While I was at work this evening, a friend of mine said, "So, we've all talked about it, and we decided that your house must be meticulous. Sure, you talk your talk about, 'Our house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy,' but we don't buy it. We think your house is immaculate. It has to be."
"What?? Me? My house?"
She had to be kidding. There is just no way. Of all the things that can be said of me, Meticulous Housekeeper is not one.
I asked, "What on earth would give you that idea?"
"You're just so meticulous about everything here. You're so detail-oriented, and you're so careful about your work, and we're all sure that overflows into your home, too."
I tried to explain otherwise, but she would have none of it. She wasn't buying it. I mean, ultimately it's a compliment, but if she ever dropped into my home unannounced, she would see some strong evidence that I am anything but meticulous.
In fact, my mom has always said, and now Robb agrees, that anyone can tell what I did as I arrived home because I leave a trail behind me. Car keys on the counter... purse on the chair... coat on the table... shoes kicked aside in the living room... and it goes on. It's almost as though I leave a trail of bread crumbs, should I suddenly need a speedy exit and find myself unable to find my way out.
I am compulsive about two things: my handwriting and my fingernails. And I am borderline obsessive about those. But anything else? Nope.
Meticulous. Cracks me up.