plastic ponies

The book I am reading now; I Was Told There'd Be Cake, by Sloane Crosley, is a group of essays. I was given the book by my sister because of the first essay, titled; The Pony Problem. The first sentence of the first page is:

As most New Yorkers have done, I have given serious and generous thought to the state of my apartment should I get killed during the day.

Smash said she picked up the book, flipped open to this first page, started reading and then laughed out loud and thought, "I HAVE to get this book for my sister!" She didn't tell me that until AFTER I started reading and called to tell her I loved it, and loved the writing, and totally LOVED the first essay.

I too have given ample thought to the state of my house if I should die during the day, and not just thought, I have actually expressed these thoughts to my sister. I have called her in a near panic to tell her about my house, and how disgusting it is, and how if I do, in fact, die, she HAS to be the first one to go in, not just to clean but to get rid of stuff. You may think this sounds silly and rather paranoid, but I have always been like this...before EVERY trip out of town, or out of the country I would assess how bad it would be for those left behind if I should not return, and now that I hurl myself over 250 miles of interstate at 80 miles an hour almost every day it is not completely out of the realm of possibility...those 4 hours in the car every day also give me ample time to think.

Now that I have a kid it is even worse...the house is messier and so is my mind. In the essay, Sloane's main concern is her pony collection, and no that is not code for Bob collection, they are actual plastic toy ponies, and she is mortified and yet unable to get rid of them. My concern; my journal. You think I am crazy in this blog? You should read my journal...no don't. You see, my journal, the paper one, is where all my; fears, loathings, paranoid stupid frantic thoughts, hopes, dreams, aspirations, failings, heartbreaks, and the real hard (no one wants to admit they have) feelings, go...and like the dozens that have come before it; it will be shredded, either by me upon running out of pages or my sister upon my demise.

So anyway, after reading and thinking about this preoccupation, I thought I would just put it all out there for everyone so there are no surprises...with Smash living a thousand miles away there is a very good chance any one of you lucky readers could get the job of going through my stuff should I; get run over by a forklift, walk into an airplane prop, run off the road because an Usher song comes on the radio (don't ask), or choke on a doughnut.

There are dirty dishes in the sink, with the dishwasher broken I have to wash them all by hand and I should have washed them Monday, but I didn't...again on Tuesday, again I didn't...I wasn't home last night so I have an excuse, regardless, they are still there. There are clean clothes in the dryer, they will remain there until newly washed wet clothes have to go in instead, or, you fold them for me. The trash can in the bathroom is full, and that pile of clothes on the bathroom floor, they are all dirty. Don't go into the Pea's room...you will break your leg. I don't think there is a square inch of floor space NOT littered with toys, books or clothes. Bob is on the top of my shoe shelf in the closet, help yourself.

I don't have any plastic ponies.