An OCD he’s not, God love him!

Washing day here. Great day for it. Lots of sunshine and warmth, bit of a breeze happening. All adds up to perfection for clothes and linen.
Nothing like the smell of sunshine and the breeze in your freshly washed clothes, sheets and towels.
Anyhow, I’ve just gone to hang mine out, in my own inimitable manner, and my SO said he would give me a hand.
Now, I was good! I suppressed the small shiver that threatened to engulf me! I thought it was a sweet offer!
I’m not an ungrateful person, and part of the reason I love this man is because of things like this. He’s always more than willing to help where he can, so being the nice person I am, my only reaction was to say thank you sweetheart, that would be nice.
As we were doing the task (with me only having to change a FEW little things…eg, peg colours were wrong, towels only had 4 pegs instead of 5, little things like that) I told him about my hanging the washing post and that the other girls wanted me to post photos once I got a USB cable. Following is the (very) short conversation regarding same:

HIM: “Hmmm…guess I won’t be helping that weekend then?”
ME: “Why darl?”
HIM: “Cos there’s your way and God f**king help me!!”

And still, I love him regardless of the blood he very inconsiderately left on the verndah and tiles as he ran for bandages!

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.

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Erks me long time

Cupboards and drawers must always stay closed. I don’t want to see them open even a fraction of an inch. I don’t want them ajar . at . all.

And I don’t want to see anything poking out of them. No clothes, no towels, nothing. I like them clean looking so that means that whatever is in the cupboards and/or drawers, must be completely inside. No poking out. Ever.

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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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A little down time

Okay, so I threw my back out the other day causing me to be bed-ridden most of the weekend *ughhh!* which in turn made my house completely and totally unruly. It was a mess, noone picked up after themselves. The dishes were piling up. There were empty glasses in the living room. Dirty clothes were spewed everywhere. The dog was starving and becoming quickly dehydrated. I was not happy.

But then . . then, the husband decided he wanted “to help”. He did laundry. He cleaned the kitchen. He attempted to fold my towels. And he rearranged the bathroom towels. And he put dishes up where they don’t belong. And he folded my towels! And he swept the kitchen floor the wrong way. And he didn’t pick up the poop off the floor. And he folded the towels! And he left wet laundry in the washer. And he gave the dog too much water *yes, he can have TOO much* And and .. and he folded my towels!!!

I understand he was trying to help, but he wasn’t helping. Once I’m up and running again *which I’m hoping is tomorrow!!* I’ll have to redo everything. Until then I’ll just wince and cringe at everything he touches.

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Seeing the light

People are starting to come to their senses about what really matters in life AND searching for it. Finally!

One of the search terms used yesterday to find this little den of compulsion was…***drum roll please***

Correct way to hang washing!!

I was so excited when I saw it I had to go and do a machine load JUST so I could hang it out the RIGHT way (read MY way)

Bring it on baby…bring it on!! Come and learn from the experts my little pretties…we’ll teach you the right way to do things (as a bonus, we’ll also advise on penalties for those stupid enough to try and change the way of OCD’s)

WOOHOO!!

**Doin’ the happy dance**

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.

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The exercise wheel

I’ve spent several months enjoying the fact that I’m not exercising. When I’m not in exercise mode, there’s one less thing to obsess about. But it’s getting close to the time when I need to start again, and when that happens, things get ugly. It starts out with a leisurely 30 minute walk – not too fast, gotta work the muscles slowly ya know, so they don’t get too sore and I don’t end up screwing with my knee and my foot. After a week of this, I notice that I’ve started timing stuff. Did I do a mile in at least 15 minutes? Did I start exactly at 3:45 and end exactly at 4:15? Now let’s add some weight work after the 30 minute walk. Did I do every rep perfectly? Arms and abs on Tuesday. Legs on Thursday. Fridays off. No variations are allowed. Pretty soon I’m up to a 45 minute walk every day (3 miles, no more no less) and ending at 4:30 sharp. When I start adding some jogging during my walk, I get even more obsessive. Did I add 10 more minutes of running per session each each week? Is my knee OK? When the knee gets really sore I can’t run, then I obsess over the fact I’m not doing what I’m “supposed” to do. The inevitible disappointment and anxiety sets in.

Then there’s the record-keeping. Spreadsheets and graphs to keep, with steady progress noted. Since I’m bound to be trying to lose weight too, there has to be calorie and fat counts every day and measurements taken every week. Again, steady progress shown on the graph means I’m a success. Any plateau or backsliding means failure and causes anxiety and depression.

This is not the way I want my life to be. I’ve tried to take a much more holistic and less obsessive approach to exercise, but I can’t seem to help ritualizing everything. Ken doesn’t treat his exercise this way – he gets his workout done and if it’s not a good one, he just tries again the next day. It doesn’t faze him, he accepts it. If he misses his workout time, he just does it at another time. ANOTHER TIME. I don’t know how he does it. If I don’t adhere to my schedule, the whole rest of the day gets thrown off.

After about 4 months of this regimen, I’m exhausted and frazzled. I throw in the towel and spend my time after work reading a book instead of exercising, and feeling much more relaxed and content. My weight is regained and my muscles go slack. I think about how I should be exercising, but I know what will happen…

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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