Most of the time, thank you,

I may get to the Friday Five later on.  For now, taking a brief break from the battle with domestic ENTROPY and chaos-come-again.

Spurred by RAGE and weariness in wet-vacuuming something like 300 litres of rainwater out of my permeable basement this week -- recognizing that chore would at least be made much easier if it weren't so overfull of STUFF -- I have put THAT DAMN BASEMENT in a permanent position at the top of the daily to-do list.

Applying the principle of DO THE WORST FIRST...and the 90-MINUTE MAX principle...and any other of the current buzzwords that seem applicable.

In broad general terms.  I have work-space[s].  And I have storage space[s].  And storage keeps encroaching upon and taking over work-space.  Until there is nothing but storage, and I am walking sideways through it.  

So just at present I am fighting the Battle of Jars.  Not on the Plain of Jars ("megalithic archaeological landscape in Laos" thank you, Wikipersons), but in the Basement of Jars.  Although come to think of it, "megalithic archaeological landscape" is not altogether unfitting...

By "jars," of course, I mean CANNING JARS.  ("When I say religion, I mean the Christian religion..." etc.)  Or Mason jars.  Or whatever you call them in your tradition.

There are two kinds of people in this world, including in Canada, and they are those who know what a Mason jar is, and those who do not.  And between them there is a great gulf fixed, take it from me.

But there are also Usefully Huge jars which formerly contained mayo or peanut butter or pickles.  And are just too...imposingly JAR...to throw out.  And there are other commercial jars that are Efficiently Tall and Slim for storing bit of things in the fridge (speaking of megalithic archaeological landscapes).

And there are those Evil Devious jars formerly full of purchased pasta sauce, which despite their one-piece lids are, in fact, actual Mason jars complete with cute designs in the glass and volume-markers up the side.

I don't want to talk about the baby-food jars.  I just don't.

I think my problem is that when my conscience was in a particularly unset state, perhaps, somebody came and left a big fat footprint in it, in the shape of a comment about how wasteful and cavalier 20th century North Americans are with CONTAINERS.  The idea being that if we had had to gnaw that peanut butter jar, and its lid, out of the primal soapstone with our own front teeth, we wouldn't be tossing it into the landfill with a blithe tra la la, the way we do.  So I have a COMPUNCTION, nasty thing, whenever I do.

In spite of all this dithering and casuistry, I have accumulated one Big Blue Bag of glassware and lids for the recycle pickup next week.  So Tether's End will be roomier by that much volume, at least.

back at it...