I can’t leave my bedroom until I have made the bed, with all the pillows perfectly upright, the mirrors with finger prints removed, and the closet neat and tidy, sinks and counter cleaned immaculately.
My house is on the market. Realtors can show up at any time, and they show up on schedule too. Three times a day I am gathering up my stuff and heading to the door, with teenaged son and dog enzi.
Quickly we skedaddle.
We barely eat at home.
True, I made oatmeal today, but cleaned it all up, even wiping down the sink. My son, who should be fine with fast food is feeling guilty that he is eating too much of the stuff.
The other day we all three evacuated the house for a showing. We were looking for lunch, and my husband offered that we go get a tuna sandwich–
“Where would we go get that?” I questioned him.
“Oh, at 7 Eleven” he informed us.
Seth and I looked at each other with horror–“tuna funa from 7 eleven? you gotta be kidding. That’s a sure sign that you have been traveling too much if that sounds good.”
Yes, I think he has been known to eat egg salad at the airport. I would never eat egg salad at the airport. Who is this guy?
I think we ended up at the Paradise Bakery for turkey sandwiches and butternut squash soup. And chocolate chip cookies–the mini ones. My choice.
But on the whole, having a clean home, the bedroom looking like an upscale 5 star hotel, with orchids in the bathroom, and a basket of soaps and shampoo all nestled together is going to spoil me for sure–or make me neurotic. I already straighten picture frames. And pull weeds if I see them.
I have all the makings for being the anal retentive housekeeper.
