So, yesterday, obsessive Queen Virgo decides it would be the perfect time to re-organize the linen closet for, like, the 585th time since we moved in last year. You know, in case Martha Steward drops by (again! call first, woman!) for an impromptu inspection.
Queen Virgo (QV) lovingly removes all the sheets (read: dumps them on the floor). She asks herself why she needs king size sheets when there are no beds that size in the house. Or crib sheets for that matter.
Time to purge. After what seems like 10 minutes in Virgo Land (but is actually 3 ½ hours in Normal People World), the task is complete. A box has been filled for the Goodwill, complete with old towels that QV is hoping The Husband will not miss too much. Other (normal) people might save these types of towels and perhaps recycle them into rags. Not QV. She is not messy (duh), so she does not need rags for any project or purpose.
You know what comes next. The story about the Radiator Guy. Yes, the Radiator Guy finally showed up to fix the leaky radiator. He is settling in, ready to earn his $800 for one hour of work. As I start back up the stairs and leave him in the basement (while I marvel that he makes more in one day then I make in a month, and why didn’t I go to Radiator School?), he calls out to me, “M’am? Excuse me, please?” (Radiator School taught him to be polite), “Do you have any rags or old towels, because I might need them if I have to drain the system.”
I turn around, not very happy with what my ears have just told my brain. Rags? You make, like $42 per minute, you can’t maybe buy some rags and bring them with you, Radiator Guy? What I say instead: no, I don’t think so.
He looks at me in disbelief. “I’m sure your husband has some?” he offers helpfully, “Maybe in the garage?” So now Radiator Guy knows the contents of my house and garage, and that I may or may not be married and that my Invisible Husband likes to store his plethora of rags in the garage.
“Nope.” I say, confidently. What I don’t say: Tall lost the garage key, and the only person who has an extra garage key is The Husband. Who is at work.
Radiator Guy is looking at me like I’m kooky (oh, so now he's doing personality evaluations in addition to his paid primary job of fixing radiators).
The pressure is getting to me. “I just remembered I do have some rags!” I say cheerfully. I walk over to the linen closet which is two feet from where we are standing and open it up. Beautiful rows of wool and cashmere blankets wink at me. Pristine neatly-stacked white towels say hello. Folded linen tablecloths from the high-end kitchen store wave. There are no rags.
In desperation, I grab the least important fabric thing in there: Tall’s beach towel (well, he did lose the garage key) and hand it to Radiator Guy. The towel is fluffy and green, and has only been used two summers. The towel screams out to me, “Noooooooo! This is a mistake! Put me back with embroidered picnic blanket! I’m too good for this!”
Radiator Guy takes one look at the towel. He, too, thinks the green towel belongs back in the perfect linen closet, but he says nothing.
Forty-five minutes later, he walks upstairs and says he's finished (I know I will be charged for the full hour, it’s in the Radiator School Beginner’s Manual). He says he left the towel downstairs next to the radiator.
After he leaves, I walk downstairs, afraid to see what I know will be a black greasy mess on the green towel. What will I say to Tall about his favorite beach towel? It was worn out? He’ll know that’s a lie.
I pick up the towel. It’s dry. It’s clean. There’s not a spot on it.
Radiator Guy must be a Virgo, too.
(“Manic Obsessive Virgo”)