I am a relatively clean person. I don't like dirty dishes, hampers filled with needs-to-be-washed laundry, and I despise knowing the cat box has those teeny morsels of yuck in it. Sometimes, late at night when I should be getting ready for bed or relaxing on the couch, I'm hit with these cleaning fits. I'll scrub away at every last stain on the counter, reorganize my underwear drawer (yes, it's organized for the most part), or start chucking the expired items from the fridge.
I clean up my desk whenever I leave the office. I can't stand messy piles of paper or a filthy, unwashed coffee cup with that tell-tale ring of grinds the bottom. I don't like when the garbage can isn't emptied every night.
Clean. I like it that way.
So why, oh why, do I find myself completely and utterly inept when it comes to properly disposing of used test strips?
These little buggers are everywhere. I've written about them before (stuck to Chris's face, on the floor at the gym, and even discussed in dictionary entries), yet I still haven't found a way to solve the problem. I test anywhere from 8 - 15 times a day, so these used strips accumulate and are inadvertently stashed in parts of my life like those hidden picture things from Highlights for Children.
On the floor just next to my garbage can.
(And that's a sticker from an apple. I couldn't get it to peel back up.)
At the bottom of my massive work bag (with many other assorted bits).
Even in my relatively-new and almost always zipped camera bag. How the hell did it get in here?
Crafty little testy suckers. I do my very best to make sure I do not leave a pocket of test strips when I visit new places or people, but I always find a pile of them hanging out in the spots I frequent the most: my car, my office, and my home. I keep trying to get them in the garbage can but it's like the bin takes a step to the left every time I go to toss one out. Are garbage cans across the country uniting to thwart my best intentions?
I need to sharpen my disposal skills.