Some points just aren't debatable

The Examiner

Quirks and Foibles. I think this would be a wonderful name for a band, don’t you? Maybe a firm of lawyers? 

After my small rant about where the knives and forks should go in the hierarchy in dishwasher-speak, I realize I have just a few more.

Annie Dear

Toilet paper is to go over the top when hung on a roll. There is no argument you can make that will convince me otherwise. I have to restrain myself when I’m at someone’s house – if they are of the “under” belief” – to not change the enrolling of toilet tissue. 

Years ago, we went to visit a friend in Oregon. Leaving our house, complete with the full set of pure white china, we fair goggled at our host’s colorful dishes. Overcome with the impulse shopping urge – Sir will attest to this wholeheartedly – I flung myself online and bought Fiestaware plates and bowls

Such a choice of colors – I was like a kid in a candy store. I favor – neigh, insist upon – strong colors in my life, so I easily picked seven different magnificent, in-your-face tones, only to be brought up short for the eighth. 

My remaining choices were white (nah, been there done that), beige (oh definitely under no circumstances will there ever be anything beige in my house), or dark brown.

Now don’t get me wrong and start labelling me with current-day epithets. I love brown. Tree trunks are magnificently brown. I’d love to have a mahogany table. I have oak cabinets. But I don’t want to eat off that particular color. 

So, meanwhile back at the foible department, I make sure the brown plates – as that is what I settled on – were always on the bottom.

“Uh oh,” I will hear Sir cry, “we’re down to the brown plate.” This is code for “the dishwasher needs to go on.” I won’t use it. I would rather eat a steak (See? Gorgeous brown!) out of a teacup than use the brown dinner plate.

Sundays, my day is shot if I don’t remember to do the NYT crossword while sipping my coffee out of my yellow cup. The rest of the week is a free-for-all, but it’s a good thing there are only seven days in the week so the brown cup sits forlornly in back of the cupboard.

My mother had a food quirk. At breakfast, despite having slung eggs and porridge and fruit at us all – all artfully arranged on separate restful green plates, I will add – she would set to buttering her toast. There was not to be a hair’s width of the top surface of the toast unbuttered. Me? I just slather it on, figuring I’ll include any naked bits of toast within a buttery bite and call it good.

I was reminded of a super Peanuts comic strip. Charlie Brown was making Lucy a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Don’t cut the sandwich!” Lucy yelled. “It loses its vitamins!”

Likewise, our very funny friend Rocket was heard admonishing Sir – “When you eat it, you have to make sure the peanut butter is on the bottom!”

Ah yes, quirks and foibles. We’ve all got them.            

Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at