Listen To Me!

For some reason, folks don't take me seriously when I am absolutely serious. Perhaps this results from my affability complex, wherein I am afraid to be unpleasant or confrontational or even faintly at odds (Badger, witness my bobbing and weaving after you didn't profess complete agreement with my trashing of brain-filterless M. at school).

One thing I have no humor about is other people cleaning up in my house. See that header to the left? It says Compulsively, because that is the kind of person I am. Compulsive. And anal (don't laugh). The reason my house looks like shit all the time is because I don't like doing domestic tasks half-assedly. Either I'm going to do it the correct, painstakingly thorough and time-consuming way, or I'm going to let it fester. There is no in-between. I've little time for the proper approach, but I do not want anyone helping out because only I do it right.

Used to be I'd let things get really crazy before taming the jumble, as none of our regular visitors care about the mussedlyness anyhow. Nowadays we've Leelo's therapy all day, every day in the living room/playroom/only common room. That room has to be cleaned up--and perfectly so--every single damn day, so that the therapists know where to find everything. This is pressure. It makes me grouchy.

Today we had the fabulous Monday playgroup at our house. The weather has been verging on arctic, so the playgroup was largely an inside affair. Fine. The little buggers did their job, upending and redistributing all playthings with gusto. Fine, I've got my little system for putting it all back together quickly. No problem.

But then all the other moms started putting it all away. "Really, you don't have to do that." I said. "Oh, no problem." They said. "Really, I'm serious. I have a complex about it." I pleaded. "Well, you've got labels on your bins [see! Anal!] so that makes it easy." they responded. "I really don't want you to..." I whined. They ignored me and kept on until pretty much everything was off the floor and back in the bins. Then they left, feeling as though they'd done their duty by erasing evidence of our kids' campaign of destruction.

But here's the thing, my helpful kind friends. I am compulsive. So, after you left, I spent a good long time--longer than it would have taken me to just put it all back myself in the first place--dumping out each and every bin so I could check for and relocate misplaced toys and get it all just so for tomorrow morning's 8:30 A.M. therapy session. It made me grouchy. Goddammit! Listen to me!

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Leelo had a screaming fart of a day, with separation anxiety so piercing that he maintained hysteria for the first and only hour of poor Therapist L's efforts. He was a wee bit better for his later session with Therapist F, but still didn't get a whole lot of systematic, cornerstone-type work done. Still, he had good eye contact and spontaneous utterances such as stopping my singing by yelling "I don't like it!"

Iz made a sign for her door, using a white plastic baby hanger (the kind with the solid panel in the center) and a Sharpie. It says "Izzy's Private Reading Club," and is to be hung on her door so that people won't bug her while she's deep in a book.

Off to San Diego tomorrow.