I'm a slob. It amazes me that I subject myself to self-created living conditions even the poorest citizens of Calcutta would find reprehensible. This is due not only to my innate lack of Susie Homemaker skills, but also the intrinsic nature of my physical confines. I've been in the same tiny studio for almost five years, almost the entire time I've lived in Portland. Being extremely materialistic, never without a need for more stuff, I long ago surpassed my apartment's point of maximum density. I should have moved out about three years ago, at least. But something keeps me here. Maybe it's the tractor beam of my favorite watering hole, which is right across the street. Or maybe it's just that I can't face the humiliation that would come when I ask for my security deposit back.

I come from a long line of pack rats. My parents' home is filled with nice old antiques, but you can't see the mahogany for all the layers of newspapers, magazines and felines which are being saved for posterity. My grandparents can't stop shopping although they had everything they could ever possibly need by about 1950. I admire, but cannot really understand, the footloose and fancy free who can fit all their worldly goods into a mini backpack. Don't they hear the siren's song of the thrift shop and the record store? I'll need a squad of Argonauts just to cart out my collectable shot glass collection, if indeed I'm ever evicted.

Too much stuff is only half of my problem. I'm surprised the board of health hasn't razed my disgusting domicile. If I wasn't a dyed in the wool aetheist, I'd thank God that I don't have roaches. I guess the word hasn't gone out yet, but at any given time, my kitchen could provide the sustenance for an infestation in the millions. The thing is that I love to cook and "entertain”, but I deplore doing the dishes. At the bottom of my sink are the plates I used for a dinner party six weeks ago. About ten days ago, I ran out of regular utensils, and rather than actually wash something, I've taken to spearing my food with one chopstick (thus to extend the lifespan of my collection of disposables and put off the inevitable drudgery as long as I can) . I've actually been known to load up a laundry basket full of pots and pans and haul it all the way across town, just so I can run them through the dishwasher at work. My fridge is a penicillin factory. I stopped eating meat four years ago, but there's still a couple of steaks in my freezer. There's this horrifying black slime oozing from beneath the vegetable bins I've been too afraid to open for the last six months. I think that a large part of my reputation as an excellent hostess is due to the fact that I can't bear to let anyone else look in it, so I'm always hopping up to replenish my guests' beer.

I wish I was one of those people who do a little bit each day. But the only daily chores I seem to find the time for are excavating the litter box and dumping the ashtrays. One thing I make a point of doing on a regular basis is cleaning my closet. That is, if once every two or three years can be termed a regular basis. Having reached the point where I was recycling the same four outfits for what seemed live forever, I finally initiated this Herculean task a few days ago. Now, I may have a small apartment, but my closet is enormous. It runs the length of the place, but only the fraction of its space (that which is within arm's reach) has been accessible to me in the last year. A two and a half foot layer of solid sediment had built up on the floor. Going through it, I felt like an archeologist working in the ruins of Pompeii. There were several well defined layers amid the rubble. Closest to the surface, was a couple of hundred dollars worth of never worn impulse buy clothes, which went straight into the Goodwill sack. Beneath that were the crapped out bras I never threw away even though they didn't have enough elasticity left to support a ten year old girl. Then I came to the first bits of ossified cat puke, which was apparently the binding material that originally held the sediment in place. Below that, appropriately enough, was a thick pile of old boyfriend pictures, which of course derailed my whole operation while I reminisced about the good old days when I used to have sex. The bottom layer was composed primarily of magazines. Magazines are the bane of my existence. I am thoroughly addicted to them, and even though I never have less that eight going subscriptions, I cannot pass up buying several more each month. Some of them I manage to recycle on a timely basis, leaving them in the foyer for my neighbors' reading pleasure. But the bulk of them I "archive"(ie make indiscriminate piles of) for future reference, lest I need to ready access that article on day spas in Norway or the hottest clubs in Hilo in 1994.

It took two solid days of digging, but I finally found the floor. After that it was a matter of screwing my courage to the sticking point and ruthlessly divesting myself of absolute non-essentials. Of course, my definition of this is pretty broad, but I was able to whittle most of the jetsam from the flotsam, and repack the leftovers back into the closet in an uncharacteristically orderly fashion. To commemorate my labors, I took a picture of my pristine inner inner sanctum. Just to remind me of that brief and shining moment, which will be over faster than you can say "late for work”. Someday, maybe I'll have a maid, or even better, a manservant to help look after my things. For now, I'll just have to make due with creative lighting and artful piling. I've given up on trying to change my slovenly habits. The only thing this place really needs is a good firebombing, anyway...