First they binge, then we purge

As I sit here watching Bucket of Blood on TCM, I find myself reflecting on the day’s activities and find myself feeling damn smug.    Porque’ Observant, you may ask.  Why have you puffed yourself up to the size of larger-than-life Jack O’Lantern?  

 Because today I purged.

Ken has left town for the weekend and I spent my day reorganizing his crap.  His boxes and boxes of man-crap that were moved into the house over a year ago and have been hogging up space ever since.  Since my son will be moving back home in December, his old room needs to have the old kiddie wallpaper stripped and be repainted (or rewallpapered, depending on the condition of the plaster underneath).  His room is the room Ken moved all his thousands of boxes into 15 months ago, and that is where they’ve sat. 

So today I opened them up and reorganized them.  What was once 10 boxes is now 5.  And they all fit into the hall closet.

But the really exciting part was finding his paperwork.  The paperwork he could not bring himself to throw away when he was packing up to move in.  Yes, I’m talking about 10 years worth of phone bills and credit card statements and auto repair bills (for cars he no longer owns), Ten years of cancelled checks and bank statements and investment statements.  I dumped them all into two large trash bags.  Without his consent.

I was half terrified and half enraptured with myself!

And then I panicked.  What would happen when I told him?  Would this be the one thing he’d not be able to forgive me?   As a compromise, I did not put the trash bags in the trashcan; I left them in the house.  As a gesture of respect, I kept and reorganized his tax paperwork (even though he’ll never need those 1995 tax statements).   

A few hours later he called to say he’d gotten to his destination.  “Honey, I did something real bad” I said in a rush, hoping he wasn’t really listening.  “I got really really busy cleaning stuff up and I needed some room in the closet so I threw away your old receipts and stuff.   But I kept the trash bags for you and if you want I’ll put it all back.  Okay?”    I waited for him to respond.  Would this brazen act of OCDness send him over the edge? 

“Aw, it’s OK” he said.  “That stuff needed to be thrown out anyway.” 

It did?  Since when?  In the conversation I remembered, he explicitly nixed my idea of tossing the phone bills from 1999.  Ditto with the insurance statements from 2003.  I remember him practically snatching his precious files from my careless little hands and holding them close to his chest.  “No I’m keeping these” he said firmly.   The 8 expando files moved into my house, where they sat untouched for 15 months.  

This news that he’d finally “let go” of his paperwork indicated real progress!  

I’m holding out hope that my hoarder-in-residence will see the light and embrace the concept of minimalism I find so comforting.  Maybe someday we’ll go down to the basement together, where the rest of his really important stuff resides, and do some purging as a couple.  And perhaps, while we purge, we can listen to the cassette tape of Hot Christian Favorites I found in his other stuff today.   We’ll groove to the sounds of Change Your Ways while I give him a knowing smile, appreciating the double meaning of the tune, given the circumstances. 

Well, I can dream, can’t I?

So much to do, so little time

I’ve had a few weekends like this recently. It’s the reason I blog so much. There’s a record of what I’ve done!
I decide I need to wash the car.
As I head to the garage, I notice there’s mail on the kitchen table.
I decide to go through the mail before I wash the car.
I put my car keys down on the table, put the junk mail in the rubbish bin, and notice that the rubbish bin’s full.
So, I decide to put the bills back on the table and take out the rubbish.
But then I think, since I’ll be near the mailbox when I take out the rubbish, I might as well pay the bills first.
I take my chequebook off the table, and see there’s only one cheque left. My extra cheques are on the desk in the study.
So I go to the desk where I find the can of Coke I’d been drinking. I’ll look for my cheques, but first I need to push the Coke aside so I don’t accidentally knock it over.
Because the Coke is getting warm, I decide to put it in the refrigerator. As I head toward the kitchen, a vase of flowers on the bench catches my eye because I can see they need to be watered.
I set the Coke down on the bench, and discover the reading glasses I’ve been searching for all morning. I decide I’d better put them back on my desk, but first I’ll water the flowers.
I set the glasses back down on the bench, fill a container with water and suddenly I spot the TV remote.
Someone left it by the computer. I realize that tonight when we go to watch TV, we’ll be looking for the remote, but nobody will remember where it is.
So I decide to put it back where it belongs, after I water the flowers. I splash some water on the flowers, but most of it spills on the floor.
So, I set the remote back down on the table, get some towels and wipe up the spill. Then I head down the hall, trying to remember what I was planning to do.

