C.D.O. (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder)

A conversation between two friends while unpacking…

Me:  That’s the wrong cupboard.

 

Friend:  What do you mean?

 

Me:  That’s not where the glasses should go.

 

Friend:  What difference does it make?  They’re in the kitchen.  It’s not like I’m unpacking them in the laundry room.

 

Me:  It makes all the difference.  The glasses belong in the cupboard beside the fridge.  That way, when I’m thirsty, the proximity of the glasses to the frosty beverages is within optimum range.  I don’t want to have to traipse through the kitchen to get a glass and then traipse back to the fridge.  It’s logical.

 

Friend:  How thirsty do you anticipate being?

 

Me:  You’ll thank me the next time you come over.

 

Friend: You’re anal.

 

Me: Bitch.

 

Can you believe that? She actually called me anal!  My superior organizational skills blatantly disregarded as the ramblings of a crazy person.  (It’s a good thing I didn’t tell her that I like all of the cans of food in the cupboard turned out so that the English side of the label, and not the French, is showing; (I know, very Sleeping with the Enemy.)  She probably would have had me committed.   Or at least brought me a helmet to wear the next time she came over.)

Sure, I have idiosyncrasies.   Placing money in my wallet face up, the right way up, in order of denomination.  Making sure the toilet paper rolls from the top and not the bottom. Correcting people’s grammar.  I can see where these might be perceived as slightly obsessive, but I can assure you they are the workings of a highly organized, meticulous mind.

I read an article yesterday, as I do every Wednesday, because that’s when it’s published, and I have to read it, because it’s Wednesday…

Anyway, it’s the House of the Week, and it basically offers readers a chance to photo-stalk fancy, schmancy homes for sale in and around the city. Like Lifestyles of the Rich and Not-So-Famous, (because, well, this is Toronto), it lists the biggest selling points and any drawbacks, most of which are things like “Your friends will be so jealous when they see that you have your very own Batcave.”

These are the features listed yesterday:

• 5 bathrooms
• 4 bedrooms
• 4 storeys
• 3 fireplaces
• 2 panic rooms
• 1 elevator
• 1 wine-tasting room
• 1 putting green
• 1 swimming pool
• 1 underground tunnel connecting house to garage

Yes, you read that correctly, or maybe you just skimmed over it and didn’t read it at all, so let me point it out.  Two panic rooms!  Not one, two!

How paranoid/obsessive compulsive do you have to be that you have two panic rooms?  You live in Toronto, for crying out loud, you don’t even need one!   We don’t have tornadoes.  The only time you’d have to worry about K&R is if you were travelling to Mexico or South America, and you can’t take your panic rooms with you there, (unless one of them happens to be portable in which case, good on you for thinking ahead.)

Clearly home invasions are the main concern here, but it still begs the question: why two?  Sure, proximity to the rooms should a break-in ensue could be a reason.  (Probably the main reason, but I like to think outside the box.)

Perhaps not all of the residents get along.  God forbid you be stuck in a tiny little box for hours with the in-laws or something.  I think this justifies having two.

On that note, maybe one is for the adults and one for the kids.  I know if I spend any length of time around children with no hope of escape it’s enough to make me ransom myself.  So in this case, the second is a panic room for your panic room.

Or it could be a game.  While the thieves/murderers are ransacking the house, the residents dash back and forth from one panic room to the other shouting “Come at get me.  I’m Jodie Foster, bitches!”

But it’s all for not.  They’ve put the house up for sale.  My guess is they are looking to upgrade to three panic rooms; the extra will house their resident shrink.  Meanwhile, I’ll continue to organize my desktop icons in order of usage and alphabetize my spice rack.  Oh, and wear my helmet.