Monday, January 23, 2006

the unbearable lightness of bleaching. Truth be told, there are things that are annoying about having mild OCD: It sometimes pretends not to be mild. Usually when I am holding a shaker of Comet and a gnarled cloud of steel wool. How can anyone be truly sure that the front door is locked? Let me check it 26 more times. I live in an apartment with white countertops. Porous, stain-sucking white countertops. I got caught snorting Downy in the laundry room. (Hey -- at least it wasn't Snuggle. That damn bear is a dealer.) There are also things that are brilliant about having mild OCD: It's always fun to have an excuse to make people clean up around you. Just make Crazy Eyes (tm) and everyone rushes to tidy your immediate environment. Sometimes the door really isn't locked. Or the patio. And the fridge is open. And the stove element is glowing red. And raccoons are in the pantry, for the love of Pete. Them countertops glow like the Heavenly Host. I was breathing Spring Fresh for weeks! I honestly love cleaning. And making things sparkle. And that strange burning in your eyes when you've been blinking into Clorox fumes for six hours? Awesome. But lately, to be honest, I've let things slip a little. Not in the countertopping or doorlocking or laundering sense, but just in the sense that any sort of order around me --- immediately around me, as in the bubble comprised of my bedroom, my personal things, my accoutrements -- is, well... nonexistent. I can't seem to get control of all the tiny pieces of paper and documents in envelopes and stray socks and stacks of clean laundry and English anthologies and picture frames and CDs and broken handbags and hair elastics and towels hanging to dry and oddly-coloured eyeshadows and Apple gadgets and velcro rollers and stray flip flops and sweaters in need of drycleaning and half-started projects and and bottles of vitamins and copies of Harpers and Allure and The New Yorker and Popular Mechanics (okay, okay, just the one issue.) I know that I have nice things in the midst of the chaos. I know that I'd feel better if I could just whip things into even slightly better shape. Then I come home from work and eat dinner and do a little more work and end up with just enough energy left over to smooth out the bed and check the corners of the room for squirrel infestation. I try to pretend that this is enough. I try to embrace the haphazardness of it all. But who am I kidding? I may not have the energy to organize, but this infernal lack of organization has me in a code blue tizzy. Why do I keep trying to make do when I could do better? It's like listening to Sheryl Crow when you want Janis Joplin. Like chewing sugarless gum when you really want a sundae. Like putting up Thomas Kinkade when you have Van Gogh in the attic. Like stuffing your turkey with packing peanuts. Like dabbing at yourself with a cocktail napkin after a hurricane. Like creating an unrelated series of similes when you really should have waited for one perfect metaphor. You see how nuts I've become? And If I leave it long enough, I might (and I know this from horrible, horrible experience) end up tossing random objects into garbage bags and putting half of what I own into the dumpster just to get a little freedom. That's not a good idea. That's OCD as "volcano", rather than my usual "dripping tap." So I need to do something. I knew this was the case today when I ripped through my Gmail archives like a madwoman, deleting email after email after email after email. Just pruning, I told myself. Getting rid of old correspondence with no sentimental value. Organizing. Breaking free. And then it was all gone. I am using 0% of my 2687 MB. It was the cyberequivalent of the garbage bag. Ack. So, tomorrow night, I am going to lock myself in my room until I have found a place for everything and everything is in place. Butterflies scare the holy marshmallow out of me, but I do feel the need to break free from a coccoon of sorts before it's too late. Except that my coccoon is made out of back issues of Cosmo and kleenex. Ew. 11:37:40 PM    well, yes, but...  [] ask not what your blog readers can do for you, but what you can do for... eh, whatever. Okay, people, I need some help here. It's Monday. Six o'clock just rolled into the station of my consciousness and was immediately derailed by a giant gale-force dose of ohpleasepleaseiamtootiredforthisrightnow. I tried to rewind my life, but I think the button is broken. Oh well. Instead I wrapped my coffee grinder in a blanket and held it to me tightly (not lovingly, though... no...) to muffle the noise of the blades hacking away at the Peruvian beans -- can't wake the roomies, you know. I realize that y'all are tired, too (and if you're not, keep it to yourself -- no one likes a sunshinepants), so I've come up with a way for us to keep one another in the game all day long. (Speaking of games -- GO SEAHAWKS! WOOHOO!) We're going to do a little group project. Now, I know how I feel about groupwork, especially when I am taken by surprise by such things. I can remember making a face in English 101 (well, I made lots of faces, but this face in particular was a doozy) when Stewart (was his name Stewart? Something like that. I'm actually pretty sure it's not Stewart and I knew the right name yesterday. Maybe Neal? Rueben? He was two years old. Or close enough. Masters candidate. Wore Edwardian jackets...) first told us about our in-class criticism groups. He looked at me, cringing in my seat by the window (the snow was falling, it was lovely), and said, "Do you have a problem with that?" "No." "I saw you make a face." "No, that's just how my face looks." "It does not." "No, I really can't help how my face looks." "I'm not talking about how your face looks, I'm talking about your expression." "I don't have an expression." (blank expression, silence) "Okay, so what I was saying before Ms. Fowler had no facial expression..." You get my point. I just made it at length. Groupwork = ugh. But this is for a greater cause than a furthered understanding of T.S. Eliot (really, I promise, it is...): keeping everyone entertained and alert all freakin' day long. Doesn't that sound like a worthwhile use of time? And I promise that at NO POINT WILL WE HOLD HANDS. Unless that's a selling point, and then everyone may hold the hand of the person they came with. Here's what I want (am begging tearfully for) you to do: In the comments section of this here humble and unworthy entry, please provide the following: One good website to click on -- either a cool site, or a funny site, or a site that makes you go "hmmmm..." just like C + C Music Factory did way back in the day. A song that everyone should get off of iTunes. One word to describe your state of mind or being. One venting statement to clear your mind of all crabbiness. A link to a recipe for something I can make tonight that a) has no carbs; b) does not cost the earth to make; c) has no fruit or sugar in it. Yes, I know this eliminates 98.5% of everything good in the universe. BUT WORK IT, PEOPLE. Anything else you'd like to include for posterity. Okay. There's the plan. I know some of you will do this automatically because you support me in comments anyhow ("Oh, it's not enough to say that you're funny? Damn you."), but there are a few of you lurking (and I don't like that word, I must admit. It feels like you're reading my blog from under my bed, and if you ARE doing that, can you PLEASE DUST) who might just go, "I'm going to go read Dooce. She doesn't have comments. She knows the internet has no time for such things." FIND THE TIME, INTERNET. I need to stay awake and perky and entertained and I need some linkies to clicky during my lunch hour. Which I generally take at my desk. Because the people around me are fun. That, and I might be enticed to buy muffins if I venture out. And you can use all the linkies, too! How great is that? We can all be low-carb, dancing, totally-entertained folks! Even you people under my bed! Going to finish getting ready now. But I'm counting on y'all. DON'T DELAY. IT COULD BE TOO LATE IF YOU DELAY. Oh yeah, and GO SEAHAWKS! 6:22:29 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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