Twin mistresses of Cheryl’s psyche.
One day Cheryl will read this entry and get angry. There are several, sure fire means of procuring an invitation to sleep on our old bed in the spare room (I knew it was a good idea to keep a spare, king sized bed). This entry may well become an example of one.
Somewhere, there is a fine line between good old fashioned cleanliness, and obsession/compulsion. Poor Cheryl is nowhere near that line. She suffers from something that has been passed down from her father’s side of the family: the need to clean. Victims of this rare, inherited condition are some of the cleanest people on the planet. They have a kind of sixth sense. Seemingly from miles away, they can sense the moment foreign substances soil any exposed surface in their homes. It is a sight to behold. Cheryl will sometimes wake from a dead sleep, swoop into the family room with paper towels in hand like some kind of crazed Mrs. Clean, and sweep the crumbs from the lap of our unsuspecting daughter.
One day there will be a cure. Until then she’s got me to balance her out; the yin to her yang, the laissez- faire to her policy of strict intervention, the slob to her Mrs. Clean. Who says you can’t use the same towel for more than two weeks anyway?
Cheryl is reading over my shoulder. She’s getting hives just thinking about it. The smell. The germs. The mold. The mildew. Her husband.