We have a room that is largely unused.

Well, I shouldn't say unused: it simply has no respectable purpose. It's the catch-all of the condo, kind of like that one drawer in the kitchen that attracts pens, paperclips, safety pins, pennies, and whatever else we happen to find lying around. We call the room an office, but the desk only takes up a teeny bit of the space. We used to have a futon in there (so it could have been used as a guest room, I suppose), but Nick sold that to my cousin a few months ago when she moved into her own apartment.

So, what has been sitting in the room? Baskets of clean, folded laundry belonging to yours truly. You know me and closets. I must defend, however, that I have not had a dresser since I moved in with Nick. I grew up with a big closet and two dressers, so it was a bit of an event figuring out how to store all my stuff with only a closet to work with (albeit a really big one).

I do not think my volume of clothing is absurd for no one has ever questioned my storage needs—heck, when I moved into my aunts' home, my dad came out and built additional areas to hang my clothes without any reaction (though, he may have just been dulled to clothing volume because of my mom's collection).

Nick, on the other hand, seems to think I have a lot of clothes. I find this laughable because his closet is all but bursting at the seams; he has four or five long containers that slide beneath the bed; AND he has a five-drawer dresser. All storage areas are full. (Of course, he doesn't switch out winter and summer clothes like I do, but still.)

Anyway, my storage system in this dresser-less existence was an impressive combination of baskets and stacked containers, but it required constant vigilance.

All that changed when I realized that I could fit a dresser in the room with the futon gone. That's right: after nearly six years, I have a dresser! It's wonderful! I spent a day reorganizing my clothing and other miscellaneous bits then decided that I might as well claim the whole room as sort of a closet-entryway…second-closet…outer-closet. By that evening, I was calling it my closet proper, and Nick was all, "Wah!?"



And behind the door:



I have found myself wandering into this room more, lighting candles and buying Wallflowers. It's absolutely sinful. I think Nick is in a state of bemusement. I did let him retain a tiny corner of real estate to keep his computer desk…see? I can share.

I decided to use my time away from work this week to give our home a really deep clean—you know, with my nose an inch away from the kitchen floor to see if that's dirt or part of the pattern to scrub accordingly. Knowing that every nook and cranny sparkles is a heady rush, and I wish I could maintain this level of clean constantly.

Unfortunately, that would take time that I do not want to pull from elsewhere, and this level of clean makes me not a little neurotic (and Nick not a little miserable):

Don't empty your pockets on the coffee table! Don't leave your shoes on the middle of the floor! Don't do ANYTHING in the kitchen!

If I let the sheen dull just a touch, the comparisons of me to Benito Mussolini are a bit more of a stretch.

I replenished my backup cleaning supplies earlier this week, and I felt very old and boring. I zipped into Target with a bounce to my step and left with two bulging bags. I was giddy, drunk on the shopping spree. I eagerly unpacked my bags the next morning, lining up my bounty on the table to admire my acquisitions.



My, how the times have changed. I had no baubles. There were no flirty flats or swirly skirts. There was nothing fun at all, and yet I was absurdly pleased—so pleased, you'll note, that I had to take a picture. It's times like this that I have to laugh at myself.

I remember giving my mother hell about her cleaning ways when I was a young child. "Why do we have to clean EVERY week!? Nobody else does this! None of my friends have to do this!" You see, I took it for granted that tabletops always shined, toilet bowls always sparkled, and that everybody's home carried the scent of lemon cleaning supplies…all without any work.

Despite my childish protests, she carried me along, and scrubbing became habit ("...Because we respect our possessions," she would say). Still, I vowed that I would never be the fiend that she was. I mean, when she would go to a store, she'd get all glassy-eyed and eager at the cleaning aisle—THE CLEANING AISLE! When Pledge advertised a new product, she'd run right out to get a can.

What a nutcase…

…and the transformation is nearly complete. Pft. I didn't ask for this, you know! It's a sickness, I tell you!

And for Heaven's sake, Nick, it takes one extra step to hang your coat IN THE CLOSET. What do you think this is?—a democracy!?

