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!

Gladware

What is it with me?  I cannot stop buying disposable Tupperware, preferably “Gladware”.  Just when I thought I had it under control, and all my tuppies are in order – I see they have Halloween Gladware available at Tar*get and Wal*mart.  Shit!  How am I going to recover from this addiction if they don’t stop coming out with cute designs.  I feel like a kid in a candy store when I get to that isle in the store.  I actually get a surge of excitement!  Adorable ghosts, pumpkins, and witches with different colored lids.  What could be better?

I hate it when I start out with PERFECT Gladware, and if I don’t take great CARE with it,  it gets discolored, or this kind of white crusty stuff on it.  If one of the kids throws it into the dishwasher with food bits in it, sometimes it becomes encrusted onto the Gladware and that means it has to be thrown away.  Even if it becomes to scratchy looking, it’s garbage.  It must be clean and CLEAR.  Why?  Well, it LOOKS dirty to me, That’s FUCKING WHY!!!

It makes me happy to open my cabinet and see all of my loverlies lined up and ready to go.  In all shapes and sizes with matching lids.  A lid is missing?  WHAT?  The container is banished to the garbage.  I cannot have an extra container laying around without its partner.  Why do I put so many into my shopping cart?  Well, what if there is a plastic shortage? 

  Does anyone else suffer with this?  When I saw the latest Halloween edition, I was piling it into my shopping cart like a mad woman, my son (11 yrs) said, “Wow, mom, do you really need all of that?  Didn’t you just buy some of that last week?”

Ugh, if he only knew the half of it!

~Bella

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.

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Cleanliness rocks my socks

 

I don’t trust any kind of cleaner that I can’t smell. Take the new Clorox Anywhere spray cleaner mumbojumbo. It’s like water. Water. It has no smell. No color. It’s like spraying water everywhere, and cleaning it off. How do you know for sure that it’s actually clean if you can’t smell the cleanliness?

I like the smell of cleaners. Wood polish, yes please! Windex, over here! Bleach, hells yes. Give me some bleach, and I’m a happy camper. I mop with bleach water. Always. Twice a week. No fail.

A few weeks ago, the daughter came home from being away at her dad’s for a week, and I had just finished mopping the kitchen and bathrooms.

Her: *sniffs around* What’s that smell, Ma?

Me: I just mopped.

Her: Yeah, but what’s the smell? *sniffs more*

Me: It’s bleach.

Her: *big sniffff* Mmm, Mama, it smells soooo goood!

Me: Yes, that’s called cleanliness.

Her: My dad’s house doesn’t smell like cleanliness.

Me: *my heart bursted wide open, smiling from within* No, huh?

Her: No, that’s why I like living here.

Me: Good answer.

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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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Counting

I’ve been thinking about the whole OCD “counting game”. It occurred to me that while I do some things similar to you other OCD bloggers, my counting rituals are a bit different.

I guess I AM a bit supersticious? 6 is a badluck, evil number to me so I avoid it at all costs. If I grab a handful of creamers for my coffee and wind up with 6 (OMG, NO!!!) I will put one back or grab another. 13 is also NOT on my (+) list.

When I kiss my kids on the cheek or goodnight, I kiss them 7 times. WHY? Because, don’t you see, 7 is an “ok” number. 7 happens to be 1/2 my goodluck number of 14). I don’t want to kiss them 14 times, otherwise I’d be standing there all day, so I opt for 7 – it’s still part of “lucky” and it wont take as long – or make my kids crazy because their mamma is hanging off of their face trying to get her OCD fix.

All of this and more…. I’ll post more as I recognize them for what they are. Little quirks that make me, ME.

Can you imagine if I weren’t on medication?

*Bella*

D-E-A-L

There wasn’t an exact moment when I first discovered that I had OCD. My body didn’t just get up one morning and say, “Self, I now pronounce you with OCD. For the rest of your fucking life. So deal!”

It slowly crept into my life, taking over my world a little bit more each day. I would notice little things that would easily get to me if they weren’t perfect, and I would quickly arrange them so that they’d be P-E-R-F-E-C-T. It had to suit me, it had to make me comfortable, it had to be perfection in my eyes. It didn’t matter to me if others thought it was wrong, or taboo, or just plum crazy. If it made me happy and content, that’s all that mattered.

To this day, I have no worries. It’s me. It’s what I’m about. It’s what I am. It’s what I will be. I don’t fight it. I don’t ignore it, nor try to push it away. I deal with it, I go on. I live my life, and the issues and quirks that I have are right there beside me, every step of the way. Do I mind? No, not at all. It’s what makes me who I am. And I love who I am.

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Obsessions

If you don’t have any strange little idiosyncracies or obsessive habits, then you’re in the wrong place! Cos that’s what this is about!!!
After discussions with other bloggers within our community, we’ve found many of us have little “foibles”. (and in fact I “borrowed” the name of a post for the name of the blog)
It could be that if you fold our towels wrong we’ll hunt you down and hurt you, or we may simply redo them The point is, you just never know until you’ve done it whether or not it’s going to upset us. (God help the person who folds mine wrong I can tell you!)
Anyhow, I’m hoping there will be {about} half a dozen people who post. Between us we have extensive blogrolls so we may even get some traffic!
If not, then it will get deleted and put down to experience.
Time will tell