Raw Drip

A very dear friend of mine has a problem.  She talks to herself – a lot.  It’s gotten so bad that her co-workers have begun teasing her about it.  Not content to remain a victim, she decided to turn to the Internet for some advice on how to overcome this habit.  

Below are the results of her search on WikiHow, followed by my commentary in italics.

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Find yourself talking aloud to yourself?  This is a big habit a lot of people have, and if it is a problem something should be done.

STEPS:

1) Decide whether or not it is a problem, only you can decide if it is a problem.  And if you do decide it is, you have to be serious about attacking your problem, being motivated isn’t enough.

(Ask yourself if you’ve got a problem.  If the people around you respond, odds are pretty good it’s a problem.)

2) Be around lots of people, make conversation with them, look at what is around the atmosphere, show you are willing to have conversation.

(…conversation with someone other than yourself, that is)

3) When you find you are talking to yourself, have the conversation inside your head. This will help dramatically.

(Just make sure your lips aren’t moving or you’ll  frighten the other inmates.)

4) Try to cut down on what you say to yourself.  Example: if you decide having a normal conversation with yourself aloud you can only say two sentences while trying to find something in your bag, whatever.

(A bonus of brevity: by limiting yourself, you won’t burden yourself with too many details about yourself!)

5) Tell yourself not to talk to yourself.  But not out loud. 

(Remember, always use your “inside” voice.)

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Between the circular references and ADHD writing style, this so-called solution may be the single best example of the downside of collaborative knowledge sharing, I’ve ever seen.   I think matters of mental health are best left to the professionals – and Tom Cruise.

I was planning to write more - but step #5 has me laughing too hard to type.

It was a Friday night and we were eating dinner at a popular pizza restaurant in the mall.  Shortly after we were seated, the hostess seated a family at the adjacent table.  Amidst the melee of screaming, crazed children and frazzled parents, this family looked as though they’d been ripped from the pages of the PB Kids catalog.   As they arranged their Neiman Marcus shopping bags and seated themselves, the process was polite and orderly.  I learned the attractive couple was Julia & Kevin, and their daughter was Isabelle.  Little Isabelle, age 3, was dressed as impeccably as her parents and colored quietly as they spoke in hushed voices over glasses of white wine.  

To say that there was a contrast between our two families would be an understatement.  With Dick in jeans, and a freshly tomato-sauce-stained shirt, and me in sneakers, wrinkled cargo pants and an Old Navy sweater, our appearance said to the world, “Hey, we took the time to bathe today!”  Adam and Tabitha, in their finger-paint-splattered Gap hoodies and worn Target sneakers looked a notch above street-urchin.  And, as usual, they couldn’t sit still to eat – they could only manage to stand next to their chairs, jiggling like little drug addicts who’ve become edgy before their next hit.  Several times, I caught Julia looking us over, trying to suppress the disdainful expression on her face. 

But, as children often do, Isabelle leveled the playing field – just a bit.  With her parents distracted by their own grown-up conversation and observing our train-wreck-of-a-meal, all her efforts were devoted to coloring her bread plate a stunning shade of blue.  Proudly she showed her artwork to her mother, “Mommy, I put the sky on my plate!”  Julia, horrified, grabbed the plate and said sternly, “Isabelle Marie Daniels – what a mess you’ve made! This is not an acceptable way of expressing your creativity.  Now, put those crayons down this instant!”  Isabelle pouted and slouched resolutely in her chair as Julia angrily turned on Kevin, blaming him for not noticing Isabelle’s behavior. 

As the happy couple fought over whose fault it was for Isabelle’s blue plate not-so-special,  their daughter regrouped and developed new ideas for childish mischief and attention-grabbing stunts.  In a less than ten minute period, Isabelle:

• attempted to use the lit candle on the table to set a packet of Sweet-n-Low on fire
• wrapped the cord from the nearby mini-blinds around her neck – twice
• dumped all of the salt out of the salt shaker and onto the tabletop
• used her spoon to fling grated Parmesan cheese across the table and all over her dad’s blazer

For all this couple’s efforts to portray an image of refined, urbane sophistication to the outside world, a 3 year-old girl was the humbling force that brought the whole facade crumbling down.  By the time their order arrived, Julia & Kevin looked exhausted and defeated.  Silently fuming at one another, they rushed through their dinner salads, gathered their shopping bags and left before we’d even gotten our entrees. 

