And I think it's because there's just no room in my life any more for chores. I'm not speaking figuratively, here. Ever since I moved into this teeny-tiny apartment, me and my stuff grapple for real estate like it was the Intervención Estadounidense en México.
Because I don't have room for the stuff I have, the stuff I need but don't have yet has to wait until there's a vacancy.
This is why my wine lives under the sink with the flower vases and ant spray, and why my empty tea pitcher can be found in the refrigerator. There's a cache of Diet Coke under the bed, and I've reached a standoff with the laundry--knowing that if I wash it, I'll just have to find a place to put it all away. It's important not to mess with the status quo--the slightest shift could tilt the whole thing on its axis, and all my crap would go tumbling out into the street.
So a couple of weeks ago, when my friend David told me that contrary to popular belief, the freezer was not really the best place to keep the vodka, I said, "Really? I had no idea!"
What I was thinking, though, was "Please don't tell me this. There's no place else to put it!"
In the fourteen days since, every time I reach for a handful of ice cubes or a sack of peas, that bottle of Smirnoff is sitting there, reminding me that I'm doin' it wrong. The clock is ticking, and I need to find another place for that bottle to live, before I ruin a perfectly good future Bloody Mary.
It's almost as bad as having lettuce in the crisper.
Image, Arkiva Tropika.
This post was written while listening to the gently falling rain.