My mind has become absolutely consumed by cleaning. I feel like my brain has eaten itself and all that’s left is white vinegar, rubber gloves and bar towels. Last night I had a nightmare about the bathroom floor. I wouldn’t describe myself as obsessive exactly (about this at least). My mother, I would describe as obsessive. I’m sure most children remember being reprimanded by their parents for leaving their shoes in the den, for dropping their coat in the hallway, for the pile of clothes that obscured your bed. My mother, however, seemed even more extreme, with excessive bouts of hand washing and squirts of sanitizer. We found ourselves constantly at odds for too many reasons to count, one of which was the fact that she thought I was a slob and that I always seemed to be losing things: my ballet slippers, my swim goggles, my car keys, my plaid dress uniform skirt. I’ve gotten better about this as I’ve aged, if only because I’ve realized that putting things in their proper place does actually help you find them quicker and isn’t just something your mother says when she’s annoyed with you.
Yes. Personal freakish behavior: scrubbing the smudges off the plastic containers of Clorox wipes with more Clorox wipes.