Cleaning House

I've been home exactly a week now and haven't moved too quickly. Okay, that's not entirely true. But I mean as far as my stuff—my apartment, my garage, my car—goes, I've been dragging my feet.

The 31 wire hangers my tenants left me are still banded together and waiting by the front door (with the broken lock) to go back to the cleaners. I partially dismantled the bed they broke (mattress is now on the floor but that's okay, I think the mice are gone now), but I have to break down the frame and carry it down to the curb. I cleaned the refrigerator, but haven't bought anything to go in it. I cleaned the mouse turds out of some cabinets but I keep finding dishes and utensils stashed in strange places (I assume that when my tenants got married, they received gifts, and rather than, oh, put my stuff in a box, it was easier to put a few forks on a top shelf, a knife and a plate up with the Bundt pan, rabbit sculptures made of dust behind doors and under tables, and to cleverly place a container of blueberries in the microwave—genius!).

Ray, who stayed in my place from November 15 to January 2, did what he could. He managed to kill the mice, left me a can of Cafe Bustelo, slept carefully on the broken bed, and built me a monster of a desktop computer system—but he couldn't bring himself to touch the freezer.

"Because," he said, "I wanted to see your reaction to it."

Uh-oh. 

I gingerly pried open the freezer door last Monday on my first night home.

Fortunately, Tuesday is trash day.