September 26th, 2026
By Emergency Contact (EC)
There are two kinds of people in this world.
People who put the toilet paper on the holder correctly.
And people who apparently woke up and chose violence.
The toilet paper goes over.
Not under. Not “either way works.” Not “who cares?”
I care.
I care deeply.
If I walk into the bathroom and somebody has put the toilet paper on backward, I will immediately fix it. And then I will politely cuss out the general population.
Nicely.
Because I am an adult. I have emotional regulation skills.
But I also have standards.
And before you start thinking this is about being organized, let me stop you right there.
My house can absolutely look like several people were evacuated mid-burglary.
I do not have a color-coded pantry.
I do not have a twelve-step cleaning routine.
I clean whatever mess is currently screaming the loudest.
But certain things?
Certain things have a system.
And once my brain has decided there is a system, there is no longer another way to do it.
There is the correct way.
And there is whatever the fuck you just did.
The Dishwasher Has Assigned Seating
You may think the purpose of a dishwasher is to put dirty dishes inside, add detergent, press a button, and receive clean dishes.
That’s adorable.
Everything that isn’t baby-related goes on the bottom shelf, except small pieces, which go into the silverware holder.
Baby stuff goes on top.
Baby stuff gets its own compartments away from the regular silverware.
And the baby stuff has assigned seats.
Assigned. Seats.
Could the bottle part probably get just as clean three inches to the left?
That’s irrelevant.
That’s not where it sits.
Other people load the dishwasher in my house.
I appreciate this.
Then I rearrange everything they did.
I also appreciate their understanding during this difficult time.
Laundry Is Apparently a Government Operation
Baby clothes are washed separately.
Towels and rugs are washed separately.
Then, before anything gets folded, everything must be separated by person and clothing type.
Then everything gets folded into its respective pile.
Then—and only then—do we begin putting things away, drawer by drawer.
Could I pick up a shirt, fold it, walk over to the drawer, put it away, come back, grab some pants, and repeat?
Sure.
I could also eat soup with a fork.
We’re discussing things that are technically possible, not things that make any fucking sense.
The Bathroom Has Zoning Laws
The shower has sides.
Mine and the kids’ stuff goes on one side.
Guest and Lady Glitter Sparkles’ stuff goes on the other.
Toothpaste goes behind the faucet.
Extras go in the towel cabinet.
The shower curtain stays open when the shower isn’t being used.
And then there is my towel.
Listen to me carefully.
Do not fuck with my towel.
My towel has an assigned seat.
I have one towel for my hair and one towel for my body.
If I go to use my towel and it has been moved, we have a problem.
If I touch my towel and discover that it is wet from a person who is not me, we no longer have a towel.
We have laundry.
I will not be using it.
I don’t care if you “barely used it.”
Congratulations.
Now you have a towel.
Actually, Don’t Touch Any of My Shit
This isn’t exclusive to towels.
My stuff has assigned seats.
All of it.
Please don’t move something of mine to a location you believe makes more sense.
I assure you, it does not.
You may look at my object sitting in its assigned location and think:
That would fit better over there.
Keep that thought inside your head where it belongs.
Because if you move it, I will move it back.
Not eventually.
Not the next time I need it.
When I notice.
Because now I know it’s wrong.
And once I know it’s wrong, my brain will periodically send me push notifications until I correct it.
HEY.
What?
YOUR SHIT IS WRONG.
I’m busy.
COOL. STILL WRONG.
Even My Titties Have a Procedure
Pumping has an order.
Pumps go on left, then right.
When I’m finished, right comes off, then left.
Milk goes into the cup.
That’s it.
Could I attach the right pump first?
Obviously.
But I don’t.
Left. Right.
Right. Left.
Apparently my breasts operate like parentheses.
And somehow this feels completely reasonable to me.
Leaving the House Requires a Boot Sequence
Hair.
Pee.
Teeth.
Pump.
Clothes.
Baby.
Baby stuff.
Shoes on the way out.
Can this process be interrupted?
Absolutely.
My babies override every system I have. If one of them needs me, whatever I’m doing stops.
But when the situation is handled?
We are returning to our regularly scheduled programming.
If I stopped after teeth, we’re pumping next.
We are not suddenly putting on shoes.
There is an order, Karen.
Coffee Has Recipes. Do Not Improvise.
Hot coffee:
Cup.
Pod in.
Liquid stevia in the cup.
Creamer in the cup.
Run the pod.
Stir.
Iced latte:
Stevia.
Sauce.
Syrup.
Two espresso scoops.
Two ounces hot water.
Froth.
Oat milk.
Froth again.
Pour over ice.
Iced shaken espresso:
Stevia.
