Between the job loss, depression and panic, job searches, interviews, and not one, but two new jobs over the last few weeks, I’ll admit that housework has been pretty low on the priority list. And it shows. I’ve never been a great housekeeper and likely never will be. I accepted that a long time ago. It just isn’t a dream of mine.
It’s gotten really bad lately. No longer am I slightly embarrassed if someone drops by unexpectedly; I’ve graduated into fully mortified that people will think this is how my apartment always looks. Not only that, but it’s gotten to the point of having no idea where things are when usually I know exactly where things are despite the chaos. Granted, I do have the future mister and two kids adding to the mess, but as the female leader, apparently I’m supposed to stay on top of things a whole lot better than I have been.
Tonight I finally made it a priority. My kitchen is one of the smallest areas of the apartment and gets dirty at light-speed, so I figured I would start there and do more than just the usual quick load of dishes.
Dishes done. Counters and stove scrubbed. Coffeepot scrubbed and sweet tea made (awesome!). Trash taken out, floor mopped.
And then it was time to face my nemesis:
It isn’t evil, but either evil lurks within in the form of a funky smell, or we’re growing a cure for ebola in there.
Was it the leftover mashed potatoes? When did we even fix mashed potatoes last? The bag of leftover fast food from last week? Did something drip when it was thawing and I missed it? Good lord, what is it and where is it coming from???
Turns out, I had completely forgotten about a bag of oranges from who knows how long ago stuck in the back of a drawer.
They weren’t orange anymore, and now they can continue their runaway science project from the dumpster.
On a side note, U.S. #2 or better? What, I didn’t feel like springing for the number one oranges that day? Sheesh.