Yet again we have let our apartment become a haven of refuse and flotsam. It's no secret that I have a higher tolerance for offal than Oodgie does, but even I was taken aback at how narrow the aisles between the rubbish piles had become.
Ironically, despite the ample supply of red, yellow, and blue plastic objects to cast into the mix, Cheeky wasn't really responsible for this mess--it was our own doing. We spent much of the weekend
hiding tidying the clutter, but before we did I took a quick inventory to assess the scope of the project.
Our bathroom remains our Kubla Khan, tormenting us with it's potential but stubbornly unwilling to resolve into a fully functional lavatory. Our new toilet flushes so loudly the FTA needs to regulate it. We're afraid to flush it while Cheeky's sleeping, which means we're either exercising our urethral sphincters or accumulating our pee until it bubbles and smokes on contact. We've grown to hate the color of the walls, and the tiles are immune to all suction cups. Just your usual post-renovation depression.
None of this compares, of course, to the ongoing Case of the Missing Countertop. We had to drive out to Queens to personally inspect and select countertop #4 from a stone company run by the Klopeks. The guy helping us (who looked strangely familiar) apologized for all the problems, and made it appear that everything would be OK in a couple of days. Yeah, that's what the architect at Pisa said. In the meantime, though, we have enjoyed the advantage of reaching into our vanity from above like it was a school desk. I wish they all came with a lift-up sink! Now we keep our razors and toilet paper right next to the EraserMates and compasses...
...because who are we kidding, it's the same room...
Here we've got boxes parallel parked against every wall, filled with packaging, labels, envelopes, and other detritus of Oodgie's fledgling business. Her supplier has a different definition of "quality" than she does, so every corner is strewn with the remains of repackaged or discarded products (getting antsy to see what we've been working on? Come back later this week and you'll find out...)
It wasn't just the products, though--walking barefoot revealed chunks of hardened cheese, cheerios, and stickers with the fuzz of a thousand carpets frizzing from the back. The collateral had blocked all means of access for days, and the accumulated filth was threatening to bury us alive. I did imagine an hilarious reinterpretation of our existence by future archaeologists who would painstakingly excavate our apartment and inaccurately recreate our daily lives, but stumbling over boxes in the dark on the way to the bathroom seemed like a good enough reason to ignore that and do something about it.
Despite an earlier reclamation, the den has regressed into a holding cell for unwanted items which the court system hasn't found a place for. After our desktop computer became an expensive foot-stool, the room has fallen completely out of use, and were we not storing paint cans, unhung mirrors, and incomplete tax returns there it would probably be reclaimed by the forest.
The bedroom had been our refuge from all this, but even the Chamber of Love was cluttered and aggravating. Window access was blocked by my brother's unsent Christmas gifts (yeah, I'm a dick, but it's not my fault!) and a collection of home fitness equipment last used during the Clinton administration. I found movie stubs for that collection I'm totally going to frame and mount in my dorm room, and enough scattered shoes to make Carrie Bradshaw's lesbian-biker-sister blush (because no one in this house wears Manolo Blahniks, unless I really want to feel sexy)
(by the way, I don't recommend looking for pictures of "lesbian bikers" at work...ZOINKS! I should have expected that...)
Remarkably though, we managed to get most everything under control, or at least to the point where a vague sense of progress was made. There are still a few boxes in awkward corners, and two Elmos are staring at me from the living room floor, but we can no longer blame it on laziness or apathy.
If we can't keep it clean now, we must just be slobs.