Still with the apartment clearing.
We have 450 square feet. It is physically impossible to have as much crap as we do. But we have it. We have it despite my twice-yearly garbaging frenzy, where I pitch anything and everything that isn't tied down (either physically or by some strong emotional tie, and I'm really pretty good about not getting attached to too many objects beyond t-shirts and old notes and photos). I have thrown more junk away in the last month than I have packed away in the last month, and the apartment looks no different. Except for the empty bookshelves. I made myself pack all the books away, except the my newest *acquisition. Those bookshelves look so forlorn. So sad.
*Perdido Street Station. I don't know if it's good or not yet. I'm only on page 26. More pity partying for me: I bought the book at least a week ago, and I still haven't had time to read it. Wah!
Today I tackled two of the places I have been afraid of all these years (next up: under the bed, Shelob's lair--the couch--, then the bottom of the closet and James's "dresser", which is really just an enormous junk drawer). The less scary one was under the kitchen sink, which turned out to be not bad at all. Only a couple things got thrown away, and nothing jumped out or shot its tentacles up my nostrils or began talking directly into my mind.
But the pantry. Hoooo boy.
REASON NUMBER 1 TO DO A PANTRY INVENTORY MORE OFTEN THAN ONCE EVERY FIVE YEARS:
That ketchup bottle back there, waaaay back there, the one you forgot you ever even bought, the one that has turned a sinister shade of eggplant? That ketchup bottle got a little frisky with some botulism-ridden canned pears. I don't know how long they were sitting there like that, but there was never a smell; there was never anything to indicate something skeevy was going on back there. They did give birth to some kind of toxic super glue. I never thought I'd have to peek in on a bunch of inanimate metal-encased objects just to make sure they were behaving themselves. That's why we're having what will one day be a teenage girl.
I'm not much of a hand washer, but since I got done cleaning that up, I've scrubbed up at least twelve times. My hand skin is now parchment, but I don't care. I won't die of botulism. Not today, at least.
Other than the Ketchup Surprise, I found nothing alarming. Well, some really way-past-their-best-by-date cans of food, but nothing else had escaped, and, again, nothing living and/or knowing popped out at me.
I have pregnancy cankle. Yes. Cankle. Singular. My right ankle is as slim and girlish and bony as it ever was, but my left one hasn't been this swollen since I finished soccer my senior year of high school (repeated small sprains = lovely, long-lasting swelling). I remember when my grandma had heart surgery, and she had to wear orthopedic socks. Her ankles looked like my left one does now.
I just don't understand why it's only one ankle. I don't stand or sleep on my left side any more than my right side. I don't cross my legs much (how do you think I got pregnant? HAR!).
Now, I should be happy that I have only one cankle, but I'm not. If I'm gonna have 'em, I at least want to be symmetrical.