I don’t care who you are or how ready you think you are for children, nothing prepares you for the big reveal – that singular moment where your actions as a parent force you to acknowledge the gap between who you really are and who you want to be.   As you’re faced with the inevitability of it all you realize the only way to survive is to surrender –  to give in to the chaos, to acknowledge the enormous and frightening potential of the lives you’ve created – in all their stunning imperfection, and to let old images of self be diluted (not erased, just watered down a bit).  

This is heavy stuff, I know.  So if you have a new baby or our contemplating having one, allow me to offer you some advice:  do you love eating in chic, upscale restaurants in tony little neighborhoods?  Forget ‘em.  It’s time to let down your hair, make peace with yourself and join the rest of us slobs at the mall.   The food’s not that bad and with all the other children screaming, no one will notice that you’ve added one more to the mix.

Dick and I have been a couple for nearly 20 years.  We met in high school.  He was the awkward, nerdy guy that girls were friends with, but didn’t take seriously.  I was the moderately popular tall girl that somehow blended in wherever I went.  Fate and a flaky date of mine threw us together in our junior year and we’ve been inseparable ever since.  Our love affair is the stuff of 80’s-era John Houston films. 

So I guess it’s ironic that such a stable, loving relationship could be ended by something so small – so insignificant as a plastic milk ring (see crappy picture below of the one I found on my kitchen counter this morning).

And, yet, I predict that the little plastic ring from a newly opened 1 gallon jug of milk will be the thing that finally destroys our marriage. 

You see, when Dick opens a new jug of milk, he has the habit of tearing off the plastic ring which holds the cap in place and then leaving it on the kitchen counter.  He does this while standing next to the refrigerator and always places the ring in the same spot.  The trash can is 2 feet behind him as he performs this ritual and the plastic recyclables bin is under the sink, perhaps 12-inches away. 

So, why not just dispose of it?  Why leave it on the counter for me to throw away?  Is this some sort of message or code he’s sending to his alien handlers?  Or, maybe it’s a test and every time I throw the ring away, I provide him with subtle insights into my true character?  (On second thought, it’s definitely not the latter, as that would imply that Dick is observant - a fact which I know to be untrue by his complete inability to find a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g.)  

Several years ago I conducted an experiment in an attempt to isolate the motivations behind Dick’s odd behavior.  When Dick left a milk ring on the counter one night, I didn’t mention it or touch it for exactly one week.  He never touched it, either.  In fact, we both took silent pains to work around the milk ring - carefully preparing meals, washing dishes, and making coffee.  It was if a priceless piece of art with a little red velvet rope around it were sitting on our kitchen counter.  Finally, at the end of the week, I couldn’t take it anymore.  I confronted him about the milk ring.  His excuse (seriously, no kidding, here) - he thought I was saving it for something.

When faced with such absurd excuses, the only comfort I have is knowing that all couples have a milk ring in their relationship.  It may take the form of the trash can in the office that NEVER gets emptied, no matter how many times you remind your partner.  Or, maybe, your milk ring is your partner’s habit of leaving the lid off the toothpaste or drinking orange juice straight from the carton.  Whatever it is – it’s pointless, annoying behavior that seems specifically designed to piss you off. 

But, I think I can offer you some assurances, here - it’s probably not about you.  The more I think about Dick’s milk ring thing, the more I’m convinced that it’s sheer laziness on his part and nothing more.  Most, if not all of his annoying habits have no design to them and are just the odd quirks of an otherwise loving, thoughtful husband. 

Lately, with aging parents and children serving as constant reminders of our brief hour upon this stage, I imagine myself in the sad situation of some day actually missing Dick’s annoying little milk ring habit.  Vividly, I can see my aged hand, outstretched, leaving a freshly torn milk ring on the counter, in a silent, loving tribute to my dear mate…

my mate, who was mysteriously killed after leaving a milk ring on the kitchen counter one night.