Those of you who have been to my apartment know that I keep the place pretty tidy. I wasn’t always such a neat freak, but now that I work from home, my living space has become more important to me — so I go out of my way to keep the environment fresh and sparkling. Do I roam the premises with a pair of white gloves and some antibacterial wipes? No. But do I routinely scrub and freshen? Yes. I work better when my surroundings are clean. Call me fussy if you want.

Today I was straightening up while Aric was at his martial arts class, and as part of this straightening up I was grumbling to myself about why a grown man can’t put away his own goddamn shoes once in awhile. I lifted said shoes, held them up, opened the closet door and prepared to chuck them inside … and then I had a complete and total fucking meltdown.

Okay. Let me back up.

Our closet has two distinct sides. My side, and his side. And I’m not going to stand here and tell you that my side is spring fresh and his side is man-funk gardens or anything. Both sides are tightly packed and cluttered, because the whole of the closet is not really very big. But see, I open my side of the closet all the time for footwear-storing purposes, and nothing hideous and horrible is lurking over there, except for some clothes in plastic tubs and some badly tangled shoes. It is not so often that I bother with his side of the closet, although — and here I must insist — I open that door once every couple of days, at least, because as mentioned above, my husband couldn’t successfully put his own shoes away with a GPS device and a series of voice prompts to guide him.

But never before, not in the nearly 2 years we’ve lived in this particular apartment, had I seen anything like the spontaneous, glorious, peacock-feathery swath of green/blue/white/black mold which had taken up residence on the back wall.

To my credit, at first I did not completely lose it. See, I have a hierarchy of hysteria, and I do my best to stick to it. The lower levels [Potentially Bad but Not Catastrophic] do not require immediate screaming and are broken down roughly like this:

Level One Threat: Cat is making a funny noise.
Level Two Threat: Car is making a funny noise.
Level Three Threat: Laptop is making a funny noise.
Level Four Threat: Husband is making a funny noise.

And the more pressing specters of terror [Actual Problems, Screaming Mandatory] go something like this:

Level Five Threat: Laptop has stopped running.
Level Six Threat: Car has stopped running.
Level Seven Threat: Cat has stopped running.
Level Eight Threat: Husband has stopped running.
Level Nine Threat: Zombies

So I spent a few seconds trying to figure out where on my scale that CLOSET IS IMPERSONATING A PETRI DISH would fall, but before I had time to be logical about it and conclude, “Oh, well, maybe it’s threat level 4.75 or something,” the heebie jeebies set in and I began to flail around like I’d just walked through a giant spiderweb.

I mean, holy heavenly hosts riding on a haywagon, it was disgusting. Seriously disgusting. Deeply disgusting. And oh, rip-fuck me with a tire iron, we store excess bedding in there, and dear sweet baby Jesus in a lint trap those pillows [I peeled them out of a pile] were going to have to go to the dumpster NOW NOW NOW. I grabbed a trash bag, stuffed them inside, and as I lifted up the second pillow some extra sheets came out STUCK TO IT and I nearly squealed like a bitch. Back in the kitchen, under the sink I have some gloves. I retrieved these gloves. I donned these gloves. And then I threw the cat out of the bedroom and tore out enough mold-covered shit that I could barely stand to look at until I’d filled a second garbage bag, and then I ran it down to the dumpster because so help me CHRIST that was not going to sit in my home another MILLISECOND.

Upon steeling myself and returning to the bedroom, I nervously peeled open my side of the closet, and heaved a sigh of relief bigger than any cliche I’ll be using in this blog post. No mold! Haha! Virtue reigneth supreme!

But eww … on Aric’s side. And down where his shoes were, there was whiter, fluffier mold gluing shoelaces into braids; and down where some of his stored clothes were, there was a fine, filthy sheen of green smudging across the cotton. Two things occurred to me: (1). I can’t throw all his shit away, he’ll have a fit, and (2). I’m not picking up a single fucking shoe because this is all his fault somehow.

