Into the breach
◊ As I was leaving the grocery store, I peered into my canvas grocery bag that gets me a 3-cent planet-saving rebate and inspected the battery of canned soups I'd bought. I thought, "It looks like I'm preparing for a war."
Then I realized: that's exactly what I'm doing.
The Chick tract I'd found as I walked past the bus stop referred to my patron saint Jezebel as a "murderous old witch." It was a good omen. The universe was telling me in its own weird, inscrutable way that it was time for battle against the Mess.
During the last few days, the Mess has been making its presence known. The sink reeks even though my entire apartment is as cold as the inside of a fridge. The hanging closet doors are bulging outward, trying in vain to restrain the odiferous clothing piled behind them. Dust bunnies skitter across the kitchen floor. Now that cold weather has set in, they're starting their migration to the bathroom. Their coats are thick and shaggy to protect them from the winter chill.
I stalled. I hid. I took a stab at doing laundry. I tried calling the mess "Harold" in hopes that giving it a name would inspire it to either pick up and clear out on its own or at least chip in for the phone bill.
Nothing worked.
And now I sense that it is time.
I am armed. I have bleach and soap and a bucket and a sponge and raw determination.
Wish me luck, folks. I'm going over the top.