by Nancy Canfield

Created on: July 23, 2009

I, like many, consider myself privileged to have a life long friend. Her parents owned a hotel by my home, and every summer as children, we picked up where we left off the previous fall. Somehow, we have managed to remain as close as we were when we ran barefoot on hot summer nights, catching fireflies in our back yard. She has been a true friend, accepting me, warts and all, supporting me in troubled times, and sharing her life with me. We relive our youth vicariously by taking her "Daddy's car" for a spin and listening to old rock and roll music. Time has changed nothing for us, with one exception. She is strangely and totally obsessed.

I can't put my finger on exactly when it happened. As teenagers, we stayed in a small room in her parent's hotel during the summers, and she was as much of a slob as I was. I distinctly remember testing certain articles of clothing found under the rubble to determine olfactory levels, and pliability. At that time, our standard for cleanliness was low, but eventually we elevated them, mine to a generally acceptable level, hers to a mania.

This woman is a "phantom" cleaner that, during a simple conversation, can sterilize her kitchen without you even noticing. After dessert, dishes are whisked away, washed, dried and put away before you realize you're finished. She admits to her obsession, and is a good sport about it. I like to innocently brush imaginary dirt off her counter knowing that when I go in the other room, she will be examining the counter and wiping up the floor. During dinner, I can pick up a sparkling sterling knife, pretend to polish away an imaginary spot with my perfectly folded napkin, and end up tormenting her for the rest of the evening.

There has never been, and will never be a ring around her toilet. The pipes under her sink sparkle. I think she washes her light bulbs every week. I, on the other hand, change the light bulbs when the dust inhibits night vision, and because of my slight weight gain, haven't seen the pipes under my sink for years. The ring around my toilet has been there so long it's beginning to look like a Roman tile design.

Her neatness is legendary. A few years ago, I asked her if she was punishing her husband for some reason. I noticed his bathing suit had two razor sharp creases down the front. She confessed she went a little nuts with the iron, and wasn't he wonderful not to mention it. I agreed he was a saint, as I watched him make a bee-line for the water before anyone spotted

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