the illusion of control
I had to displace a shoebox full of door hardware; 12 kinds of adhesive (seriously); some flashlights with dead batteries; a bag stapled shut which contained a remote control, warranty card, and owners manual for an air conditioner; many kinds of outlet covers; a broken scissors; picture hanging wire... the list just goes on and on. I mean, do those things belong in a kitchen? No! So I ruthlessly dumped them all into a Target bag, wiped the drawer clean, carefully lined it with adhesive cork liner (which has always suggested the height of kitchen drawer luxury to me, as if the housewares therein were of such fine quality that they had to be tenderly cushioned against the stress of *sitting in a drawer*), and arranged my tupperware in the drawer so that it could still close. And took a picture.
Now, ignore for the moment that the bulging Target bag is hanging on the doorknob of the closet in the hallway, where its numerous sharp corners graze my leg daily, and the broken scissors are slowly emerging from an enlarging hole. Disregard the fact that as a single person living alone, I rarely cook, and when I do cook I have no leftovers because I have a dog who has perfected the canine facial expression that means, "I am adorable... and STARVING!"
The important thing about this drawer is that it exists. Clean. Tidy. There is a container for every purpose and a lid for every container. Superfluous, stained, lidless, or hard to clean containers have been banished. And if it should ever happen that I have too much of a good thing (Pennies from heaven? It's raining men?), then I will be prepared to store some of it for later.
So although life itself remains a series of random and scary events over which I have minimal control, I have struck a small blow against the chaos. Or at least distracted myself momentarily from the chaos, which is equally good, I'm sure.