Make the Bed

Make the Bed

I read somewhere once that if everything’s falling apart, if you’re feeling anxious or overwhelmed, you should try to avoid creating long To-Do lists. Instead, you should focus on one small task. Something simple, like flossing your teeth, putting out the recycles, or making your bed.

The trick here is not to do one thing and then say, “Okay, the recycles are in the garage, but I’ve always wanted to reorganize the garage shelving unit,” so you decide to do it, and mid-way through that chore, you find your old family albums, the ones you’ve been meaning to organize for the past three years—the four Covid years don’t count—but now there are paint cans and craft glue and car washing supplies and holiday ornaments all over the floor, so you have to put those things back on the shelves first. Which you do.

However, while putting the ornament box back, the storage lid pops off, and rainbow-colored ornaments tumble out and hit the floor. Thankfully, most are intact, but that one glass orb, the one with the loose holder you swore you’d glue three—the two Covid years don’t count—years ago, has shattered into pieces.

You stare at the glittery shards and shout expletives at the stuffed sock snowman your son made in elementary school that you couldn’t toss because that would make you a negligent parent.

Okay, you think. Breathe. Where’s the dustpan? The kitchen. You put it there because most spills occur inside, not out in the garage.

Or so you thought.

So you zigzag around paint cans, craft glue, family photo albums, car washing supplies, and intact ornaments, and slam the garage door behind you.

You’re in the kitchen now, and there’s a strange smell wafting from somewhere you can’t pinpoint. But that can wait. First, the task at hand. Which was what now?

Right, the dustpan. Because broken glass is dangerous.

Fortunately, your children are out, and the dog is sunbathing in the backyard.

You kneel and open the bottom cabinet door, and your stomach makes a loud rumble. That clementine and banana you had for breakfast are nothing but a memory now, and you’re certain that’s why you were so clumsy in the garage. Low blood sugar levels give you brain fog. A healthy snack for mental clarity would be good. Protein is what you need.

You open the fridge, searching for sustenance, and a gag reflex immediately overcomes you. The source of your olfactory distress: those six Kung Pao chicken breasts you pounded with a mallet, fried to perfection, ate one, and forgot existed. Until now.

When did you cook them? Last week? Last month? Last year? You’re not one for wasting food, so it couldn’t have been that long—wait. You remember now. It was two days before Thanksgiving. You made the chicken—delicious, even if you say so yourself—then the holiday came, and then there were leftovers, and the chicken breasts got pushed to the back of the refrigerator, forgotten due to poultry overload.

Now it makes sense.

They must be thrown out, but the smell would stink up the garage—oops, just remembered the broken ornament glass—so you decide to blast the chicken breasts to bits inside the garbage disposal.

Aren’t disposals lovely machines? You can take your smelliest items, stuff them inside the machine, and with the flip of a switch and a gust of water, presto! Food waste magically disappears.

So you grab a fork, open the plastic container, hold your breath, and shove the five stinky chicken breasts down the running disposal.

A strange noise erupts from the drain. A whirring squeak that sounds like a groan of exhaustion, and then murky water rises from the bowels of your drain.

Your first thought: Oops.

Your second thought: flip the switch! FLIP THE SWITCH! Not that switch; that’s the outside light. Flip the other switch!

You do.

Your third thought: Your significant other was right when they told you never to put anything larger than a clementine section into the disposal.

Your fourth thought: Ooh, that smell.

Your fifth thought: Was it Lynyrd Skynyrd who wrote that song? Yes, it was. And now that song is playing in your head while the dog scratches at the door, begging to come in.

Panic sets in. You swear at the dog. You shout obscenities at the garbage disposal. You wish you knew a neighborhood plumber. You pace the floor and wonder what to do next.

Get help.

You call your significant other and relay the current events, leaving out the part about the broken Christmas ornament.

To their credit, your S.O. does not gloat or say, “I told you not to put anything inside the disposal,” because you’re manic and they’re probably afraid of you. Instead, they suggest you find the sink stopper and check if both sides of your double sink are clogged.

You agree because you’ll do anything at this point. You kneel and search for the stopper inside the lower cabinet. Where is it? The last time you saw it was the day you moved in. Sponges, dish soap, latex gloves, steel wool pads, detergent, glass cleaner, glass cleaner, glass cleaner—you have three cans?—dust pan, aha! The stopper. You raise the piece of plastic above your head like you found a rare jewel then hoist yourself up and plug the—hopefully unclogged—drain.

Uh-oh. It happens fast, but your brain processes it in slow motion.

There’s a volcanic eruption, an explosion of dingy water coupled with shredded chicken bits, white flakes, and black sludge.

