Mold, black mold; not Texas Tea Black Gold, but in my closet black mold, growing behind four layers of wallpaper, scraped off one at a time, layers of black mold in between each layer, black mold, all the way down to a cement wall that had black mold. We did pay a home inspector, but this was a hidden mess.
When I first saw the closet walls, gunky stuff was on the outermost layer of wallpaper. I decided to scrub down that wallpaper because I was thinking, maybe somebody sprayed a can of Pepsi all over the walls. That took a few hours that I will never get back because as the wallpaper got moist from the warm dishcloth and fell down, I found my first identifiable layer of black mold. Thick and thriving, unaware its life was about to end.
Spraying each layer with bleach, returning when it was dry, scraping each layer off with a knife/chisel, vacuuming, spraying bleach again, not just because black mold is toxic, but because I am blessed with OCD and then me, showering. Often.
I bought a ventilated mask when I began this week long, no end in sight project and I dutifully put it on for every adventure into the closet from hell.
I couldn’t breathe for the rest of my adventures without inhaling hot steam that I’d exhaled just a second ago, but it made me feel safer somehow.
I say somehow because I hadn’t thought about getting safety glasses or a hat and the black mold showered down upon my head and in my eyes pretty consistently.
So after each adventure in the closet, I stepped into the shower with everything I was wearing and it all got washed.
I decided after the first day that I needed more safety equipment and my husband was delighted that we needed a trip to Harbor Freight. I bought safety glasses, some better scrapers, a worker’s jumpsuit and a huge straw hat.
We also stopped for a gallon of Salted Caramel ice cream.
A week later and one gallon of Kilz and that closet was the cleanest space in this century-old house.
There was only one fatality. The vacuüm cleaner choked to death.
Along our travels, we made a pit stop for food and I walked outside to get some fresh air. I found a field of dandelions gone to fluff and I picked a bouquet.
I spun around and around in my butterfly covered sun dress and let the fluff cover me as I made wishes.
I could feel the magic surround me.
The magic didn’t come from the dandelion fluff, it came from believing in dandelion wishes.
I’ll never forget that moment.
I tucked it in my heart to save for a rainy day…
How many of you almost froze your fingers off trying to get the neck and /or giblets out of the dang Christmas turkey? Well, my bird was as thawed as thawed could be. Except for inside, where the stuff was wrapped, in a plain white wrapper, which wouldn’t budge. After thirty minutes of spraying hot water into the cavity, much yanking, a few curse words, and one screwdriver, (non-liquid) I triumphantly jerked the stuff out of the turkey, whom by this time, I’d begun to feel sorry for. As I pulled it’s neck and body organs out from under it’s own ribs, I couldn’t help but think; this bird had been alive, hopefully, not so long ago, and what a sorry way to end it’s life. Undignified, to say the least. (As if I ever say the least!) Then I got to wondering—why can we send a man to the moon, yet, women still have to wrestle with frozen innards on holidays? Do women own any turkey farms? Cause if they did, I believe they’d package the stuff on the outside of the bird, don’t you? I aim to find out! Meanwhile, I’d like you to write to Butterball, and ask them to consider our plight. Ask, how much could it cost, to tuck the package under the outside wrap? We need to solve this problem before next Thanksgiving. I never want to wrestle with a dead, half-frozen turkey long enough to feel sorry for it again!