I'm really a boring person. When
Essie posts a Too True Tuesday , I rarely have anything to say. I just don't have good stories. They're all sad or gross. I even thought that I had nothing to say this time when she revealed that this TTT's topic is "Secret Compulsions".
Then Essie told about her varmin-related kind.
That makes me realize I might just have a compulsion or two. I didn't realize PTSD and Compulsion were the same. Now that I've got that down, I have an entry.
Rewind to way back when I was a fat little scraggly headed ten year old. My parents were divorced. My dad had burned down my mom's house because he thought she was in it. His new girlfriend (or was that wife #4?) had pierced my ears and gotten me some pretty plastic nails. My brother and I were enjoying the high life on my dad's supercool full motion (cold) water bed in his duplex he was renting from my grandfather.
He gets up to make breakfast. He was always a good cook, not so good at hygiene or house keeping. I think #4 lacked in those areas too. *Luckily*, I was up as well, watching. He turned on a skillet to make some sort of egg-thing. He put the butter in, it sizzled, and
wriggled.Wriggled, I say.The pan was full of rice sized wriggly worms. Maggots, I learned later. This trauma event in history has led to my "food covering compulsion." Nothing gets left out, or it's thrown out. Period. You made brownies and they're still hot? I have little sympathy. Cover those bad boys if you're leaving and deal with the lid rain later. Don't cook if you don't have time to let it cool.
Now, back to present-ish day. I am a fat, scraggly haired, full grown adult. And I sleep with the lights on.
There was a time that Butterfly and Armadillo didn't go many places. It seems that they had an aversion to clothing and/or shoes. If I asked Butterfly to get dressed, she'd get so mad at those clothes that she shred them like she was doing an Edward Sissorhands impression. Shoes? Uh uh. She couldn't put on the shoes, they were too tight, they wouldn't stay on! They're ugly. She can't find them. Whatever. We just didn't go places.
So I was home with Butterfly and Armadillo. Butterfly was playing in her room, I was taking Armadillo to the bathroom for the first time that morning. I was letting him use the bathroom in my bedroom so I could brush my teeth. It was early. The lights were off except in the inner part of the bathroom where Armadillo was.
He was finished, hands washed, ready to go back down the hall to play while I got dressed, and them BAM. It happened. I needed Armadillo.
When I opened my bedroom door, there was a large, dark brown snake
right there, coming for me. He wasn't hiding underneath anything. Heck, he wasn't even hugging the wall. He was
right there, in all his glory, coming to eat me. The lights weren't even on. One step and my bare foot would have. . . *shudder*.
So I calmly closed the door. Everyone knows not to excite a kid with RAD. I get a large plastic bin from under my bed (this is before The Baby made me put my mattress on the floor) , carfully empty it's contents (muah!) and return to the door with my snake cage in hand.
I open the door, expecting that the darned evil thing will be gone. . .but it was waiting for me. So I turned my plastic snake catching cage over on top of it. Missed. Well, only halfway, but the bad half. I got him under the container from the midsection to the tail. The business end was pissed off and thrashing wildly out of the edge of the container. And I think it grew to 10 times it's normal size with all of the stress of being smashed in the middle. Dilemma. I can't pick up the container to reposition it, I have nothing with which to smash it's beady little eyes in, I'm not willing to just abort the operation and leave a pissed off snake roaming the house. He was already looking for me.
"Armadillo, open that closet and get me that snake-wranglin' (curtin) rod in there." I go on to explain which closet, how to open the accordian door, what exactly a "rod" is. . .8 million minutes later Armadillo has saved all our lives.
I skillfully use the snake-wranglin' rod to get him under the cage with a loud "Yee-Haw!" and a spit, and then I have Armadillo hold down the cage while I got all kinds of heavy stuff to pile on top. I. Am. Woman.
That's the only snake story I'm writing, but it wasn't the last snake. It was the first of 3. Not counting the one that was slithering into a hole in the outer rock of my house that my MIL grabbed by the tail and threw lasso-style over our heads.
So, now, the compulsion: I have to sleep with the lights on and I will not step anywhere I can't see. Won't put my toes up under the edge of the cabinets. Won't reach into a cabinet with0ut first thoroughly inspetcing for snakes. I always assume there is a toilet snake. I expect to wake up to find a snake wrapped around my baby, and I have mentally prepared myself for exactly how I am going to remove it.
