We’re trying to declutter the storage space in our Berlin apartment. My husband hauled out an old plastic crate where he’d stashed an old bath mat – and discovered the silly thing had liquidified.
We just spent the last half hour removing apparent oil drips from the linoleum. I’d provide a picture but I’m still feeling so greasy, I’d rather not touch my camera.
Don’t you think it’s a little freaky that in less than a decade, a petroleum-based rug can start decomposing and actually go all the way back to its origins? I’m not sure if this is heartening or alarming when it comes to the plastics in our landfills.
Ashes to ashes; oil to oil.
And man, am I glad my husband is so adept at climing ladders (this crate and other equally valuable items were stored on a platform above the entryway; they are all headed for the landfill tomorrow). It’s the best argument for marriage I can think of at the moment: I don’t care how sexes and genders combine, it’s just awfully useful if one of them isn’t a total klutz on a ladder. I’ll admit to being hopelessly girly, that way.
Oh, and if posting is light (both intellectually and numerically) over the next couple of days, it’s because I’m in transit back to Ohio. Tomorrow’s the packapalooza, and Thursday we fly home (Berlin-Frankfurt-Washington/Dulles-Columbus, if you’re the sort who likes to fret along with my mama until all the planes have safely landed).