me that if there really was a rapist outside my house he'd probably wait until I was inside anyway before inviting himself in and having his way with me. The key finally slips in the lock, I turn the handle and burst inside. I slam the door back shut, turn the dead bolt, flip on every light in the house and then try to compose myself. Everything is ok now. You're inside, the lights are on, the door is locked and you're really just suffering from an over-active imagination. Turn on some tunes, eat some ice cream and calm down. So I take my advice.

Then I go and retrieve my keys from the outside lock.

I Miss . . . .

There are times when I'm suddenly struck with an odd feeling of emptiness. The absence of something or someone that once was is keenly felt and though the space has been vacant for some time, only now do I realize the loss. Only now do I feel appreciation for what was and miss that which can no longer be.

I miss being a kid.

There are certain things that just come with the territory of being a kid. Extravagant forts, playing in the mud, sleep-overs on the trampoline, laying in the grass & finding shapes in the clouds. Things you did because school, chores, and homework were finished. Because Mom turned off the TV. Because you had a big imagination. And by you I mean me. Random ideas would pop into our heads and my siblings and I would say, "That sounds fun!" then promptly run off and put our plan into action. We didn't wait to think every detail through before starting. We didn't look at a calendar to see when we could afford to squeeze the fun in later that week. We simply acted, right then. I miss that. I miss being so impulsive. I miss sleeping on the trampoline. I miss getting dirty and not thinking twice about it. I miss taking the time to enjoy life. There are many reasons that form my desire for children. Having a good excuse to play is one of them. When my kids are going crazy with a hose, I want to be there. When their bodies are plastered with mud and smiles, I hope mine is too. When I find them awake after bedtime laughing and having a pillow fight, I hope I join them. And when their dad builds them a tree-house, it better be big enough for me.

Make-believe, one of my favorite past-times as a little girl. I was different than a lot of other kids in that I tried to create the most tangible world I could. While other children playing cowboys and Indians were satisfied with a feather in their hair and a toy gun, I played outside with separate camps at either end of the yard. The Indians would have tepees of sheets wrapped around trees, stuffed animals scattered around, gathered sticks and string for bows and arrows, faces would be painted. The cowboys would wear button up shirts, hats and had forts built out of various scrap wood we found. Out of my many make-believe worlds, the one I visited most often was pretending to be a grown-up, doing grown-up things. My mom's checkbook was fascinating and it was magic when she would sign her name and hand it to the clerk of the grocery store. My cousin Lora had a playhouse her dad built for her with two rooms, a shingled roof, and curtains in the windows. I was so envious of Lora. Having a house of my own was my strongest childhood desire (it's transformed into an adult desire now). I never did get one, but that didn't stop me from pretending I was a mommy paying the bills or changing a diaper. I sent my brother Bryce to work while I cleaned the house. A plastic hot dog and mashed potatoes would be waiting for him when he returned. As a child I couldn't wait to be a big girl with big girl responsibilities and now that it's happened and I'm there . . . . well, let's just say that pretending to be an adult is much more glamorous than actually being one.

I LOVE vacations. I think most people do. Of the many reasons to love them, I believe the one that tops my list is that a vacation is the closest I come to carefree adventure. Notice I say close to carefree. I don't feel that any responsible adult can be truly carefree, especially poor starving college students trying to eck out a living. Sure we can relax and leave worries at home, but there is still a level of awareness of funds, gas, food, lodging, etc. Unlike a child, who's mind never ventures to those areas. There is always enough money, always enough gas, always enough food, always a place to sleep and when there's not, a child doesn't feel the loss, at least not at that time. Maybe when they're older and the world as it really is comes into focus. Childhood is filled with make-believe, learning, games, discovery, but not worries. A child doesn't ponder on tomorrow, unless it's Christmas or the first day of school. A child doesn't notice the passing of time. Childhood is truly carefree. I miss that.

My parents used to know EVERYTHING and while now they're still extremely knowledgeable, they don't have all the answers. My woes, worries, and wonderings aren't wiped away as cleanly as they used to be, if they're wiped away at all. I'm sure that has something to do with the fact that my trials and challenges have entered an entirely different sphere than that of a 8 year old. The biggest issues my parents had to deal with then were Why are there ugly cockroaches? (I still wonder about that) When will Christmas be here? Bryce is bugging me again! Mom and Dad could handle those. They're much more uncertain on what investments Gary and I should make or why I'm not pregnant. The easy answers are gone, the comfort and security incomplete. It's part of being an adult, I know, never having an absolute knowledge of the why, how, and when. Even though my mom and dad have never actually wielded an all-knowing mind, I miss feeling like they did. I miss saying, "My dad is smarter than your dad."

I miss being a kid.

What do you miss?