And, okay, look. The huge, revolting swaths of mold were ALL on his side. CLEARLY he had committed some appalling trespass, some grievous offense against decency and justice. OBVIOUSLY the creeping wall skank was his, and his alone. Or so I told myself until I went noodling around on my own side of the closet and discovered, oh yes, my children, that behind one of my plastic tubs I TOO HAD SINNED. Let she who is without blame cast the first shoe. Or something. But in my defense, my sin must’ve been like, “jaywalking” — as opposed to “raping blind puppies.” For most of the gunk is still on his side.

When Aric finally came home, I showed him the horror and he did a manful cringe — and then agreed that we needed to go get some bleach and some dry-out crystals or whatever the hell one does to dehydrate the everliving-assfuck out of an enclosed space.* We needed to hit up the Northgate area anyway, so while we were out there, we stopped at Target.

There, I stopped an employee and asked him if he could direct me to a dehumidifier.** When I asked this question, we were standing right in front of the humidifiers, which seems to have royally confused the nice little man in the red shirt:

Red Shirt: All the humidifiers are right here.
Me: Yes, I see that. But I want a dehumidifier.
Red Shirt: A … a what?
Me: The opposite of one of these. I want the air to have less water, not more.
Red Shirt: Less … water. But. The humidifiers are right here.
Me: Once again, Sparky. I need to dry out a room, not sog it up.
Red Shirt: How would you go about doing that?
Me: Well, I could start with a dehumidifier …

But as you might guess, that didn’t get me anywhere. Don’t ask my why a Target store in SEATTLE, THE MISERABLE FUCKING RAIN AND HUMIDITY CAPITAL OF THE ENTIRE WORLD would stock an entire wall full of humidifiers — yet act like I was deranged for asking after a device that would regulate the air in the other direction. So, at Aric’s helpful suggestion, we tried Bed, Bath, and Beyond instead. There, we were distracted from the dehumidifier quest by the discovery of a whole kiosk devoted to Damp-Rid and its sibling products (none of which were available at Target, trust me, I asked another employee and got the same perplexed run-around).

Two plastic tubs of Damp-Rid, three hanging Damp-Rids, a spray bottle, and a jug of Clorox later … we made it home. I mixed up a bleach solution and loaded my weapon while Aric pulled everything he owned out of the closet. He filled — and I shit thee not — about three full trash bags of stuff that simply had to be tossed in the dumpster. I only lost about one trash bag full of stuff, because I am smart woman with summer clothes stashed in sealed plastic tubs. HAR.

But once we got everything out, the interior of the closet looked roughly like this:

Keep in mind, that’s after almost a full can of Lysol and before the bleach spray-down. So. Yes. Well. I covered my nose/mouth and hosed down the universe with my bleach solution. I repeated this about an hour later, and now my darling husband is in the closet with wipes and sponges removing dead mold like the champ he is. I can’t breathe that shit anymore. My nose has swollen shut and my eyes are practically bleeding. Can. Not. Do. It.

But my goodness, look how long this post has run. Well kids, I think I need to fire off an email to management with these pictures, and then I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine and cry because it smells so bad in here. Or maybe I’ll just cry because tomorrow, once the place has dried out, I’m going to have to stuff the contents of the closet back into the closet. [Edit: Or maybe I’ll just wait to hear from management before I bother.] And before I do, that closet is going to be stocked with all three hanging Damp-Rid packets and two tubs of that magical shit. I don’t care if it turns our clothes into potato chips, God help me I am NOT doing this again.

Fuck, I just want my bedroom back.***

EDIT: Hay all you helpful people telling me to yank out drywall and such — WE RENT HERE. I can’t rip out anything. I’ve documented the situation thoroughly, reported it to management, and done the best I can with it. We’re not in a position to leave the premises, and it’s gross as shit, but we aren’t going to drop dead from this junk. Calm the hell down. And for all the optimists who think our landlord will reimburse us, I am forced to say, “HAHAHAHAHAHAH.” If we are very, very lucky, they will respond by not jacking up our rent another $100 a month come March.