Building fires a burning obsession

There is a bizarre new show on television. My daughter and I came across it the other night as we were channel surfing. It follows people who have strange addictions. I couldn’t watch it.

“I can’t watch this,” I said, my eyes glued to the television. What was that woman doing? Eating toilet paper?

Remote control poised, my daughter offered to turn the channel.

“No … don’t … oh, my goodness … what’s she doing? I … I can’t watch this,” I said, yet again. But it was like a train wreck. I found myself oddly fascinated with the completely bizarre, strangely freakish habits of these people. A woman who eats toilet paper and another who sleeps with her hair dryer, right there on the pillow beside her? You can’t make this stuff up.

Another grown woman couldn’t stop sucking her thumb and still another ate laundry detergent by the palm full. Thankfully, I have never had an addiction so bizarre that it warranted a television show, but, alas, I did suck my thumb. Only difference was, I was five, not 25. Okay, I was six. All right, already. I was seven. Geez.

My parents tried everything to get me to stop. Bribed me with jars of pennies. Told me I’d have buck teeth. I didn’t have much use for pennies and Half Pint on “Little House on the Prairie” had buck teeth, so that didn’t work. Nothing worked until the day they got really smart and put hot sauce on my thumbs. Tabasco.

That did it.

I have a friend who is addicted to sticky notes. The sight of a fresh, sticky-backed note pad makes her giddy. She has a sticky note for every thought, idea, and happenstance, stuck to her desk, her wall, her computer screen. To my knowledge, she’s never eaten one, so I think she’s okay.

My husband has never eaten firewood, but he is definitely fond of it. I would even go so far as to, dare I? say he is addicted. The boy likes to build a fire. He counts down the days to when the temperature will dip below 60 degrees. That’s my rule. He fought for 65. I won.

We average four pickup loads of firewood per cold season, sometimes more. I can’t complain, being as though on icy cold nights and lazy weekends I benefit from his toasty masterpieces. Only problem is, he’s obsessed with not only the wood, but the fire, too. He has to lay the wood just right, light it at just the right angle, and add just the right size piece at just the right time to keep it going. We are not allowed to touch it because, in his words, we don’t know how to poke it right.

I knew he had a problem when we passed by a convenience store and I heard him say, “Ooooo, look at that.” He was referring to the small stacks of firewood they keep outside. “Just look the other way,” I said. We had perfectly good wood at home. The next week I noticed splinters of wood in the back of the car. He had caved.

There are far worse addictions, I am well aware. There’s a girl on the bizarre show that is addicted to her ventriloquist dummy. I know I’d never have to worry about him having that obsession. One look at that carved wooden head and that thing would end up in the fireplace.

But only if it’s below 60. That’s the rule.

Contact columnist Mandy Flynn at [email protected].