So this is kind of funny. Funny like I just told you about my 52-hour shower hiatus and now I'm going to try and convince you I'm probably the cleanest person your know... er, read about.
But it's the truth, I wouldn't lie. About cleaning.
It's possible I'm borderline obsessive-compulsive. I can accept that. I like things clean. And tidy. And by "clean and tidy" I mean in a specific location, organized to my liking, put there by me, and not to be touched. There are very few things in my life I have control over, but dangit, I control what goes where in my room, in my work cubicle, in my car, in my bathroom, and that makes the uncontrollable much more tolerable.
I like to blame this on Mom. She thinks it's a bad thing my older sister and I grew up in a spotless home where beds were made upon waking and the TV Guide had a specific place on the coffee table (still does). It made us "anal," she might say. But Mom - thank you.
My sister and I had to clean our rooms. Weekly. And I'll be darned if a bottle of Pledge and a dust cloth weren't involved. Oh, we were rewarded for this, however. A small, weekly allowance kept our then-complaining minds quieter than would be otherwise. But to this day I still scour my bedroom weekly with a bottle of Pledge and dust cloth, I make my bed before work, and all those stray hairs that decorate my bathroom sink - they're gone, by the end of the night.
And this makes me happy. Oh how a clean and tidy space makes a girl glow. Or just me. So what if each and every picture frame in my bedroom literally has a "place"? Not one inch to the left. Or the right. They go in exactly the same place, every time. So what if the clutter on my desk is organized? Stacked neatly, placed snuggly in the top left corner. And so what if the cats leave the blanket on the back of the couch unkempt, daily, and the instant I get home I have to rush over and put it in its place? In a straightened, orderly fashion.
Clutter makes me uneasy. Right now, as I type, stuffed animals are strewn about the floor, the litterbox is quite dirty, and I'm biting my nails. Guaranteed it'll all be taken care of before my eyes close for the night.
There's so little I can control. World peace? No. Not much I can do about that. The 8 inches of snow that recently blanketed the city and will make driving worse than pulling teeth? No. It'll still be there when I awake. The preposterous amount of money I'm being charged for (unknowingly) choosing a doctor out of my insurance company's "network"? Oh, that's still lurking. It'll come in due time, and it will have a due date.
But my bedroom? My living space? My home? It's oh-so-clean. And organized. And will stay that way. I'm really not power-hungry. I don't need the control in the relationship. But my purse? The chapstick and lip gloss belong in the left pocket, while my cell phone resides in the right. My breath mints can be found in the side pocket, and my wallet (an organizational tale for another day) fits on the inside, with just enough room for my iPod. My keys? They never go inside the purse. If so, it'd be too cluttered.
Mom, I'm anal.