Cleansing the Rat's Nest: Cupboard 1

I have a shaky relationship with executive function.

Combine that with equally shaky object permanence, cyclically unworkable body and mind, my own need to acquire to feather my nest, and the generosity of others, and you get: a whole-house doom pile.

It's not that bad. I'm not a hoarder. I even take spells of downsizing, playing such minimalist culture holdovers like getting rid of 100 things in a set amount of time, or the feng shui-lite rule of moving 27 things to improve the flow of Chi throughout the home. Haven't had any of those recently, though.

What I have had recently: Little hints of the presence of mice and a cat that's been staring intensely at corners of the kitchen. It seems that some rodents are about.

I stopped putting out mouse traps a few years ago. Why execute animals that are only seeking shelter and hanging around due to my own neglect? Seems wrong.

AND YET, when I found a few Wendy's cracker packets torn open and emptied of their contents, a thought flickered across my mind that maybe we have a problem on our hands.

Taking a hard look at the cabinet in which these packets had been stashed confirmed the issue. Oh no.

I'm now trying to convince myself that I am not a disgusting swamp monster that needs to throw away everything I don't touch on a daily basis.

I'm also newly resolved to do a good and proper cleanse of my open surfaces and enclosed spaces. A Swedish death cleaning for the version of me that lets mice turn a cupboard of forgotten grains and snacks into a rodent's smorgasbord.

And if I log my progress here, I have the dual benefits of 1) keeping up the momentum and 2) fueling my writing practice.

So, today marks the cleansing of Cupboard 1.

Cupboard 1

Cupboard 1 positioned beside my refrigerator, above a small square of counter space with the oven to the right. I didn't think it was accessible by small mammalian guests. Wrong-o, I discovered, seeing plastic bags gnawed and enough leavings to indicate days of occupation. It was bad.

Out went everything clearly visited by mouse teeth, along with anything seemingly untouched but past or nearing its "best by date." The oldest item was a bag of cocoa powder, which should have been used up by 2020. Oops.

That bag was on the top shelf of the cabinet, which I had incorrectly assumed was clear. Until my hand, extended well above eye level, brushed another indicator of unwelcome visitors.

Note that I live in an area more or less free of hantavirus. If I lived further west, gloves, a mask, and any other personal protective equipment absolutely should have been utilized. Keeping a cleaner home would have been the best first step.

When I lived in Arizona, two acquaintances of acquaintances succumbed to the disease. Hantavirus is real. Stay safe, western friends.

Nearly everything got tossed. Both levels were thoroughly scrubbed, then sprinkled with peppermint essential oil in the blind hope that the MLM bloggers and folk knowledge-holders are telling the truth when they say it's a mouse deterrent. Two solid containers now sit stacked on one another, with some packages of gum on top of those. Otherwise, both levels will sit empty for the time being. The other surviving dried goods migrated to a freestanding hutch with a tightly-closing door.

I'll address that hutch—and as many other spaces as I can manage—another day. This might be an excellent exercise as we careen toward the winter months. Maybe I'll emerge into spring as a less gross, more functional human.