I’m a little OCD.

I was recently working on a writing project for a client where I had to perform some phone interviews. But before I could call any of my interviewees, I had to brush my teeth.

And floss.

No, I’m not kidding.

Was I showered? No. Hair combed? Nah. Wearing a bra? Probably not.

But my teeth? Sparkling clean. My breath? Mintier than a peppermint patty snatched out of the freezer. Could the people I was calling tell any of this at all whatsoever? No. Of course not.

But maybe they could sense it in my confidence. Yes, in my spot-on annunciation of every word. My I’ve-been-doing-this-forever tone. My self-assured interviewing question delivery. Pop! Pop! Pop! (That’s the sound of my question gun firing off.)

In my OCD defense, I guess I feared I might possibly mumble and back-throat gargle a few words if I thought my breath stunk. Even though, clearly, no one would be able to smell it.

You know how you do that face to face with someone? You mumble so as to not let your heinous, dead-rat-carcass inner scent escape? Or you talk with a stiff hand slanted over your mouth like a stereotypical imitation of a coy Japanese lady? In case you don’t use this technique, the rigid wall of fingers is meant to flirtingly block the stench of the foul odor released with every word. You should try it sometime. What, you think your breath don’t stink?! Yeah, I said “don’t” not “doesn’t”. This is how I talk street.

Anyway. My husband once asked me if I ate a cadaver. THAT’s the level of morning breath I’m capable of achieving on a regular basis with little effort.

Comments like that are what fuel my OCD (giving it wings to soar).

And this blog, for that matter.

This is me chewing on the leg of a cadaver. You can identify that it’s me from the bangs. Sorry about the crinkled paper. Had to churn it out quickly before my kid wakes up from his nap.