At the end of the day; the car isn’t washed, the bills aren’t paid, there’s a warm can of Coke sitting on the bench, the flowers aren’t watered, there’s still only one cheque in my chequebook, I can’t find the remote, I can’t find my glasses, and I don’t remember what I did with the car keys. Then when I try to figure out why nothing got done today, I’m really baffled because I know I was busy all day long, and I’m really tired.

Yes, I realise this is a serious problem, and I’ll try to get some help for it! It’s driving me NUTS! Normally I’m THE most organised person in the world!

I think I need a drink!

Vacuum woes

I try to vacuum my house every day, so I was quite heartbroken when my vacuum decided to crap out on me. It was a very reliable vacuum, too. I’ve had it almost 7 years and it’s never given me an ounce of trouble. But gradually, it just started going downhill, not wanting to suck and clean properlly. I was not going to have that, either!

So it farted out, which meant I had a decision to make since buying a new vacuum is not really in my budget .. electricity for the month or a new vacuum. Which one – which one. It was an incredibly hard decision to make, but in the end, I made the ultimate decision of getting a vacuum. I just gotta figure out how I’m going to make use of it in the dark *sigh*

Online banking

A few years ago, my bank account was totally wiped out. I don’t know who did it. I don’t know why. All I know is that I went to the ATM one morning, and I was 500 bones in the red. The bastid had taken all of my money, plus some. I don’t have much to begin with, so when someone stole my money, I was completely heartbroken. I was devistated. I was angry. I was scared.

After many phone calls, trips to my local bank, and waiting patiently for two weeks, my money was back in my account. I was relieved, somewhat.

That was a few years ago. To this day, I still check my online banking at least ten times a day. TEN times. A day. Sometimes more, if it’s been stressful. I have to check it. I have to make sure that nobody is trying to take my money. I have to make sure that if something changes, I know then and there what it is, why it changed, and how much money is left. I never want to be in the situation I was in ever again.

:: :: :: Red :: :: ::

Totally anal

It’s official. My self-diagnosed OCD is an actual affliction!  And I wish that was MY ass.  I could kill that chick for her ass.  It bothers me a little that her ass is kind of not completely covered though.  And they can forget about me disorganizing my alphabetized CD collection.  That’s NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. 

You Are Totally Anal Retentive

Yup, you’re so uptight – people definitely have called you “anal.” You’re the type of person who’s so OCD you organize your M&Ms before eating them. You have so many rules and rituals, it’s hard for you to let loose and enjoy life. So go ahead and mix up your alphabetized CD collection. Live a little!

Are You Anal Retentive?

Posted by observant

When OCD meets chaos

What happens when a well organized clean freak female hooks up with a messy, can’t-bear-to-throw-anything-away man? Can this relationship survive?

I’ve developed a selective blindness when it comes to spaces solely occupied or used by Ken – his car, his workbench, his dresser, his desk. These are areas I just simply skip over when performing my obsessive housecleaning rituals, preferring to leave everything the way I found it for fear that if I started straightening and throwing away, it could go on for hours. Or days.

Also, Ken would kill me. He knows where everything is in these messes of his. Or at least he thinks he does.

“Honey, don’t we have an electric pencil sharpener around here somewhere? he asked last Thursday evening. “Sure we do” I answered, gazing with practiced dismay at the piles and piles of flotsum and jetsum littering his desk. “It’s here somewhere.” “Are you sure you didn’t throw it away” he asked, his tone clearly indicating that’s exactly what he thought I did with it.