You scream and drop your cell phone and flip the switch—wrong switch—right switch—while your brain keeps repeating: what are those white flakes? The chicken your brain understands. The black sludge is understood. But the white flecks?

Interesting.

You scratch your temple with your pinky. Eggshells! Your brain offers. You made scrambled eggs for breakfast. Okay, now that’s settled, you return to the chaos.

The dog is scratching the glass with both front paws. The ornament bits are littering the garage floor. Every inch of cabinetry is splattered with shredded chicken sludge. Even worse, both drains are clogged.

You stomp your foot like a petulant child, pick up your phone, and complain to your significant other. They offer calming words of support and guide you through the steps to disassemble the pea trap? Pee trap? P-trap?

Whatever.

You remove all the items, including the dust bin and three glass cleaners from the cabinet, grab a rectangular container to trap the water, and disassemble the Pea (?) Pee (?) P- (?) trap.

Which way do you turn? You remember the mnemonic: righty tighty, lefty loosie, and the pipe releases.

It’s a slow trickle at first, and then it’s a gushing hydrant. Water bursts from the pipe, and you scream and jam the Pea(?) P(?) Pee (?) trap back in place. Too late. Murky liquid now covers your chest, your arms, your hair, and the inside of the cabinet.

Fortunately, the container caught whatever your body missed. Unfortunately, the container is filled to the rim, and a foul odor assaults your nostrils.

Grumbling, you relay the events to your significant other. They calmly suggest you grab a coffee mug, scoop out some water, and flush it down the commode.

Screw that, you think. That’ll take forever. You’re strong. You have excellent balance. How hard can it be to carry one container?

Apparently, very.

Flash forward.

The kitchen floor is covered with smelly shredded chicken sludge water because you insisted on carrying the full container in one trip. But the rest of the water is flushed away, and thoughts of eating are farthest from your mind.

You stink. The dog needs to be let in. And you desperately need a shower.

After shouting a few choice expletives at the canine, your significant other, the garbage disposal, and the world, you look up and see your son standing over you.

Thank goodness, a helper.

“Whoa,” he says, waving a hand in front of his face. “That smells awful.”

“I’m aware,” you say.

He laughs and then catches himself, apparently registering your disapproval.

“Good luck,” he says, retreating to the hallway.

“No, wait,” you cry. “Come back.”

Upon instruction, he retrieves a roll of paper towels. He lets the dog in. He wishes you luck and then hurries off to play video games.

So much for the help.

Your significant other is asking for an update. Your dog is licking the floor tiles. You remember the broken Christmas ornament.

Argh!

You gather your strength and mop the floor. You dry the container—why?—pondering what to use to snake the drain. A plunger? Broom handle? Your son’s video game controller?

Eureka! An idea comes to mind. How about those metal kabob skewers someone gifted you? The ones you never used finally have a purpose.

Kneeling, you jam the metal skewer up the disposal’s intestines and blindly push and scoop, push and scoop. Chicken sludge drops onto the cabinet floor. Then more. Then, ew, ew, ew, some more.

Eventually, the skewer comes back empty. No more chicken mush? You crawl out of the cabinet and examine the skewer, now bent into the shape of an L.

Is that it? The nightmare is over? You clasp your hands with cautious optimism.

Your significant other doubts that the drain is clear, but you’re starting to melt down, so they agree when you announce that it’s time to test.

The dog is sniffing your wet socks. The Pea (?) Pee (?) P- (?) trap parts are back together. You tighten the plastic screws and exhale.

Moment of truth.

You dry your finger on your shirt. You slide the dog away from your feet. You plug in the disposal and gingerly flip the wrong switch—right switch!

The disposal gurgles and hums. No squeaks, no explosions, no exhausted groans.

It’s running. It’s fixed. Praise Be, you repaired the disposal!

You pump your fist in the air.

Your significant other congratulates you. You thank them for their patience. You thank them for teaching you plumbing. You apologize for the obscenities you shouted during the fiasco.

You end the call. You feed the dog. You remember why you first entered the kitchen.

That darned broken ornament.

You return to the garage, dustpan in hand, and stare at the hodge-podge of items on the floor. Breathe, you say. Tackle one task at a time.

Paint cans, check. Craft glue, check. Family photo albums, check. Car washing supplies and intact ornaments back on the shelf, check, check. All items are in place. The glass shards are all swept. Praise be, the nightmare is finally over.

Your stomach rumbles. Your hunger has returned. But before eating, you must take a shower.

The soapy water feels glorious on your skin. Chicken bits fall down the drain.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself, just make the damn bed.