I think it all makes perfect sense.
Then Essie told about her varmin-related kind.
That makes me realize I might just have a compulsion or two. I didn't realize PTSD and Compulsion were the same. Now that I've got that down, I have an entry.
Rewind to way back when I was a fat little scraggly headed ten year old. My parents were divorced. My dad had burned down my mom's house because he thought she was in it. His new girlfriend (or was that wife #4?) had pierced my ears and gotten me some pretty plastic nails. My brother and I were enjoying the high life on my dad's supercool full motion (cold) water bed in his duplex he was renting from my grandfather.
He gets up to make breakfast. He was always a good cook, not so good at hygiene or house keeping. I think #4 lacked in those areas too. *Luckily*, I was up as well, watching. He turned on a skillet to make some sort of egg-thing. He put the butter in, it sizzled, and wriggled.
Wriggled, I say.
The pan was full of rice sized wriggly worms. Maggots, I learned later. This trauma event in history has led to my "food covering compulsion." Nothing gets left out, or it's thrown out. Period. You made brownies and they're still hot? I have little sympathy. Cover those bad boys if you're leaving and deal with the lid rain later. Don't cook if you don't have time to let it cool.
Now, back to present-ish day. I am a fat, scraggly haired, full grown adult. And I sleep with the lights on.
There was a time that Butterfly and Armadillo didn't go many places. It seems that they had an aversion to clothing and/or shoes. If I asked Butterfly to get dressed, she'd get so mad at those clothes that she shred them like she was doing an Edward Sissorhands impression. Shoes? Uh uh. She couldn't put on the shoes, they were too tight, they wouldn't stay on! They're ugly. She can't find them. Whatever. We just didn't go places.
So I was home with Butterfly and Armadillo. Butterfly was playing in her room, I was taking Armadillo to the bathroom for the first time that morning. I was letting him use the bathroom in my bedroom so I could brush my teeth. It was early. The lights were off except in the inner part of the bathroom where Armadillo was.
He was finished, hands washed, ready to go back down the hall to play while I got dressed, and them BAM. It happened. I needed Armadillo.
When I opened my bedroom door, there was a large, dark brown snake right there, coming for me. He wasn't hiding underneath anything. Heck, he wasn't even hugging the wall. He was right there, in all his glory, coming to eat me. The lights weren't even on. One step and my bare foot would have. . . *shudder*.
So I calmly closed the door. Everyone knows not to excite a kid with RAD. I get a large plastic bin from under my bed (this is before The Baby made me put my mattress on the floor) , carfully empty it's contents (muah!) and return to the door with my snake cage in hand.
I open the door, expecting that the darned evil thing will be gone. . .but it was waiting for me. So I turned my plastic snake catching cage over on top of it. Missed. Well, only halfway, but the bad half. I got him under the container from the midsection to the tail. The business end was pissed off and thrashing wildly out of the edge of the container. And I think it grew to 10 times it's normal size with all of the stress of being smashed in the middle. Dilemma. I can't pick up the container to reposition it, I have nothing with which to smash it's beady little eyes in, I'm not willing to just abort the operation and leave a pissed off snake roaming the house. He was already looking for me.
"Armadillo, open that closet and get me that snake-wranglin' (curtin) rod in there." I go on to explain which closet, how to open the accordian door, what exactly a "rod" is. . .8 million minutes later Armadillo has saved all our lives.
I skillfully use the snake-wranglin' rod to get him under the cage with a loud "Yee-Haw!" and a spit, and then I have Armadillo hold down the cage while I got all kinds of heavy stuff to pile on top. I. Am. Woman.
That's the only snake story I'm writing, but it wasn't the last snake. It was the first of 3. Not counting the one that was slithering into a hole in the outer rock of my house that my MIL grabbed by the tail and threw lasso-style over our heads.
So, now, the compulsion: I have to sleep with the lights on and I will not step anywhere I can't see. Won't put my toes up under the edge of the cabinets. Won't reach into a cabinet with0ut first thoroughly inspetcing for snakes. I always assume there is a toilet snake. I expect to wake up to find a snake wrapped around my baby, and I have mentally prepared myself for exactly how I am going to remove it.
I think it all makes perfect sense.