Tonight, I Unleashed My Inner OCD...
...and oh, it felt good!
I came home from work and skipped the nap and didn't even pet the unicorn, put my hair up, put on my kitchen slippers, and went right to work.
(Those of you--you know who you are!--who have been promised candy...it's finally done! I will be shipping it this weekend!)
I made six-dozen filled candies of various sorts and nine peanut butter eggs for Bobby. (Being the confectioner's husband is all nice and all except you only get the broken pieces or the ones that turned out funny. So I made these special for him!) The other day, I stopped at the candy shop and picked up more molds, so making filled candy en masse is ten times easier.
And after that, I unleashed my inner obsessive-compulsive-disorder child. Oh, she hasn't been out in a looong while so she came out with a vengeance!
I scrubbed and sanitized all of the kitchen but the floors (which desperately need it, but tomorrow is another day.) Ai, my kitchen was a mess. I am a germophobe, so my kitchen is always clean...but often a mess. There is a difference, you see. I bleach my surfaces every time we use the kitchen. I think that I was born with a bleach sprayer in one hand and a clean dishtowel in the other. I always worry more about what I can't see than the big blob of chocolate dripped on the stove because the blob of chocolate doesn't give 33% of Americans food poisoning each year. (Did I really just say that?? Go away, PSA!Dawn!)
I don't know if I've gone so OCD without warning since I worked at The Piece and got to go OCD pretty much every day. Eru, Bobby used to hate the nights when we'd cook together and I'd be the closer, so he'd be stuck waiting for me to scrub and bleach every surface, squinting at stains older than me, running into the back for my Comet Creme (God himself uses Comet Creme, I think, to keep his robes white and nice-smelling), and attacking the unfortunate smudge with a vengeance that gave one epicondylitis just to watch. I used to write "love notes" to my kitchen staff in that oh-so-sweet Dawn Felagund style, the most famous reminding them that the knives should be washed and sanitized until I could see my lovely, smiling face in them in the morning. It's a wonder I didn't get jumped in the parking lot, really. (Except my parents had a big pool and didn't care which unsavory The Piece employees I brought home to use it for their weekly bath.)
Bobby, aren't you smiling at the memory of me calling, "Dad, can I borrow your Allen wrenches?" and taking apart the multimixer to clean it?
Or mopping the floor? Sloooowly mopping the floor?
Or climbing onto the counters to get the raspberries off of the ceiling?
(Actually, he's probably slowly throttling the closest living creature and pretending it's me. Probably Nelyo. Bobby, put Nelyo down!)
Well, now that I'm happily exhausted and my hands have that soaked-in-bleach feeling (and smell...mmmm), then it's off to bed because when I wake up in seven hours and thirteen minutes, it will be time to pick up Bobby from the train station.
*squees and scuttles off to bed*
I came home from work and skipped the nap and didn't even pet the unicorn, put my hair up, put on my kitchen slippers, and went right to work.
(Those of you--you know who you are!--who have been promised candy...it's finally done! I will be shipping it this weekend!)
I made six-dozen filled candies of various sorts and nine peanut butter eggs for Bobby. (Being the confectioner's husband is all nice and all except you only get the broken pieces or the ones that turned out funny. So I made these special for him!) The other day, I stopped at the candy shop and picked up more molds, so making filled candy en masse is ten times easier.
And after that, I unleashed my inner obsessive-compulsive-disorder child. Oh, she hasn't been out in a looong while so she came out with a vengeance!
I scrubbed and sanitized all of the kitchen but the floors (which desperately need it, but tomorrow is another day.) Ai, my kitchen was a mess. I am a germophobe, so my kitchen is always clean...but often a mess. There is a difference, you see. I bleach my surfaces every time we use the kitchen. I think that I was born with a bleach sprayer in one hand and a clean dishtowel in the other. I always worry more about what I can't see than the big blob of chocolate dripped on the stove because the blob of chocolate doesn't give 33% of Americans food poisoning each year. (Did I really just say that?? Go away, PSA!Dawn!)
I don't know if I've gone so OCD without warning since I worked at The Piece and got to go OCD pretty much every day. Eru, Bobby used to hate the nights when we'd cook together and I'd be the closer, so he'd be stuck waiting for me to scrub and bleach every surface, squinting at stains older than me, running into the back for my Comet Creme (God himself uses Comet Creme, I think, to keep his robes white and nice-smelling), and attacking the unfortunate smudge with a vengeance that gave one epicondylitis just to watch. I used to write "love notes" to my kitchen staff in that oh-so-sweet Dawn Felagund style, the most famous reminding them that the knives should be washed and sanitized until I could see my lovely, smiling face in them in the morning. It's a wonder I didn't get jumped in the parking lot, really. (Except my parents had a big pool and didn't care which unsavory The Piece employees I brought home to use it for their weekly bath.)
Bobby, aren't you smiling at the memory of me calling, "Dad, can I borrow your Allen wrenches?" and taking apart the multimixer to clean it?
Or mopping the floor? Sloooowly mopping the floor?
Or climbing onto the counters to get the raspberries off of the ceiling?
(Actually, he's probably slowly throttling the closest living creature and pretending it's me. Probably Nelyo. Bobby, put Nelyo down!)
Well, now that I'm happily exhausted and my hands have that soaked-in-bleach feeling (and smell...mmmm), then it's off to bed because when I wake up in seven hours and thirteen minutes, it will be time to pick up Bobby from the train station.
*squees and scuttles off to bed*