Here’s the story of shopping, OCD, and a washing up bottle.
Apparently, I’m alone in thinking that going to work with a face covered in food is a bit weird. I suppose it depends where you work, really. A food factory? Sure, it shows you’re committed to your work, although a shirt with ‘I Heart Bacon’ might be preferable. But if you work on a farm, then a face covered in bacon might be seen as a tad cruel when serving up some delicious gruel to the little pigs. You see, we don’t have a kitchen anymore. And it’s not because I finally succeeded in accidentally burning it down or that it was repossessed as the result of some bizarre bet. We’re getting a new one. Anyway, this means we’re without a dishwasher so the entirety of our dishes are being washed in the bathroom. In the same sink I wash my face in. Needless to say, I thought this was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever witnessed, but person after person keeps telling me that there is nothing weird about it at all. Plates have food remnants on them. Remnants that end up in the sink. But people persist. If I have to go to work with a piece of food on my face, then so be it. Deal with it. But I’ll tell you this much. I will not be held accountable if I sneeze in public and a piece of broccoli comes flying out my nose…
It’s been testing my patience, readers. I’m not the most patient of people. Mum is cool. She cleans the sink after cleaning the dishes. Dad, on the other hand, no – he just leaves it caked in food. And they both told me the same thing. “Oh, will you grow up, it’s fine.” They don’t even use the sink! That’s, to all intents and purposes, my bathroom. They use their bloody ensuite! Don’t you hate living with people who don’t share your views on life? Our old house only had one bathroom. When it was being replaced, we only went a few hours without a toilet. “But, but what if I need to tinkle?” “Just go in the garden…” GO IN THE GARDEN! I’m living with bloody savages!
I say ‘only one bathroom’. It’s a very posh thing to say. I apologise. You just get so used to having three of them. Although, in my defence, by law, all new houses need at least two bathrooms, one on the ground floor and one on the first floor. Disability access. That said, new housing regulations also dictate you’re not allowed a washing line. The builder who built our house said it’s something to do with them now being classified as ‘potential accidental hanging hazards’. Have you ever heard of someone accidentally hanging themselves, somehow, using a washing line? No, I haven’t either…
I hate our downstairs loo, by the way. It’s right next to the kitchen. That’s such a design flaw. I don’t want to hear someone grunting away whilst I’m trying to have my din-dins.
Now, some would say that I should clean the sink, but firstly, it aint my job, and secondly, I cannot clean anything. Every time I try to, I fail miserably. So even if I did accept the ludicrous notion that I should be made to clean the sink, I wouldn’t succeed anyway.
Some would argue that I have a touch of OCD, but I would always counter that argument by saying that I’m just practical. When somebody invades my bathroom with dirty dishes, I’m not happy. And it’s not just the food floating ever so merrily upon the surface of the water that I’ve collected to have my shave. Something that hurts if you accidentally pick up a slice of chilli on your razor, precede to shave, and then scream as the chilli imbeds itself into a cut on your skin. Something that happened to me this week, something I would’ve thought was impossible before this week. But, as I often say, in my life, the impossible is a daily occurrence.
No, it’s not just all that, readers. Dad has put the washing up bottle on the windowsill. This has infuriated me. On my windowsill, there’s a mirror in the perfect location and there’s a clock on the other side. This is the perfect arrangement. When I have a shave, the razor is placed neatly to the right of the mirror, and the shaving accessories are placed in the same order, the same distances, on the left, every time I have a shave. This is perfectly normal. In my head. You put a washing up bottle in the middle of this, you’ve ruined the composition! It’s total anarchy! I can’t tolerate the mayhem! I need order!
“Ah,” you say, if you’re still reading, “put the bottle on the sink.” I can’t! It’s one of these modern sinks with slanty sides. You put anything on it, it just slides off. “Top of the toilet?” Oh, no. That’s where the scrubbing brushes live. There are quite a large number of them. “On the bath?” No, that’s surrounded by bottles of shampoo and other such stuff. “On the floor?” Are you kidding! Everything is the perfect location. Any disturbance to the equilibrium – I just can’t compute! “Huh?” Good suggestion. The bathtub floor. I did that. Dad put it back on the windowsill. “Don’t move that again,” he says. But you’re ruining the order! It took me ages to get it right! THINK OF THE ORDER!
And don’t get me started on the radiator. They put the wet tea towels on there. That’s where I put my clothes on the morning. So they’re nice and warm. Now they’re warm and soggy. “Just put them over the bathtub, then!” You shout. That’s not where they go! If somebody puts something in a location is doesn’t belong – it will bug me endlessly until it’s put back. My teeth with be grinding and I’ll be getting all itchy. Seriously.
As you’ve probably worked out by now, I’m a hoot to live with…
We’ve moved our kitchen into the conservatory. Well, it’s a makeshift kitchen, I suppose. There’s a fridge and a freezer in there. Full of water. We have no idea why. I must admit, I’ve been quite impressed with dad and his ability to cook things without an oven. Even if the microwave vegetables taste like cardboard, 10 out of 10 for effort. He says we’re going out for Sunday lunch. I don’t like going out anywhere. I suggested we order Sunday lunch and ask for it to be delivered. Sure, a takeaway Sunday lunch does sound like a ridiculous idea, but if any country were going to do it, it’d be this one.
Some would argue that I’m being ridiculous. Yeah, you’re right. No, really, I agree with you. I’m going to ignore you, though, because I’m adamant I’m right. Ridiculous, sure, but also correct. I refuse to believe that there isn’t at least one other person out there who does not share my hatred of people messing up our nice and ordered lives. So put the washing up bottle IN THE BLOODY BATHTUB!
Do you want to know how frazzled all this has made me, readers? I went shopping this week. Shopping! ME! Of all people! I’m nearly 26 and I’ve never been to buy clothes for myself. I’ve been with other people, but most of the time, people buy clothes for me. I’m a bit awkward. I know that must be a shock to you, readers. When people want to buy me a gift, they buy me clothes. But I needed a jumper. I mean, sure, it sounds stupid to buy a jumper in summer. And sure, it’s because where I work is bloody freezing, even though it’s my last week coming up of my work experience. And sure, it’s stupid me doing anything on Friday the 13th. Surprisingly, nothing went wrong.
Oh, sure, I was nervous. I was up all the night previous worrying. I don’t like being in public places and shops make me very frightened and feel very claustrophobic. I was hesitant. Adamant I wasn’t going to go shopping. The curse of the introvert. But I forced myself and it was fine. No nerves. Casually wandering around the shops. Like a normal person. Sort of. I was still a tad worried over the length of time that is socially acceptable to spend looking at an item of clothing in a shop. I was looking at a jumper for a good 10 minutes. I don’t know how to buy clothes. Mum always put them against my back to check the length, but I was alone, staring at a jumper, wondering if it would fit.
Don’t tell me to try them on in the changing room. I will not take my clothes off in public. Or go to a public toilet. Those are my two big social no-nos. Only lunatics do those things.
I got three jumpers. THREE! I’m so proud! And three t-shirts! I saw quite a few other things I liked, but I find fault with everything. I almost bought one shirt but I talked myself out of it. The stitching was too wide.
So yes, my patience has been tested this week but, funnily enough, for a week that ended on 13, it ended on a high. I got home with a huge smile on my face. I needed that.
Of course, upon sight of the washing up bottle on the windowsill, that smile was quickly wiped off…
American singer-songwriter, poet, violinist and actress, Emilie Liddell (b. 1979), once said: “I do not have OCD OCD OCD.”
Peace Out :|:
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the ‘Archives’ page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.
Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:
To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post
Hark Around the Words
New Post Every Sunday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post