Ken has a fast and firm belief that if something can’t be found in our house, it’s because I threw it away. In his opinion, I throw entirely too much stuff away, including actual trash.

“Where’s that empty box?” Ken will ask, rooting around the house.
“What box?”
“You know, the Amazon box I got my bike books in last year”
“I threw it away 11 months ago” I answer.
“Oh” Ken will answer, obviously sad and disppointed in my lack of foresight that an empty box will be needed within the next year.

Last summer, after we’d dated for 6 years, Ken moved into my house. While I was helping him pack up his apartment, I made a discovery that still haunts me to this day: Ken has a “problem” throwing things away. Drawers and closets were filled with empty boxes, saved plastic yogurt containers, empty margerine tubs, broken small appliances – you name it, he saved it. His storage space was filled practically to overflowing with nothing but pieces of wood – plywood, 2×4s, oak, fiberboard – old tires, broken bicycles and 50 years worth of paperwork.

After filling trashbag after trashbag with the treasures my little prairie boy felt he couldn’t part with, I turned to him and asked the question that had begun to haunt me: “Honey, I need to know something and I need for you to tell me the truth.”

“Sure babe, what’s on your mind?”

“Ken, are you a hoarder? I mean, if you are it’s OK, it’s just that I just can’t live with you if you are. I have to have order in my house and I cannot – repeat, cannot – have hoarding in my house.”

“Well, if you’re asking if I have a problem with throwing this stuff away, I don’t.” he said. To Ken’s credit, he took my implication that he might have a well-hidden mental disorder quite well. We got him moved in to my house – sans empty boxes and scrap lumber – where we’ve lived in cohabitating bliss for the past 14 months. I have politely ignored his assigned areas, where he is allowed to pile his “treasures” to his heart’s content, until last Thursday night’s “where’s the electric pencil sharpener” conversation.

“Are you sure it’s not on your desk somewhere?” I asked Ken.
“No, it couldn’t be here” he answered.
“Are you sure?” I said, making a sweeping gesture with my hand over the messiness stacked willy nilly.

To prove my point that, not only could an electric pencil sharpener be well-hidden in his mess, but that there could possibly an entire case of unshapened pencils in there, here is a picture of the desk:

***Warning: View discretion advised. If you suffer from a severe form of organizational and/or cleanliness OCD, viewing the following picture may cause permanent damage!***

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Note that there is NO working space left on the desk, whatsoever. When I mentioned this fact to Ken on Friday night, he (like the good soldier that he is) decided it could use a good straightening. As I looked on, clapping my little hands with glee, Ken put his papers in order, and (this is the best part), threw things away.

Three hours later, the job was complete. Now there workspace on his desk – which probably didn’t do a thing for Ken, but made me feel all warm and cozy inside! Just take a look at this “after” picture. and while you’re at it, check out the object indicated by the green arrow:

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…the mystery of the missing electric pencil sharpener has been solved!

Nail fetish

I’m a nailbiter. I have done this disgusting habit for as long as I can remember. Heck far, I probably even came out of the womb with fingers in my mouth, trying to chew off nails with my soft gums.

It’s a nervous habit I have. It’s something I do when I’m bored. It’s a time passer for when I’m driving or riding in a car. It’s something I do when I’m waiting, even though I try to be patient, those nails always find their way into my mouth. It’s gross, I know it’s gross and completely unlady-like to chew on fingernails. I know this, I have been made aware of this all throughout my 28 years. I know already!

But, alas, I don’t chew my toenails, as I do know some that do. Oh nooo, my toenails are something completely different. The nails on me toes are always perfect.

Buffed and sanded, moisturized and gleaming. They’re rounded and shaped, oiled and painted. They’re top-coated and beautiful in a deep shade of red. Always. ALWAYS.

