I stared in utter revulsion. After 20 minutes and considerable maneuvering – not to mention a horrible ripping sound that made me suspect we will be redoing the floor this summer – I finally managed to pry the fridge out of the alcove it lives in. And then stood, staring dumbly at the vilest thing I’ve ever seen.
It was like a gigantic-killer-mutant-rabid-furry dust bunny had been squashed up against the wall. And then went and had squashed gigantic-killer-mutant-rabid-furry dust bunny babies. By the hundreds.
Traumatized, I struggled to form coherent thoughts. But my thoughts were bouncing around unfinished in my head, racing into each other. Questions. I had questions. I yelled in the direction of the basement.
“How long ago did we get the fridge?”
“Uh… I don’t know. Maybe five, six years ago, I think. Seven, at most. Why?”
“Just curious. Also, out of curiosity, could it have been around the same time the cat went missing?”
Ok, before anyone calls the SPCA – or worse, A&E’s Hoarders – on me, the story above is just that: a story. I did start my annual spring cleaning this past weekend. And, while I admit I am not the world’s most conscientious housekeeper and my annual spring cleaning may actually only happen every
three two years, I have not reached the point where there are carcasses behind the appliances.
So, no, it’s not as bad as I make it seem. I may have exaggerated slightly; taken some creative license. I mean, it’s not really like my fridge could be mistaken for a biochemical warfare facility. And it’s not really like the contents removed from my oven could be used to pave the Trans-Canada highway.
And I certainly did not find a spider busily spinning its silk into a noose while staring forlornly at the murky window.
Next weekend? The living room.