Dec. 17, 2007 at 7:54pm

oddnesses, oh oddnesses, how to count the ways?

(jobs I have had, and how they've shaped my weird tendencies.)

So as I was cleaning the house, I got to thinking about my pecadillos. (how the hell *do* you spell that word?) 

I discovered, for the most part, the odd parts of me have been shaped by training-- mainly, OTJ training in the most random of crazy jobs I have had.  The most menial jobs, in point of fact, were the best pecadillo-fodder.  How does that happen?  Take a look.

When I wake up in the morning, I read the Trib's Soundlife to get my horoscope. I subscribe to a newspaper I merely scan, from day to day, week to week, not even clipping coupons, merely to find out how many stars I should expect.  But that's not where it's weird.  Each day, I defy and argue the stars based on crow counting.  Based on a nursery rhyme I read to my 12-19 month old charge as a nanny in England, I count crows (I modified the magpie rhyme thanks to the band Counting Crows) 

So I say, mmm, one crow, bad day, two crows, good day, three crows, girl involved, four crows, boy (it goes on-- 5 for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told. Which I take to mean, if I see 5 crows, finances figure, but not necessarily in a good way, and 6 means finances are golden.  Seven is always perplexing, but typically by the time I get to a group of 7 crows I get to groupings-- happy, meets a girl.  or, if I see a crow alone, then I see another, soon, and I say to myself "happiness is never far from sorrow." -- I could go on, but it really isn't an interesting pecadillo.)(however you spell that word.)

Crow counting after reading the paper's horoscope, only to argue with said horoscope isn't the end of my oddnesses.  But I suspect you knew that.

Another nanny pecadillo-- hell, should I just say weirdness?-- the fact that I *love* to vacuum.  I suspect this may have come from my cleaning- happy nanny boss-dude, but really I think it might be all about my sister and her relationship with her Dyson.

I have a Sebo I bought from Big Vac on 6th Ave; I love that shop as much as Nordstrom.  Dieter (say the German name, "Dieeeeee-teh!" mit eine Chehman axcent!) my upright vacuum came from the shop, as did my broom, a dustbroom I call Gunther (say "Goooon-t-her") and an embarrassing number of other cleaning items.  But my vacuum, Dieter ("Deeee-tah!") Is my big strong Cherman lover.  I stroke him and we waltz and it's kind of sick and wrong.  

I blame my sister and Norman, my English/Jamaican boss.

And then there's the folding thing.

My mom gave me the under-wear folding thing.  The strappy bits I wear to eliminate VPL need little folding, but the full-butt things get the crotch-side full half fold, the bras get the cup-distended strap-in fold, and his boxers get the half-half fold.

His tees get the Squire Shop circa 1987 treatment, with sleeves and one-inch around collar folding in, and then with the bottom half under, half fold. Sweaters, similar, one sleeve in at the body, then in to one inch around the collar; the other side sleeve down, in to one inch near the collar, half under, half fold.

Jeans-- Pocket-side crotch fold, then third, just like the Squire Shop taught me; the colorizing, categorizing and sleeving of clothes in the closet is also a trick I learned at the now defunct Squire Shop.  

Thirds are also imperative in towels, a point I noted as I worked in the Sheraton Tacoma Hotel as a room attendant in the late eighties.  (I cleaned a pube of Nick Nolte from his hot tub as they filmed Three Fugitives; I met James Earl Jones, vacuuming his room as he said "you don't have to do that" in his deeeeeeep voice, during the filming of the same movie.)

There at the Sheraton, I learned how to fold towels in thirds, then half, and half again to fit on the cleaning cart; on the towel rod they hang in a narrow ribbon o' towel, while folded, they fit in a fluffy-compact kind of package. At home, I modify this, folding my towels half (length) half again (length) and then into three even folds. 

While at the Sheraton, I learned to fold the top of toilet paper into a triangle piece, a trick I use at home to impress the mother-in-law type. Less impressive but imperative in toilet paper: paper feeds from above, eliminating the need to grope and fondle the underbelly of the roll as you attempt to snag some paper.

I'm certain there are many, many more useless tricks I learned in the course of some bizarre other jobs (interior design at a flooring store and also a several year stint in IKEA taught me some bits,) -- but we won't go there for now.

Maybe later, though, when I'm next procrastinating