Weirdness Is In the Eye of the Beholder

SUNDAY. After reading over several "six weird things about me" posts that recent taggees have penned, I'm beginning to think I'm not nearly as weird as I'd thought. This is both a relief and a disappointment. That said, in my quest to prove my uniqueness to the world, I'm tempted to reveal more weird things about myself.

Like the time I decided it was a bad idea to fly to Jamaica to surprise a friend, and asked the stewardess (that's what flight attendants were called back in 1971) if she would please open the door and let me off a 727 moments before our 3PM takeoff. "What? You don't want to go to Mon-te-go Bay?" she asked with a tuneful West Indian lilt, her penetrating dark eyes wide with alarm. As it turned out, my boldness was eclipsed only by my naivete. Several minutes later, I was greeted at the jetway by armed Kennedy Airport security guards and federal agents who escorted me to a harshly-lit office and grilled me for hours in an attempt to determine exactly where I'd planted the bomb. A seasoned twenty-one-year-old traveler, I had packed only a small canvas carry-on bag with a change of underwear, a hot-pink bikini, a toothbrush, and a few miscellaneous toiletries. My interrogators found this more than a little suspicious and ordered a complete search of the aircraft and baggage hold, delaying the flight by two hours. Rumor has it, over 35 years later, that passengers on Air Jamaica Flight 823 are still looking for me. Fortunately, there was no arrest and by evening I was regaling friends with my escapades over Singapore Slings in our favorite Brooklyn Heights pub.

Or the time I lived in an apartment behind a New Jersey self-service laundromat. In lieu of curling up in front of a cozy fireplace, I watched, through large holes punched in the drywall, gas-fueled flames dancing in a bank of Maytag dryers on the other side of my bedroom closet wall. It was a strange, noisy apartment. Once, after a plumbing upgrade performed by our illustrious landlord (whose claim to fame was the role of Vernon in the 1958 film version of Damn Yankees), we discovered Mr. Linville had erroneously connected the hot water supply to the commode. I delighted in every steamy flush, assuming I'd never have to scrub the bowl again. Perhaps he should have stuck with acting. I always thought it odd that after a career in film and TV, the final chapter of Al Linville's life involved running a dingy coin-op laundromat in the bowels of New Brunswick, NJ. Odder yet was actually living in his dilapidated railroad-style hovel.

And then there was the time I donned trench coat and Groucho Marx glasses, made my way up Newbury Street in Boston's Back Bay--my gait wobbly, duck-footed and Chaplinesque--and silently handed fresh flowers to pedestrians for no apparent reason. The two friends walking with me were so embarrassed by my pantomime, they crossed the street and pretended to not know me.

I can't forget the time I flew to D.C., against my parents' wishes, to protest the Vietnam War in front of the Washington Monument. I was over 21, so I went anyway and told them otherwise. Unfortunately I found myself in a huge crowd unable to move, positioned directly in front of network TV cameras. So much for hiding in a crowd. OK, this one wasn't exactly weird. It was just really, really unlucky. Kids, don't lie to your parents. It will catch up with you, bite you in the posterior, and land you on national TV, where your parents, your entire extended family, and everyone they know will see you.

I don't know if these things make me weird, foolish, adventurous, or crazy. Looking back, though, I wouldn't trade one moment of my strange misadventures. My memory banks are rich with amusing anecdotes. They will serve me well when I'm 90, assuming, of course, I can remember them. There's good reason to record (and preserve) these tales in writing.

The dogs are have been insanely tearing through the house this morning since 7AM. They wrestled on a towel smeared with peanut butter from stuffed Kongs they enjoyed after breakfast. Not surprisingly, both dogs bear an unusual leguminous perfume. A palpable aura of Skippy permeates our living area. I consider this far more preferable to other possible household odors. However, gardenias would definitely be more appealing on this sunny high-desert morn.

I'm It

No, I'm not the "It Girl." I've been tagged by Wendy. I didn't even know I was playing a game. Evidently, I am, and now I'm it. As I understand it, my penance for being tagged is revealing six weird things about myself. Only six? Good heavens, "Weird" is my middle name. In the spirit of blogdom, I submit six strange things about myself, in no particular order, for your thoughtful consideration.

Six Weird Things About Me

1. I'm a nomad. I've lived in 32 different places, including one dormitory and two Brooklyn, NY transient hotels. That means I've moved 31 times. Oddly, it never gets easier. I lived in one apartment at two different times. Who moves out of a place and then moves back to the same unit 15 years later? (And after 15 years, the apartment was definitely worse for wear.) No, I've never lived in my car, a tent, or a tool shed (though the latter intrigues me). The time I've spent packing, unpacking, and setting up new utility services, not to mention the hours looking for new places to buy organic carrots and cheap gas, must account for at least five years of my life. In a perfect world, I would move only once more: to a funeral home. Amen.

2. I can wiggle one ear at a time. Other than providing an amusing diversion at holiday parties, this talent is really quite useless.

3. At fifteen I was told by a cute boy that my clodhopper feet looked like ferryboats. Since then I've been shopping exclusively at "Big Shoes 'R Us."

4. I talk to plants, trees and rocks. Like many other neo-Pagan Christian Buddhist Unitarian New Age Hindus, I've been known to celebrate the Vernal Equinox alone in the woods, dancing and singing praises to the Earth and Heavens. Generally, I keep my clothes on. It can be chilly in March, and sometimes it rains.

5. I often know when the phone will ring, and who will be calling. This is a tremendous asset for screening telemarketers. I often know what's in the mailbox, too. Unfortunately, this ability fails me when I'm puzzling over how I'll pay the rent.

6. I'm an alien. A sister from another planet. There's no other explanation for my apparent strangeness and inability to conform. My real home is in the Pleiades. I'm waiting for Verizon's Extended Network to include Erra, my home planet. If only they could find that wormhole...E.T. phone home!

Now the hard part. I need to tag six people. For starters, I'm tagging Al, Judy, and Mishy. Hey Russ, do you have a blog yet? I need to tag you. Start writing.