Some houses have places for everything. Some houses have everything in their place. Some houses, such as mine, are lucky to have any place for all the things. Then there are those houses rule by iron wills, neatness freaks, or OCD women.
We all have quirks about things that just aren’t done, ever. Things like never setting your shoes on the bed. I can’t remember why, I just remember there was some curse my Grandmother swore would be visited upon me if I ever did it. Something about a hoard of locusts in my underpants. Or was that a hoard of underpants on the clothesline? Oh well, doesn’t matter. I never put my shoes on the bed.
In some homes you aren’t allowed to have food, snacks, or beverages outside of the kitchen or dining area, even if you are on your death bed. If you do you might die at the hands of the woman of the house. Some people require you to remove your shoes outside the door before entering or inside the door just after entering. There is probably a Grandmother’s curse, or some plague that will be visited upon you or the house if the rules are broken. But none can be as bad as the curses of the OCD woman if you break one of her house rules.
There are no written rules in the home of OCD woman – everything is verbal. Knowing this makes it a sure bet that you are going to break one of her rules. From the best I can understand, the rules go something like this, if it’s not your room it’s my room. My room – my rules.
Her rules include nothing on the floor(s) except carpet, tile and feet. Nothing on the counters. Nothing on the washing machine. All things in the closet must be on hangers or shelves. All drawers must be neat. All pens and pencils are to be kept in the supply baskets. No pens or pencils in the bedrooms. Nothing anywhere it doesn’t belong. There is no map to where things belong so people are constantly in trouble in this house.
OCD woman accepts no excuses. Even dropping something on to the floor for a couple minutes, in a rush to the facilities, is no excuse.
The other day OCD woman’s hubby was in a hurry when he came home from wherever it is that hubbies wander off to. He dropped his stuff and headed to the computer to see if his score had been beaten. A very important task in his mind, I might add. Not long after he arrived home he came running into the kitchen screaming to OCD woman, “what the hell is that smell? Something burning?”
OCD woman was standing there smiling. “Yup.” She doesn’t have to say much. “Your hat.”
“My hat? What are you talking ab……….” He noticed the spatula in her hand pointing to the stove where a perfectly melted, well-done hat was becoming char-done.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Hats don’t belong on the stove. Stoves are for cooking. You put it there, so I cooked it.”
So far there have been no more hats on the stove. Or bags on the floor. Or dumb, open mouthed looks on hubby’s face.
From the life and mind of:
Wanda M. Argersinger
All Rights Reserved 2009