Why Mallory Is the Way She Is Part I: OCD
Last week, in my politics class, I had to do an oral presentation and hand in an outline with my thesis, sources, etc.
My professor handed it back tonight and said, with a chuckle, "Very thorough. You're very similar to my daughter."
Unsure whether or not that was a good or bad thing, I decided to hope for the best and said thank you.
"Yeah," he added, "she's one of those overachieving types. I bet you're bossy."
He chuckled again and went along his merry way, leaving me to wonder if I give off some sort of bossy vibe.
After class, over a cup of coffee, I explained the situation to my friend Nicole. "Bossy! Can you believe it? Bossy. I'm not bossy."
She had suddenly become engrossed in taking the wrapper off of her bottle of Diet Pepsi. "Oh, no," she said, not looking up, "you're not."
It was becoming obvious that my professor was onto something and I decided to seek confirmation from the one person who wouldn't lie to me. No, not my parents, they lie to me all the time. I meant Adam.
"Am I bossy?"
"What?"
"Am I bossy?"
"No, you're not bossy. Not bossy at all. You're..."
Here, he paused for a long time and I was convinced after a while that he had hung up. Finally, he finished, "You're very definite."
Hmph.
I suppose you've all figured out since you've been reading my journal that I'm not one for relaxation. The laid-back, serene kind of life drives me mad. And I do everything very fast, I walk fast, work fast, talk fast, think fast.
All things considered, it's hardly surprising that I'm so comfortable in my little Northeastern bubble.
I've been this way since childhood-highly organized and uptight. My parents used to be mystified by my fondness for putting various items in shopping bags scattered across the house when I was a toddler. They were even more mystified by my penchant for dressing up like Dorothy Gale while doing it, but that is neither here nor there.
I knew what was in every bag, be it napkins, toys, boxes of cereal or small appliances. My parents would ask where the remote was, and I'd toddle upstairs to the Bloomingdales bag I kept it in, and I would bring it down to them.
My parents thought this was simply hilarious and used it as a party trick to show people who came over (my repetoire also included saying the Pledge of Allegiance and counting to twenty in Italian). My aunt Lourdes actively participated in this ritual and gave me all of her shopping bags to put things in.
And my father, in some sort of misguided attempt to instill independence in me, would ask me to organize his desk or sock drawer or his notebooks.
(This bizarre behavior is a big reason why people should not be allowed to have children before they turn 25. Allowing your three year old daughter to do work? I ask you.)
I took on my new responsibilities with gusto and, eventually, started organizing my mother's pens while she did her translation work and folded socks while watching MTV (I had a crazy crush on Bruce Springsteen) and color coordinating bottles of nail polish.
And nobody ever thought this was strange.
Once you become used to your own systematic way of organizing things, it becomes hard to deal with people who fuck things up people who don't organize things the same way. Let me provide you with a few quick examples:
Example One
Mallory sits at a table, coloring a poster in kindergarten. A girl named JoJo sits down and the teacher asks Mallory to share her poster with JoJo. JoJo does not color in the lines
Mallory: Um
JoJo: Oh, look, green! (Scribbles frantically)
Mallory: (Cries}
Example Two
Mallory is organizing change from her piggybank. Her brother James, one at the time, crawls over
Mallory: James-
James: (Moves a pile of pennies)
Mallory: JAMES WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOING?! (Cries}
Example Three
Mallory is doing a group project in fifth grade
Carol: Can I write on the poster?
Mallory: No.
Jill: Can I glue the pictures on the poster?
Mallory: No.
Carol: Can I color-
Mallory: No.
Perhaps bossy is a good descriptor after all.
I discussed this with my father today and he laughed it off saying. The following discussion is verbatim and rather disturbing.
Papa Dukes: Your mother and I didn't know what the hell we were doing with you. You seemed smart enough, we decided to let you try it all out by yourself.
Mallory: And you turned me into an obsessive compulsive freak.
Papa Dukes: That's why we kept having kids, we're determined to get it right at one point. Well, that and we figured there was too much happiness here for just the two of us, so we figured the next logical step was to have us a critter.
Mallory: I hate you.
Papa Dukes: Boy, that takes me back to when you were fifteen. Somebody would ask you to pass the pepper, and you'd burst into tears.
Mallory: I'm hanging up.
Papa Dukes: "I don't want to hand you the pepper, don't you get it? God! Nobody understaaaaaaands me!"
Mallory: I hate you.
Papa Dukes: And then you'd slam the door.
(Dial tone)
The man inserts Raising Arizona quotes into everyday conversation. I'm lucky I wound up this normal. After all, it's not about admitting your flaws, it's about finding the appropriate persons to place the blame on. In this case, it all rests on my bizarro parents.
