I spent the week cleaning the house. It was filthy -- cat hair and dust on everything and, in the basement, a liberal sprinkling of the wheat chaff we use for cat litter.

As I folded laundry this morning, carefully putting the newly washed towels and sheets at the bottom of their respective stacks in the linen closet, it occurred to me that I still aspire to the housekeeping standards drummed into me in recruit school and the navy hospital where I learned my trade. Consequently, I have a perfection problem; if cleaning the kitchen means preparing for the Commandant's inspection, it's easy to remind myself that we're civilians now and the Commandant ain't comin' 'round no more, and do nothing.