On Saturday evening, Swedish Girl and I went to a party thrown by my sister’s brother-in-law and his girlfriend. Swedish Girl wasn’t too keen on going because, like me, she’s not often thrilled with meeting tons of new people and having to be “on” all night. I didn’t think it would be too bad because there would be a small handful of people she knows and all the food and drinks would more than make up for it. If I had known that my memory would fail me, I would have been more anxious about it than Swedish Girl.

I didn’t count on the fact that so many of my brother-in-law’s relatives would be eagerly awaiting our arrival. I naively thought that we could slip in, greet the host and hostess, get some food and drinks, and hunker down for the night. Not quite. Quite a few people were congratulating me on my marriage and asking to meet the bride (I think she was wisely conversing with my sister at this point). These one-on-one interactions weren’t a problem because I at least had an idea who these people were (my brother-in-law’s aunt by marriage, his sister, his grandmother, et al.), but I could not remember their names for the life of me. I feared I was turning into my father.

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Okay, so I’m obsessive-compulsive.  I can’t deny it.  Although I have to ask Captain Larby if the fact that I know about my OCD means that I’m not that far gone.  I can’t recall exact pecadillos, but I’m sure I must have exhibited some OCD behavior in my college days, too.  At first, it was often in the back of my mind that Larby would be sizing me up as fodder for his Psych papers.  I don’t have to wash my hands 10 consecutive times or touch the door knob 100 times with my left pinky knuckle before I can leave my apartment.  But I’ll share with you one facet of my OCD…

The weather up here in New England has been cold, gray, and rainy for a week now.  I broke down and wore a sweater today.  I thought that I was saved from wearing this thing until November, but I found myself pulling it out of my closet this morning without so much as a quick inspection.  Anyway, here I am at my desk at work and I’ve been picking the pills and fuzzes off this fucking thing for over a half hour.  I started picking them off while still wearing the sweater, but then I could see more little fuzzies around the back, so I had to remove the sweater and proceed to clean it off unencumbered.

I don’t put clothing such as this in the dryer for fear of shrinkage, so I end up with this pill & fuzz problem.  These are impervious to lint brushes (but you already knew I had a lint brush, I’m sure).  I had to get rid of a couple of old blankets I used to put on my bed because I’d spend nearly an hour removing pills and fuzzes that I could feel as I scanned my hand over the blanket.  Then I’d end up with a mountain range of colored fuzzies on the floor, so I’d have to get out of bed to pick them up.  It was not exactly the restful bedtime experience one longs for.  But I now use only bed clothes that do not accumulate such demonic bumps.

It took me longer than usual to type up this diatribe, but I think I’ve gotten most of the fuzzies off my sweater.  Now what?  Ah, yes, I think I’ll liberate my desk with that air duster.  Please excuse me.