A dash of OCD plus a sprinkle of lazy equals normal?

At least I hope so!  I told you I'm not good at math!

I tend to be a little obsessive occasionally.  This tends to manifest itself in two ways.  1) my face, and B) the level of cleanliness of my house.  Awesomely, one of these I can blame on my mom!

Ever since I can remember, I've had an obsession with having zit-free skin.  Unfortunately, I have pores the size of the Grand Canyon, so there's been plenty to "pore" over. Bwahaha!  I think my mom instilled this habit since a common saying around our house was "Kelly, you need to go work on your face," after which, I'd sit on the vanity in the bathroom or in the hallway in front of the long mirror and pick and poke and prod and practically count every single crevice in my face where dirt and gunk could accumulate.  If I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, I'd have red marks on my legs from leaning against the counter for so long.  Instead of Mom encouraging this time wasting obsession, what she should have told me was:

and just wash your damn face with product that you didn't buy at the grocery store.  So I feel like I have to scour my face for potential blemishes and I've spent an equal amount of time searching for the perfect face product so that the going over my face with a magnifying glass is no longer necessary (but I'm sure I'd still do it.  Le sigh.).  Sephora is my own personal hell, because by the time I get to my shopping cart to purchase all the goodies I've supermarket swept carefully selected, I owe three paychecks and my firstborn child.

Picture courtesy of Michelle Elise Photography and ME because she let me buy the copyright.  She rocks.

He's cute, no?  I wonder how much he'd be worth in beauty products...

I love having a clean house. There's nothing more satisfying (especially when you have a husband and kids) than having a freshly cleaned room stay clean for more than five minutes.  That being said, I haaaaaaaaaaate to clean.  Except when I'm really pissed off.  Then I'll scrub the shit out of whatever will sit still.  So when I clean and turn around 2.482948 seconds later to find a mess, I tend to go Ghengis Khan all over everyone, no matter who made the mess.  (Yes, I realize that expecting a toddler not to make a mess is stupid.  I also realize that expecting a 10 year old to do anything without being told 87 times is equally stupid. And yes, I realize the insanity that I must suffer if I think that the Hubs won't throw a saucy piece of pizza crust on the beige carpet for the dog.)  After I am through throwing my internal hissy fit and resigning myself to the fact that I'm cleaning AGAIN, the fuck-its set in.

I feel like this guy.  A lot.

And this is the story of my life:

Honestly, if the honey badger don't give a shit, I shouldn't either.

So yeah, as much as I love coming downstairs to a clean living room, play room, and kitchen (because those are the only rooms that have no doors to shut, effectively hiding the mess), most of the time it looks as though someone tossed a grenade into Toys 'R' Us.  I know I'll miss the mess someday.  At least that's what I tell myself when the guilt starts to kick in.