an essay on cleaning.

Nothing brings me the satisfaction of a job well done quite like a gleaming surface can. The lemony scent of anti bacterial Lysol smells better to me than fresh bread at a bakery. I like to clean when I am bored, I like to clean when I am upset. Scrubbing away at that stubborn spot with windex and steel wool is therapeutic. There is something about a spotless room that can calm me down just like a can of cold, diet coke. I am a firm believer in the phrase ‘a clean house is a happy house,’ feel free to pity my future children.
My obsession with clean is a new phase of my life, and joined my collection of other weird habits when I moved out of my mother’s home into a college apartment with cinderblock walls. I suddenly realized that a clean space was a direct reflection upon how clean I could be, or how disgusting my roommates are. When my bed is made, I just appear to look more put together. I fully admit that I think clutter is laziness, and I already feel like a mother when I ask my roommates to move their computers and shoes into their personal spaces. It is obvious to my roommates when I have had a bad day and I think the apartment looks like a war zone; I leave passive aggressive notes that say things like “everyone please move all of your things off of the kitchen table... love you!” Some days I leave a chore chart and make my roommates (who are all responsible adults) sign up for a job that has to be done before they can go to bed that night. The indignant part of me always wins out against the guilt, and I find that have no qualms against bossing my peers around to get what I want.
Perhaps I like to clean a little too much, perhaps I like to be the dominant mother figure of whatever scene I am living in, or perhaps I just can’t control anything in life except how shiny the stainless steel sink is after I do the dishes.

Obrigada

I love Thanksgiving. I love the turkey. I love the shopping. I love spending time with my family. I love the smell of cloves and sage. I mostly love the opportunity to talk about the things I love. This is like "Oprah's Favorite Things" but naturally, they are my favorite things. I do not presume to have the fine taste that Oprah has, but seriously, she wishes she had my life.
I am thankful for:
*Food Network* especially during Thanksgiving. Who knew that gravy, cranberries, and turkey could be perfected in Italian, Mexican, and Chinese culture?! I once was sick in bed during the week before Thanksgiving. For five days, all I did was watch the Food Network and it was literally the best day of my life.
*Neville* He may be a 2005 Kia Spectra painted in a pretty gold color just short of 60,000 miles, but he gets me to Sandy and Provo in a stylish fashion.
*Mumsy and Popsicle* this denotes my love of Wicked and my parental units. My parents are just about the best I could have. They are funny, cultured, and more supportive than the mats that grocery store cashiers stand on.
*Brooke, Jake, Taylor, and Taci* I used to think that once people got married, they got boring. NOPE. They are terribly wonderful. I have been to Idaho Falls four times in the last four months and been dazzled by the Smiths countless times. Gee, aren't they great?
*My roommates* Wowee, they put up with a lot. Thanks, ladies.
*Health?* I went to a cardiac clinic today, and it was the only waiting room I have ever been in where a nurse was passing out snacks and juice. A man followed behind her with a cart full of oxygen tanks, considering where I was, I surprised that the tanks weren't passed out along with the sprite and the handi-snacks. I am so thankful that I haven't reached a point where my ear lobes have to hold up tubing to help me breathe.

I have a lot, just as much as Oprah, if not more. Thanks!