Maybe I don't have OCD after all. Maybe I'm just a little fussy and a little neurotic.
I finally checked out the new A&E show "Obsessed," and the people they profile are profoundly afflicted. Like the woman who became a basket case after her father's death in a traffic accident. (Speaking of which, isn't it disingenuous to say someone "passed away" when he drove into a bus? "Crashed away" would be a lot more accurate.)
Among other quirks, she'd kept the box of personal effects the police had given her. It seems she was in the habit of donning the ruined outfit Dad was wearing at the time, including a blood-stained undershirt.
Then there was the gay guy whose germophobia was so severe he didn't keep a single wastebasket in the house. Whenever he had something to throw away, he walked it out to the garbage can in the driveway.
As part of his corrective treatment, the therapist went to his place - the starkest home I've ever seen - and announced after a few minutes that she needed to use the toilet. "One other thing," she said, almost as an afterthought: "I'm having my period."
I can't wait for the hoarders.
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