Cleaning House, OCD style

My wife accuses me of being a slob sometimes. This is true. She also claims that I hate cleaning.

This is also true. But not for the reasons you might think.

As many of you might know, we recently put our house up for sale. And if any of you have ever gone through the experience, you know what that means: constant cleaning.

And yes, I hate cleaning, but not because it's dull, mindless and boring (much like 90% of television). I hate it because if I start it, I can't stop.

As far as I know, I don't have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (that would take too much energy from all of my other afflictions), where I have to turn around three times and jangle my keys in my pocket before I enter the house, or stop and immediately and do a push-up while singing 'Ave Maria' whenever a raindrop hits my head (wouldn't that be amusing, living in Seattle as I do?).

But somehow, somewhere in the back of my brain there's this nagging little itch whenever I start to clean. It starts out relatively small: I am cleaning out the kitchen, and I notice that there's a spot of grease on the gas range. No problem. I remove all of the heavy grills and wipe the spot with a bit of degreaser. Problem solved. Except... wasn't there an ucky feel to the grills when I grabbed them? I investigate and sure enough, there are chunks of dried whatever-the-hell Salome cooked the night before clinging to one tiny side of the grill.

I cannot abide this. That itch becomes stronger, and before I know it I am running warm water in the kitchen sink and grabbing a scrub sponge and viciously attacking it. 'DIE, Spot, DIE!!!' I repeat over and over in my head until I happen to look up and at the window above the sink and see a spider has spread a web on the outside of the house.

The grills are left mid-wash while I quickly run outside with a broom and attack it, but only then do I notice that the deck is stained with dead-leaf juice and needs my attention with the industrial sized scrub brush. But- ITCH- the grills are still in the sink and the water is turning cold! An existential moment of despair- where must I turn my attention to? Clearly it must go to the grout between the kitchen counter tiles and I MUST GRAB SALOME'S TOOTHBRUSH AND SCOUR IT MADLY while Satan whispers in my head that he thought he saw a rust colored ring in the toilet of the guest bathroom...

And then I crumple in despair. Overwhelmed, exhausted emotionally, I feel like Lady MacBeth scouring her hands with Derma-brase and shouting 'Out, damned spot, OUT!' While Salome is out butchering all the Thanes and various other royalty so that she may sit on the throne.

You see? Cleaning is a tragedy in the making.

It's all about mental health.