OCD

I can't leave the volume on a prime number and hate it when clients stop on prime numbered reps.

The shiny things I own must be constantly polished. Fingerprints and blemishs give rise to chaos. Peace  is only achieved with a fine, microfiber cloth. Anything even suspected of coarseness will be discarded.

All doors must be locked before bed. They must be checked and re-checked. Sleep cannot be achieved until a locked state is confirmed.

Dirt...enough said.

Side note: anyone can clean dirt. Visible dirt is three levels beyond dirty. Even unseen dirt is an affront and must be dealt with abrasively.

Dust effects the speed of technology, therefore, cable boxes, The WII, my computer, and cell phone must be free and clear of dust at all times.

Under no circumstances should one willingly go to where bugs congregate. To enter the realm of bugs invites malaria, West Nile, or at the very least, nasty welts. Heed my warning: Bugs will contribute to our downfall.

I almost died once, the day Rachel licked the Rolex. It was cleaned within seconds of the violation, then discussed at length.

"You must never lick the Rolex."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Have we met?"

"That stupid thing.  I can't even hold your hand on that side for fear I'll rub up against it!"

"Right.  Because then you smudge-y it."

"Mmm-Hmm."

But I have vine ripened and relaxed somewhat with age. No, Rachel never treats the Rolex like a lolli, but neither do I insist we spend Saturdays cleaning the entire apartment. (Now I just do it when she's not looking).