You're a Weirdo

"Life isn't weird, it's just the people in it"
~Author Unkown~

We’re all so cool aren’t we? We wear the right clothes, have jobs, equip ourselves with holiday experiences to be envied in our day to day conversations. We’re current. We read the news. We're just far enough left to be considered kind, and far enough to the right to maintain the status quo. We buy organic and complain about the lack of environmental legislation to keep us healthy, all the while popping manufactured vitamins and drinking from plastic containers while talking on our wireless headsets.

We’re so cool.

You know what’s really cool though. Well, what I think is really cool. I think our weirdness is cool. We’re all a little bit weird. Come on, you know who I’m talking about. No, no, not the woman at the office who wears the hippy skirts and yoga tops. Nope, not the dude with the weird haircut and bad breath in the cubicle next to yours. And no. I’m not talking about your kids’ school bus driver with the teddy bear strapped to the front grill (what the heck is that freakish phenomena about anyway, besides scaring the hell out of 4 year olds who still believe in the tooth fairy and tuck their teddies in before they leave for their half day of free daycare-aka-education?).

I am gloriously weird sometimes. Despite what may be on the seasonal menu of “normal”, we all tend to tip the scale sometimes. Our tastes vary. Our opinions come from unique experience, and although the majority of us who don’t call prison home, manage to walk our lives on the balance beam of the accepted norm, with only the occasional toe dip into the realm of weird.

This morning, as I drove up the airstrip-wide streets of suburbia, I rocked out to one of my favourite albums. As I was singing along, reminiscing, I thought to myself, “I would never listen to this with anyone who didn’t know me really, really well.” The kind of really well that knows under which circumstances they may be called upon to, “Hold my hair up!!!!”, or has been with me on my wedding day, or me with her, standing terrified in our crinolines bawling our eyes out. Yep, you’d have to know me pretty darn well to get a glimpse of my secret weirdness.

But, today is your luky day. As I was driving along I thought, "Why not?" Why not share some of my secret indulgences? The PG rated version of course.

Number One on my list of weird crap that I like (which inspired this little piece in the first place), is Dr. Hook’s Greatest Hits album. Who can’t relate to Sylvia’s Mother, or The Cover of the Rolling Stone, or A Couple More Years? A Little Bit More conjures hilarious images of  classic 70’s ‘stache lovin’ and I roll my eyes and giggle whenever I hear it. When I listen to this album, I can’t help but be in a good mood. Ditto for Bat out of Hell, which I have dubbed, "The Greatest Album Ever".

Number Two; canned mushrooms. Deadly good, and every once in a while I crack open a can and eat the entire thing – sodium and carcinogens from can lining and all. Mmmmm.

Number Three; stretchy pants. Yep, we all have those fat days. If I have a day when I can get up, not do my make-up, hair or bother getting dressed properly (these days have only happened a few times in my life), I want to be in something fabulously comfortable. If I ever wore these pants in public other than at a gym or paddling, I would condone the sniping of myself by the fashion police. Still, I love them ( and you do too, but you’re just too darn cool to admit it, you go-green-or-go-home-organic-cotton-wearing sissy!). You know you also love granny panties and tightie-whities too.

Number Four; curlers. What could be more girly than walking around with curlers in your hair, those pedicure thingy-ma-bobs between your pretty painted toes (do those things have a name?), and singing Peggy Lee’s, “ I Enjoy Being a Girl”. None of that is possible without the curlers. I think listening to Peggy Lee should get it's own number here on the weird list, but let's just refer to that as Four B.

Number Five; Cheese Whiz and oysters on Ritz crackers. ‘nuf said.

Number Six; Tacky art. I have a tacky art collection much to the chagrin of some of my nearest and dearest. I have my Cuba Lady, My Whatever Happened to the Girl from Iponema, and a handful of feminist art. I almost snagged a photo of the Queen. You know the one I'm talking about -like the ones that hung at the front of every classroom within the "dominion" in the 70’s and 80’s. It was going to be mine until the “seller” caught on that I was buying it because it was gloriously tacky. He got insulted and refused to let me buy it. Jerk.

Number Seven; I will gut a fish but not kill it. Gut a fish but can’t bait a hook. Gut a fish but can’t clean a fish tank because taking a fish out of water freaks me out. I’m sure there must be some whatever-o-phobic name for that.

Number Eight; Caftans. On a man. On a man wearing slip on slippers who also sports a ponytail. Very dude.

Number Nine; 80's love ballads.

Number Ten; quoting sacred text in arguments infuriates me to the point that when anyone does this I immediately write them off as a nitwit and disengage. Sheesh! Get off your soapbox and give the world a big hug you ding-dongs. If you think you know what scholars and mystics were saying a bazillion (that’s slightly more than a billion) years ago, get a Ph.D and teach me about it. Otherwise, shut your pie hole, breathe deeply and be nice.

Number 11; I think wearing underwear to bed may be unhygienic, but I think we all need to do it anyway. Except of course if you’re crashing at my place. Under those circumstances, please do not introduce your nether-flesh to the fabric on my furniture.

Number 12; I hate cleaning the bathtub, but I find cleaning the toilet cathartic.

Number 13; Wearing costumes. I love Hallowe’en, Buffett concerts, theme parties, and being a little quirky. People, it’s not about fashion, it’s body art. It's play time for adults.

Number 14; I can’t sleep if there’s an animal in the room. Don’t be smart, you know what I mean. If a man in my room is being an "animal" I definitely will sacrifice my sleep for that.

Number 15;  When I'm really sad I go to Hallmark and read the cards.

Number 16; I will not end a conversation with a loved one without saying " I love you." It's just bad mojo. I refuse to celebrate birthdays until the day of or after the specific date. It's the same idea as saying I love you. You can't just assume someone knows this always, especially in a heated argument or under less than ideal circumstances. Without saying it you're taking them for granted. Just like celebrating birthdays too early - you're assuming you're going to make it to that date, thereby taking your life for granted.  Pretty arrogant.

I could have written an entire blog on my tasteless taste in music and art. I could have went on about how I love Boxcar Willie, my own watercolour paintings, and how I despise eating tuna sandwiches without a thick layer of sour cream and onion chips beneath the top slice of bread. Instead, I painted a little rainbow of weirdness for you,  so you might feel better about your own dirty little uncool secrets.

I've shown you mine. Are you brave enough to show me yours?