on an episode of desperate housewives, brie, the show's neurotic -- and obviously my favorite --character, snaps "don't confuse my anal-retentiveness for affection."

in that moment, brie did something that so few can achieve: it summed up my life.

the only other quasi-adequate description i've ever heard of my personality is "debbie's bubbly. but like ... with razor blades."

i've found that my anal-retentiveness has grown in other facets of my life as it becomes less of a burden at work; i've also become much more aware with other people's neuroticisms.

eric hates being late. anywhere. in fact, he would rather not see a movie if it means he has to show up less than 20 minutes before it starts.

but he loves gambling with the gas in his car. sometimes, i swear he thinks that the light coming on means that he still has another half a tank of gas left.

i, on the other hand, have no qualms about being late to anything (perhaps a combination of the jewish/hispanic heritages and the years of influence of my exboyfriend), and, in fact, i hate being early.

but i start having full-on heart palpitations when my gas tank falls below half – okay really, a quarter -- of a tank. in fact, i'm usually convinced that my car will stop working unless i find a gas station immediately.

i also can't stand clutter. everything in my life is in neat piles and/or color coded. the papers on my desk. the clothes in my drawers. the shirts in my closet (well, color coded, then in order by sleeve length, style, and season). the boys in my life. i like spacious places and have no attraction to "chatchkies" (yiddish word meaning "stuff" or "crap").

i need order. and i need it to look like order too.

my sister's apartment, however, is like an antique warehouse. there are old sewingbaskets on top of antique china cabinets which are next to aged bookcases across from old-fashioned window panes turned into mirrors which hold candles above her flowered sofa-bed couch. she has more crap in her apartment than there are delis in new york city.

antiques give me the creeps; they're like are a luxury market for consignment goods. i mean, really, they're items that we can (mostly) still buy today with other people's body juices on them. all body juices.

but my sister loves the stuff. and collects the crap like it's her job (which it isn't; rumor has it that she's a doctor). as far as i'm concerned, the crap just doesn't fit into my life ... or into my apartment.

but when my sister was in town, she insisted on cleaning my washing machine. and was horrified that i use the same dustbuster to dust up the catfood as to sweep up the kitchen floor. as far as i can tell, if my clothes come out clean, then why do you have to clean the machine? and i don't think that the dustbuster really cares if it's picking up catfood or peoplefood.

we're just anal about different things.

but i guess that's the way it always works.

my mom won't go to bed if there are still dishes in the sink. my dad won't go anywhere without his legal pad of "things to do." my brother has to be on time. my sister has to have her lint-remover and dustbuster. and by the way, eric cleans before the cleaning service comes to the apartment.

spi can't study unless he's in starbucks and/or its less than 24-hours before something is due. glenda has to sit at a certain seat at a table. gabe is picky about his writing instruments. deion names his brushes and combs. and don't ever, ever, ask dean about how a car works.

granted, there is a difference between being anal about a couple things and being anal about a lot of things.

i can't go to bed without showering. i have to color-code my planner. i need to sit next to the window on an airplane. i can't go to class without doing the work (and i never miss class). i must wear two different types of deodorant at all times. i always have my toenails painted. i've had the same pillow for six years and can't sleep without it. i travel with more toiletries than i travel with clothes. i alphabetize the spice rack. and eat most finger food with a fork.

and if i tell you i'm going to do something, i'm going to do it.

(but tell me to write it down; or i might forget.)

it's true: it is draining to be a perfectionist and exhausting to be so anal-retentive. but it does make life more interesting.

and for some of us, it's all we've got ...