My professor handed it back tonight and said, with a chuckle, "Very thorough. You're very similar to my daughter."
Unsure whether or not that was a good or bad thing, I decided to hope for the best and said thank you.
"Yeah," he added, "she's one of those overachieving types. I bet you're bossy."
He chuckled again and went along his merry way, leaving me to wonder if I give off some sort of bossy vibe.
After class, over a cup of coffee, I explained the situation to my friend Nicole. "Bossy! Can you believe it? Bossy. I'm not bossy."
She had suddenly become engrossed in taking the wrapper off of her bottle of Diet Pepsi. "Oh, no," she said, not looking up, "you're not."
It was becoming obvious that my professor was onto something and I decided to seek confirmation from the one person who wouldn't lie to me. No, not my parents, they lie to me all the time. I meant Adam.
"Am I bossy?"
"What?"
"Am I bossy?"
"No, you're not bossy. Not bossy at all. You're..."
Here, he paused for a long time and I was convinced after a while that he had hung up. Finally, he finished, "You're very definite."
Hmph.
I suppose you've all figured out since you've been reading my journal that I'm not one for relaxation. The laid-back, serene kind of life drives me mad. And I do everything very fast, I walk fast, work fast, talk fast, think fast.
All things considered, it's hardly surprising that I'm so comfortable in my little Northeastern bubble.
I've been this way since childhood-highly organized and uptight. My parents used to be mystified by my fondness for putting various items in shopping bags scattered across the house when I was a toddler. They were even more mystified by my penchant for dressing up like Dorothy Gale while doing it, but that is neither here nor there.
I knew what was in every bag, be it napkins, toys, boxes of cereal or small appliances. My parents would ask where the remote was, and I'd toddle upstairs to the Bloomingdales bag I kept it in, and I would bring it down to them.
My parents thought this was simply hilarious and used it as a party trick to show people who came over (my repetoire also included saying the Pledge of Allegiance and counting to twenty in Italian). My aunt Lourdes actively participated in this ritual and gave me all of her shopping bags to put things in.
And my father, in some sort of misguided attempt to instill independence in me, would ask me to organize his desk or sock drawer or his notebooks.
(This bizarre behavior is a big reason why people should not be allowed to have children before they turn 25. Allowing your three year old daughter to do work? I ask you.)
I took on my new responsibilities with gusto and, eventually, started organizing my mother's pens while she did her translation work and folded socks while watching MTV (I had a crazy crush on Bruce Springsteen) and color coordinating bottles of nail polish.
And nobody ever thought this was strange.
Once you become used to your own systematic way of organizing things, it becomes hard to deal with people who fuck things up people who don't organize things the same way. Let me provide you with a few quick examples:
Example One
Mallory sits at a table, coloring a poster in kindergarten. A girl named JoJo sits down and the teacher asks Mallory to share her poster with JoJo. JoJo does not color in the lines
Mallory: Um
JoJo: Oh, look, green! (Scribbles frantically)
Mallory: (Cries}
Example Two
Mallory is organizing change from her piggybank. Her brother James, one at the time, crawls over
Mallory: James-
James: (Moves a pile of pennies)
Mallory: JAMES WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOING?! (Cries}
Example Three
Mallory is doing a group project in fifth grade
Carol: Can I write on the poster?
Mallory: No.
Jill: Can I glue the pictures on the poster?
Mallory: No.
Carol: Can I color-
Mallory: No.
Perhaps bossy is a good descriptor after all.
I discussed this with my father today and he laughed it off saying. The following discussion is verbatim and rather disturbing.
Papa Dukes: Your mother and I didn't know what the hell we were doing with you. You seemed smart enough, we decided to let you try it all out by yourself.
Mallory: And you turned me into an obsessive compulsive freak.
Papa Dukes: That's why we kept having kids, we're determined to get it right at one point. Well, that and we figured there was too much happiness here for just the two of us, so we figured the next logical step was to have us a critter.
Mallory: I hate you.
Papa Dukes: Boy, that takes me back to when you were fifteen. Somebody would ask you to pass the pepper, and you'd burst into tears.
Mallory: I'm hanging up.
Papa Dukes: "I don't want to hand you the pepper, don't you get it? God! Nobody understaaaaaaands me!"
Mallory: I hate you.
Papa Dukes: And then you'd slam the door.
(Dial tone)
The man inserts Raising Arizona quotes into everyday conversation. I'm lucky I wound up this normal. After all, it's not about admitting your flaws, it's about finding the appropriate persons to place the blame on. In this case, it all rests on my bizarro parents.