My mind is susceptible to detail overload: my thoughts become wild and race away in different directions. I am always so indecisive on which one of them to follow that I lose copious amounts of efficiency—it practically bleeds out of me. To offset this, I make lists.

I have been a list-maker for as long as I can remember. I feel this weird obligation to the almighty list. If it's on the list, I have to do it. Soon. This obligation makes lists the perfect weapon against my mental blur.

First thing Monday morning, I scribble down the big things I want to get done by the end of the week. As the week winds down, I start making lists for the tasks that pop up after Monday. Knowing I would have to spend a few hours working (from home) this weekend, I made an updated list yesterday morning when I got to work.

As I was cleaning my desk to leave for the weekend, I noticed that my Friday list was right next to my Monday list, and oh how different they were. Monday's list gave a vibe of can-do-it-ness and crisp positivity…but by Friday, the tone was considerably less optimistic. It's tired, cranky, and hinging on antisocial. Hmm. Looks like someone needs an attitude adjustment.

So, as a person builds (and breaks) more relationships during the course of life, it's only natural that some parts of those past relationships emerge in the present. It's the quirky stipulations that I find the most amusing. Before I met Nick, my romance ad could have read, "Must not play games." That is, computer games.

I must have made this little gem known up front because during our 17 hour conversation, I distinctly remember him promising, "I suck at games…so I never play." Major points for sucking, Nick!

Nick's ad could have read, "Must have quiet feet." I don't think that can be interpreted any other way. While he cannot stand shoes that make loud noises or people who drag their feet, the major offender is the flip-flop. In Nick's version of hell, I'm sure he'd be forced to listen to people walking in flop-flops all day and all night: incessant flip-flopping. That Lucifer is a crafty devil!

Of course, when I learned of this major deal-breaker, I was quick to tell him that I don't wear flip-flops because there's something undignified about having something shoved between your toes. Major points for me for being prissy.

Even though I never wear flip-flops, I have been more aware of the sound my feet make. I used to make a lot more of a CLAP! when I walked with heels—most of my mother's family seems to walk the same way with locked knees, long strides, heel-toe-heel-toe. Uncle Rick, who married into my mother's German family, used to call it our Hitler Walk. I've worked on it. Hopefully it's not so dictator-y anymore.

At work, I almost collide with this one woman every morning. She is coming out of her office as I am walking past in the hall, and she doesn't check her blind spot! I told her today that she needs a merge lane—she told me (after apologizing, again) that she usually hears when someone is coming, but that I must be a soft stepper.

Yes, I must be: it saves on marriage counseling fees. As long as he keeps sucking at games, I'll keep my feet subdued. It's only fair.

Nick has this…thing…for pancakes. I don't personally enjoy eating pancakes for breakfast: my body considers them rotten fuel to get me to midday. Nick's obsession bothers me quite a bit—mainly because I am the only person in residence who is capable of making pancakes (or so I am told). So when he starts in with his mumbles (looking through the cupboards, murmuring, "Hmm. What to have for breakfast…you know what would be perfect? PANCAKES!"), my feminist feathers get a little ruffled.

It's not that I mind cooking for someone, it's that I mind being expected to cook for someone: totally different. Nick becomes completely adorable when he goes into full-on pancake mode, and while I know that he doesn't expect me to serve him (he'd surely know better by now anyway), my right eye starts twitching.

I left him to his own devices when he got whiny last Saturday. My hair wasn't going to do itself, you know. He yelled countless questions from the kitchen to make sure he was doing everything correctly. When he started to get hysterical because he didn't know when to flip the pancakes, I called my hair done and went into the kitchen to shut him up help.

The oldest trick in the book: feign incompetence and someone will do it for you. Heck, I used it as a kid when I didn't want to wash dishes. I remember spending five minutes washing a juice glass once. Mom huffed and sent me to watch television so she could finish the job.

What? I was just being thorough.

So, yesterday afternoon I noticed we were precariously low on milk. (I make my pancakes with milk.) Being the evil person I am, I poured the last of what we had in a glass to drink. He went through his routine this morning, and noticing the empty milk jug in the recycling, pouted, "I bet we can't have pancakes without milk." Deflated, he flopped on the couch and stewed. I tried not to choke on my coffee.