Hereditary.

I am my mother's daughter.* I grew up in a house that was immaculate. All the time. Beds were made, dirty dishes were in the dishwasher, laundry was put away and we'd be damned if there was dust on the shelves.

We were given an allowance for cleaning our rooms every week. Vacuuming, dusting. The whole works. I believe the allowance was something like 50 cents in the early days, which, now that I'm older and wiser, I've concluded that I should've argued for more. Or went on strike.

And so now that I'm an adult (cough), I cannot function in a mess. I break out in hives, I swear to God, if I see dirty clothes on the bedroom floor. I hate clutter. I do not do well when things are not where they belong. Or if there's toothpaste stuck in the sink. Or facial hairs on the bathroom counter.

Look. I'm sweating just thinking about it.

So now that we've moved into a brand new, never-been-lived-in apartment, I want to keep it that way. Well, except for the part where people actually live in it now. We've officially been there for a week, and I made a promise to myself that once a week, I would dedicate time to cleaning the apartment.

And that day is today. I have a designated Cleaning Day. Gross. I have to vacuum and dust the shelves and clean the toilet and sweep the floors. I would complain more, but cleaning makes me so happy I swell.

I completely blame my mother for this. At the same time, I apologize to Jeremy for my obsessive-compulsive tendencies because when he leaves his t-shirts on the floor, his hats on the coffee table and uses the kitchen towel as a napkin, I want to die.

And that is not right.

But at least he can never say our apartment is dirty. And that makes it all worthwhile.

*Or I'm crazy. Whatever. The verdict is still out.