‘Hey look! A squirrel!’: Notes on organization
It’s been vaguely alluded to (more than once) that I might have a slight case of OCD. Of course, this is a filthy lie, I’m completely normal, and the rest of the world is strange. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I’d like to go on to mention anyone who doesn’t divide their gummie bears up by color before eating them is a heathen, plain and simple. Also, there is absolutely no good reason for different foods to touch each another on a dinner plate. I’m pretty sure that’s not full-blown OCD, although I will admit to being slightly strange and possibly just plain annoying.
My husband tried to tell me I was OCD, until I pointed out the fact he was telling me while color-coding his fuel receipts by state before putting them into corresponding slots in one of the eleven accordion files he keeps on the truck. Afraid as I am of the IRS, I feel certain Captain Paperwork would give them a good run for their (our) money. Even though he operates electronic logs, he still manually writes every single trip down in his little pocket notebook. Mr. Parker knows every turn his wheels have made, including the six-tenths of a mile up and down the driveway.
I’m sure a lot of drivers reading this are thinking, “Well, of course he does, he has to keep up with mileage for maintenance, and tire wear and blah, blah, blah.”
To that I say, “Hey look! A squirrel!”, which is exactly the reason I’m not in charge of anything pertaining to the truck.
Apparently, this is what makes us a good team. He’s precise and good at keeping up with things and I’m normal.
I think we’re both just odd enough to be able to overlook the fact that one of us owns a jacket in every color and style ever made. I’m not at liberty to say which one of us has more than should be allowed by law, but here’s a hint: it’s not me.
We have a rock from the Atlantic Ocean and one from the Pacific Ocean sitting on the dash of the truck. I’m extremely careful they never touch, because I’m certain it will cause a hole in the space-time continuum, or at the very least send off some kind of come-and-get-us’ signal to the aliens. My husband is very careful they never touch, because if they’re touching his dash is out of order and that’s unacceptable.
Completely different reasons for accomplishing the same goal. There’s a life lesson somewhere in that, but I can’t put my finger on it because “Hey look! A squirrel!”