I’ve been called a lot of things. Probably the term I’m branded most often is Clean Freak. I’ll admit it. I got the “O” aka "Organization" gene. Those of us who have that unremitting trait are considered an oddity—a mutant peculiarity. But sticks and stones, right? I get so tired of the eye rolling and sideways glances of the lesser endowed, that I’ve become a closet closet-cleaner.
So when the de-clutter-bug bites, who ya gonna call? Let’s just say it’s not the hoarder down the street. For me, clutter is equivalent to toxic waste. When it comes to mugs, shot glasses or refrigerator magnets from who-knows-and-who-cares-where, I can be ruthless. I’m not sentimental. I can throw out a spoon collection, logo ball caps, snow globes or bobble hula girls with nary a twinge of regret. And I don’t feel any sense of sacrilege tossing that wooden tiki god headfirst into the trash.