When I was a kid, used to be that I couldn't fall asleep if the towels next to my sink (which I could see from my bed) weren't hanging straight on their racks. I didn't think much of it then, and in retrospect it's kinda cute in that quirky, tweenage OCD way.
But like everything else (belching in public, or lifting your skirt up over your head to show off those kickin' new panties) you grow up and it's not cute anymore. Not one bit.
The bad thing about moving is that there's a lot to do. And the bad thing about me moving is that there's a lot for me to do - or so I think. I lack that innate ability to look at a pile of dirty dishes and say ehhhhh...I'll do that later. Not I. I have to wash the dishes, then take out the trash and sweep the floors and hang some photos and vacuum the carpet and make tomorrow's lunch and run to the grocery store and...the list goes on.
My ability to clean tirelessly is admired by many, but it's a monkey's paw (a concept only recently introduced to me; means you get one much-desired wished granted, but not without great expense; i.e. you wish for a million dollars and you get it - but only after your beloved Great Uncle Alfred kicks it and the insurance payout comes your way). I can clean like nobody's business, but god...I just can't seem to stop myself. And sometimes there's other things I'd like to be doing - like petting my cat or reading a book.
You know. The good stuff.
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