Don't get me wrong, I love me some Christmas. But ...

I get on these kicks where I have to have everything just right. I want the floors to feel smooth when I walk on them, and I want the dirt I just swept up to be hidden in the trash can, and I want the broom to be put away clean behind the door I just wiped down with oil soap.

That kind of mood.

They usually come when I'm either really energetic (about once a year), or when I have something else I want to not think about. Today, it was the latter.

I realized when I was sweating in my work clothes while vacuuming between the couch cushions that what I'm trying to avoid is my own bad mood.

I don't have to point out how the holidays are stressful. The drive is stressful. The realities of dealing with divorced parents and their own wishes for Christmas; the first Christmas as that newlywed couple with the dog; the too-much food; getting no sleep. Then when Christmas day rolls around and I have to think about going to work, how it's all over and how I have to start putting away decorations, it just gets to be so overwhelming.

Now's not the time to point out that I was not forced to put up five trees. I know this. You're not helping.

So tonight I tiptoed around my house, trying not to wake the big, bad me. I am the enabler in my own problem. Like, maybe if I can get this bathtub to smell like lemons and maybe if I can walk on my dark blue carpet and not see white dog hair everywhere, maybe it'll be OK. Maybe I won't be as moody on Monday night.

Maybe if I did all these dishes, and Soft-Scrubbed the kitchen sink and even if I throw in a disposer care tablet or two ... then maybe there's hope for me when radio stations switch back to regular programming at exactly midnight on Dec. 26.

Or, maybe I'll just end up blogging about it in my Pledge-scented living room with my extra-dry, red, cracked, bleach-smelling hands.

Right now, it's looking like that may be the case. Ah well. At least the house is clean.