Even in the winter time when absolutely noone sees my footsies, my toes are always pretty. And they stay pretty. I make sure of that as I give myself a weekly pedicure. If the paint chips or smudges just a little smidge, just a fraction of a tadbit, I have to do it over again – All the nails. I have to make them perfect, even if noone sees them. I know that there’s a mistake and I just won’t have it. My fingernails may look like shit, but my toes? My toes are perfection.

:: :: :: Red :: :: ::

Weekend getaway

 

I had the weekend to myself.
The child was at her dad’s house.
The husband was in Louisville, looking after his Mamaw as she recovered from surgery.

I was left alone. For three days. I would assume that most women might take a break if they had the weekend to themselves. Perhaps go shopping. Go out with the girls. Take in a few movies with a pizza and a couple of beers. They might possibly catch up on the latest book they’re reading or a trashy celeb magazine. They would do what they’d want to do. I could see it happening.

Me? I cleaned. Yes, I cleaned while my lovelies were away. I had time to clean. Thoroughly clean without interruption. Without someone coming behind me and messing something up. Without someone stopping me halfway through the mopping of the kitchen, or when I was elbow deep in dish water. I got to detail my house, and I enjoyed every moment of it.

It was nice.

:: :: :: Red :: :: ::

Bathroom shtuff

This entry was taken from this post over at my other joint.

There are very few things in this house that are sacred just to me. Everyone seems to have their hand in my shtuff, no matter how much I tell them it’s M-I-N-E, not yours. Don’t fuck with it. It’s mine. There are few things under this roof that noone, besides me, dares to touch: My teeth being #1, my Reverend Horton Heat CDs because “they’re just too fucked up“, my guava juice because “it’s just soooo nasty!” and my underlovelies. Everything else seems to be community property and that erks the living shit out of me.

Even my feminime products. What the fuck is he plugging up with them?

My OCD kicks in, and I don’t want my shit touched. I don’t want it moved, used, breathed on – fuck, don’t even look at it. If it’s mine, it’s mine and that means it’s not yours.

And this is when the shit hits the fan . . .

In our bathroom, we have a double vanity. Two sinks. One is his, one is mine. I keep both of them clean and tidy. He has his toiletry items on his side, I have mine. I have 4 items. He has a variety of colognes, a beard trimmer, aftershave, razors, soap, plus several other things. If I go through the room 20 times a day, I’ll make sure everything is squared away, perfect, in their places. If they aren’t, I fix it. And I’ll do it 20 times a day if I have to.

I go in there the other night to take a shower and get ready for bed, and all my items, are turned around. I wasn’t too happy. I questioned my husband and he laughed, saying I was silly to be that way, to be so ridiculous about my things, that I shouldn’t worry about that sort of thing. “They’re just turned around, geeez!” he says.

It’s my shit, I like it a certain way, I’ll keep it a certain way. Don’t fuck with it.

About 10 minutes later, his shit was gone. In the trash. Done. Gone. I then proceeded to clean out the fridge, and the dog’s mess. And all of that went into the can as well. On top of his shit. If he wanted his things back then he can dig through the trash and get them. Oh he was beyond pissed, and I was already seeing red. If you don’t have OCD, you don’t know. You don’t know how it feels. So I did what came to mind first, I got rid of his shit. And smiled the whole time he was digging through the trash.

Moral: Don’t . Fuck . With . My . Shit.

/rant

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I am unable to pass by….

I am unable to pass the copy machine at work without getting rid of the papers sitting on them.  No, I’m not nosy, it’s just that they DON’T belong there.  There they sit all “willy nilly” and it drives me nutz!

If I am at my workstation and print something out (personal or otherwise) I get off my duff and pick it up.

But 9 times out of 10, I walk by the printer and there are usually a handful of miscellaneous papers that just need to BE GONE.  It makes me very uneasy!  There is only one person that knows about this and she just chuckles and I riffle through the papers and find their proper places

Does this one get you too?