Response to TTGIAF

My sweetheart wrote a very touching post on her blog Technically the Glass is Always Full (I heartily recommend it) and included this passage about my putative quirks:

His constant need to know where the remote is. If it is lost, it as if the world has gone off its axis.

The way he talks to the television during a sports crappola shows.

How he locks every door and turns out every light the moment he is finished going through it or using it.

"I'm old and infirmed." "I could eat." "Be that as it may." "They can pound sand."

The way he brushes his teeth (this will make him laugh)

The way he closes the slider blinds so hard I am surprised they are still attached

Well, let's address them, shall we?

My world does not go off its axis if I can't find the remote, a/k/a the clicker.  What does happen, or doesn't happen as the case may be, is that I can no longer operate the television because the manual buttons on the device are hidden in such a way that were I to use them, I might topple the 55" screen and shatter it in a million little pieces.  I submit that this alleged mania I have for the clicker is only exceeded by my dear love's disdain for its whereabouts, oftentimes resulting in it being found in the cushions of the couch, between the bedding on the bed or -- and this is my favorite -- back behind the enormously heavy sleigh bed.  That I'm concerned for its whereabouts is clearly a result of her disdain for its whereabouts and the resulting mayhem that comes from not being able to find it.

I'm not sure that the way I talk during sporting events is any different than the way most guys talk during sporting events, although I'm rarely approaching airplane decibels.  That I react to the ups and downs of my teams' fortunes is only natural.  Otherwise, why even watch the darned things?

That she finds my obsessiveness about locking every door and turning out every light when I'm done using it amusing is, in and of itself, amusing.  This is a woman who will get down on the floor with a brush to brush the dog hair into piles so she can vacuum the floor.  She will take glasses that were cleaned in the dishwasher but that have water spots on them and wash them again.  She cleans so much she could qualify as a kosher rabbi if she were a man and Jewish.  Yet my thoroughness with doors and lights amuses her.  Mirror, Karen.  Karen, mirror.

I don't have anything to say about what I say, really.  I will just say this:  I don't know.  (That should make her laugh).

That I brush my teeth the way I do is directly proportional to the fact that my love has a phobia about foamy toothpaste.  That is, if someone is brushing his or her teeth -- merely brushing them in a mature fashion, not acting like a wannabe member of the Jackass crew -- she has a coniption.  And I understand that some people are just disgusted by certain things.  I, for example, practically wretch at the smell of cooked eggs.  I just find it funny she'd mention this.

Finally, the reason the slider blinds close so hard is that to get them to move, one must pull hard to release the catch.  When it finally releases, there's barely enough time to stop it before it falls all the way to the bottom of the window.  I'll admit, though, that it does make a racket.

That she loves me despite my obvious foibles humbles me.  I know that I'm the fortunate one in this relationship.  I actually try to improve my shortcomings, although she'd tell you I have a long way to go.

But I'm never giving up my Cubs, Blackhawks and Illini.
 
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles