This morning I stepped over the same pair of jeans three times as I got dressed.
Then, I went to the kitchen and saw all the dirty dishes sitting there. I made my breakfast and walked right past.
As I ate my eggs and sausage at the table, I glanced at all of my sewing stuff, just sitting there on our bay window (which is supposed to be for seating but usually ends up as a place to throw remnants from my current projects).
I started feeling really irritated. The back my neck itches.
I looked around the house. Crumbs on the floor. Oatmeal cemented to the table. Random dirty clothes from the week strewn around the house (Logan prefers the mobile-changing method). My heart starts racing a little bit. Is my eye twitching?
I can’t do anything until I clean this.
I start cleaning. I can’t clean one thing at a time. I start with the dishes and run around picking up things only to find I left the sink on. It’s A.D.D. cleaning. I’m running around like a maniac spraying, wiping and in some cases, soaking (oatmeal).
I don’t know what hit me, I just couldn’t stand it anymore. This is classic Danielle. Donnie has no idea what happened. All of sudden, I’m mad and cleaning.
I like to call it Delayed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. (Do you like how, half-way through this post, I’ve already diagnosed myself with two behavioral disorders?) Here’s what Delayed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is: I have to have certain things certain ways, but I’m not going to go out of my way to clean. I’m just going to get all pissy for no reason. Then, when I feel like my head is going to explode all over the clutter, I’ll start doing something about it.
I do have some regular OCD tendencies too. Like how I check my purse about 20 times a day for my keys and phone. Sometimes, I even keep my hand in my purse, holding my keys.
And at the grocery store. I put items in the cart in a specific order. By location. For example, canned, refrigerated, frozen, pantry. One time, Donnie went grocery shopping with me. He just threw things in, willy nilly. I’m all, “The fuuuu—, Donnie?” He doesn’t go with me anymore.
I put my groceries on the conveyor belt in the same order. If they aren’t bagged together perfectly, it’ll be fine (I tell myself over and over as I watch biting my lip). But, if the sacker were to just throw random items all over the bags: bread with cans, raw, drippy chicken with my baby food, I may scratch his eyes out.
I’m totally OCD-ing the crap out of the this blog post right now but I’m not going to edit it anymore because Donnie’s waiting for me to watch a movie and my house is clean, my groceries are put away and my keys are hanging on the hook. At least, I’m pretty sure they are. I’ll go check on my way.