The continuing saga of Laume Vs. Mothra

Okay, so it's just a moth infested pantry closet. But it feels as big as Mothra. The project has taken on EPIC proportions in my brain and in my life. I'm on Day Three of THE PROJECT and I'm only about halfway finished and I'm exhausted and overwhelmed. Maybe the moths carry a virus that exhausts any animal, including housewives, who try to exterminate them. Maybe they've mutated into this new species that is capable of protecting itself by making anyone who comes in contact with them think "Who cares. I'm too tired. I'll just eat out for the rest of my life."

Everything is out of the closet. Except the dirt. Nine years of spilled cereal and rice and tortilla chips and cookies and doggie treats that leaped from the shelves and then crawled under the cabinets to die. And wall art. like prehistoric cave art. Made with drips of organic wheat free soy sauce and spashes of virgin olive oil and splats of molasses. Embellished with ribbons of old lasagna and corn husks (for making tamales), and old bread bag ties and ancient raisins and chocolate chips so old they've turned gray like me. And two bags, too dusty to determine their contents, hiding in the far back corner behind the hot water heater. I've appointed Jeff to deal with those with his long stick grabber end thing.

The shelving units are on the front lawn, like a contemporary rendition of Stonehenge, both the old shelves that were in the pantry, and some new ones that my mom gave us that have been stored in the wood shed, waiting for their chance to be of service. I'm making the scrubbing of Stonehenge a father/son project.

I'm going to tackle the pantry itself which, by default, includes the hot water heater. I've actually made a start on this, between writing the second and third paragraph of this blog entry, and I'm insanely considering PAINTING the walls as well as scrubbing them. Someone, PLEASE, slap me. Or bring me blue pill. Or is it the red pill? The one that makes me stop believing in the fantasy of me as June Cleaver. Let's get REAL.

Finally, if this project ever gets that far (so far it's like Odysseus trying to get home), I'll have the pleasure of restocking it with the supplies that survived the purging, mostly wiped off cans, some freezer bags and tinfoil, jars of olive oil and vinegar. Basically nothing boxed. Boxes are THE ENEMY. If you look in the dictionary under the word "box" you'll find 1: a rigid typically rectangular receptacle often with a cover 2: a house for moths".