Sauce.
Syrup.
Two espresso scoops.
Two ounces hot water.
Oat milk.
Shake shake shake.
Pour over ice.
Could all these ingredients eventually end up in the same cup through a slightly different series of events?
Yes.
And yet you’ve somehow missed the point entirely.
There Are Rules That Have Been Here Longer Than You
This isn’t something motherhood did to me.
It isn’t something adulthood did to me.
I’ve always been like this.
Food doesn’t touch.
Little spoon.
Toilet paper goes over.
Those are founding documents.
The adult systems are just amendments.
Little Me had fewer responsibilities. She didn’t have breast-pump equipment, baby bottle parts, work stickers, a diaper bag, an entire household, and seventeen thousand objects requiring administrative oversight.
She had food.
She had spoons.
She had toilet paper.
And she established precedent.
My Work Stuff Has Assigned Seats Too
Work has systems.
Work has routines.
Stickers have sides.
My water bottle has a seat.
Breaks and lunch have expected times.
There used to be even more systems when I was a manager, because apparently giving me additional responsibility causes my brain to respond by opening several new regulatory agencies.
And the funny thing is that I can handle chaos.
I can handle a busy day.
I can handle shit changing around me.
But don’t move my water bottle.
Apparently that’s where I draw the fucking line.
My Car Also Has Assigned Seating for Objects
I have a cup holder.
Not a cup holder.
My cup holder.
Music changes depending on my sensory needs.
Volume changes depending on my sensory needs.
Climate control changes depending on my sensory needs, although it usually lives somewhere around halfway between cold and heat.
Those things are flexible.
My cup holder?
Don’t get ambitious.
Plans Are Just Systems You Can’t Touch
This is where the funny little household rules become slightly less funny.
If I have a plan and something changes unexpectedly, I don’t just go:
Okay! New plan!
Absolutely the fuck not.
First, I spiral.
Then I take the new information.
Then I dismantle the original plan.
Then I build an entirely new plan around the new information.
Then I’m okay.
Usually.
If I cannot successfully create New Plan™, there is another option.
Cancel.
Thank you for coming.
The event has been discontinued due to unforeseen circumstances and my inability to construct an acceptable replacement timeline.
And Yes, I Know Some of This Doesn’t Matter
That’s the thing.
I know.
I know the toilet paper will still dispense toilet paper if it’s backward.
I know both cup holders are capable of holding a cup.
I know the pump will continue extracting milk from my right breast if I attach that side first.
I know my body towel will not cease to function because someone moved it six inches.
I know the baby bottle parts are unlikely to file a formal complaint if they are seated incorrectly in the dishwasher.
I know.
Knowing doesn’t make the feeling go away.
Because when something is wrong, it doesn’t just register as:
Huh. That’s different.
It’s irritation.
It’s anxiety.
It’s physical discomfort.
It’s distraction.
It’s my brain repeatedly pointing at the thing like a child who has discovered a new rock for their collection.
THAT.
Yes, I see it.
THAT.
I know.
FIX THAT.
And the most annoying part?
This isn’t about controlling other people.
Because I don’t get an exemption.
If I put something in the wrong place, my brain still screams.
If I break the sequence, it still feels wrong.
If I leave the toilet paper backward because I’m exhausted and cannot possibly care about one more fucking thing?
Somewhere inside my skull, a tiny compliance officer is still standing there with a clipboard.
Ma’am.
No.
Ma’am, you are aware of the policy.
Fuck off.
But When Everything Is Right?
Quiet.
Not literal quiet.
I have children.
Let’s not get fucking ridiculous.
But there’s a kind of internal quiet.
Things are where they’re supposed to be.
The sequence makes sense.
I know what comes next.
Nothing is poking at my brain asking to be corrected.
It’s calm.
It’s satisfying.
Maybe that’s why I have systems in the first place.
The world is unpredictable.
Children are unpredictable.
Life is unpredictable.
Plans change. People need things. Shit happens. Somebody starts crying. Something spills. Something breaks. Something you absolutely did not account for enters the chat and suddenly the entire day has to be rebuilt around it.
I can’t control all of that.
But I know where my towel goes.
I know which pump goes on first.
I know how my coffee gets made.
I know where my water bottle sits.
I know which cup holder is mine.
And I know, with every fiber of my fucking being, that the toilet paper goes over.
So no, my systems aren’t always logical.
They aren’t always necessary.
Sometimes they’re downright ridiculous.
But they make my brain quieter.
They make the world feel a little more predictable.
They make things feel right.
So please.
For the sake of household peace, my nervous system, and whatever remains of my patience:
I have a system.
Please stop fucking touching it.
—EC 🌈
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