you should meet my family...

So in an effort to keep from repeating myself and making sure that everyone receives the same gems of snarky wit many of you appreciate from me, I have given in and started a blog...we will see how frequently I actually post.
School hasn't actually started yet, so I guess calling myself a law student is a bit presumptuous but hopefully it can be excused. I am in the process of getting my house set up, it is a great place about a block from metro and for the rent I am still waiting to see what the catch is, the place is too great. I have one roommate but we have three bedrooms between us, it is amazing how much more personal space I have compared to undergraduate collective living.
The one catch... when we moved in it hadn't been cleaned. Well it had been, because the cleaners charged our landlord but it wasn't up to my standard of new tenant move in clean. Now  it wasn't fraternity house dirty or (heaven forbid) Argentina house mom dirty, but it needed a little TLC. The floors needed to be mopped, appliances scrubbed, bathroom given a good bleaching and mirrors shined, nothing I couldn't handle. I start scrubbing, and dusting and sweeping and eventually get to the point where I want to move our fridge, oven, and washer/dryer (did I mention we have a washer dryer in the house!) so that I could get to the floor under them. At this point I ask my roommate for help moving them and she looks at me as if I am crazy and says "is that really necessary."
Mollified, I finished what I was doing and went to to my room and called mum. She was supportive and I think happy that after years of enabling me (she had a standard that could only easily met by her own hands) I hadn't become some sort of lazy festering bum unable to clean up after herself. (I promise mum, I will not wallow in my filth, you taught me well.) Anyway after a conversation on the merits of brushes versus sponges when cleaning grout and toilet bowls as well as our mop solution of choice (yes seriously- it seemed less nerdy at the time) I felt redeemed.
Later in the evening however I got a call from a friend from boarding school who is also in DC. Deciding to relate my story, and vindicate myself further I explained what happened. Her response was "Yea Kate you are like the most type A person I know. It can be a little scary at times." Then she reminded me of a school nickname I received for my fastidiousness.
After hanging up I had the nagging desire to explain myself; or at least give her a 'not ugh' listing the members of my family who are considerably more type A than I. As such I have titled my blog "If you think I am type A."
I promise that there will be more information on the house, my attempt to set it up (Yea Ikea, I have my furniture, now I just have to wait for surrogate father Jim to help me set it up) and school, when it finally starts.

The only thing to know is how to use your neurosis.
 Arthur Adamov