It's Just Correct
In this horror show year of Covid and quarantine, I have given up doing anything that requires the slightest motivation. I have spent exactly zero minutes yard working which has produced the death of many small ornamental shrubberies. Good riddance. I have neglected writing and opted out of using my brain. I have spent copious amounts of time ingesting Prosecco. And I have cleaned. Oh, dear god, how I have cleaned.
Growing up, the perpetual messiness of my room was a running family joke. My grandmother used to say that entering required her to “kick a path and don a helmet.” But a few years into being on my own, Pig Pen took a 180 into neat freak. My condition has only worsened with time. And with the oodles of time the bat soup pestilence has afforded me, I am soaring to new heights of immaculate psychosis.
I am wreaking hygienic havoc around our house cleaning, organizing, and color coding. And I am now channeling all OCD issues directly into the silverware drawer. For a maniac there is only one way of doing things.
THE CORRECT WAY.
This is only one way to load the dishwasher (a tutorial on that is available by request) and there is only one way to put away silverware, in the drawer appropriated specifically for silverware into the specially purchased silverware organizer. There is no room for error.
It stands to reason to anyone with a pair of functioning brain cells that like begets like. Salad forks of the same handle style must be grouped together and alone. Placing a dinner fork in the same compartment as a salad fork is incorrect and cause for a meltdown (mine). Can I get an Amen?
It is simply not that difficult. Treat it as a matching game. Does the big spoon with the skinny handle match the knife with the flat handle?! Oh my god, it does not. NO MATCH.
The silverware drawer is the case study for my behavior in general. I lovingly watched the Hot Urologist’s precious children place ornaments on our Christmas tree back in December. I took their photo as they decorated. I told them it was perfect. As soon as they went to bed, I stripped the tree and repositioned everything because, damnit, spacing matters.
I have wielded our dust buster like an AK-47 in Afghanistan. One crumb hits the ground and I have suctioned it before it garners a second bounce. After months of constant abuse, the Black and Decker could take no more and breathed its last. Undeterred, I acquired a second dust buster and got back to work. I cannot live like an animal.
The Hot Urologist has dealt with my psychosis as any reasonable man would, he called me out. He had the audacity to suggest that my wild cleaning jags are simply a distraction to keep me from focusing on work and writing. He has some nerve.
I told him that that was patently absurd and that I just haven’t felt like writing - Covid depression. To shush him, I volunteered to spend at least 2 hours today writing. Who’s distracted now, sir?
Two whole hours of creating with my brain. Watch me do it. Right after I mop this floor…