i kind of want to call this one "spores = whores"
Wet carpet = lame. Finding out you have a leak in your wall and that your home is a thriving and productive mold factory = even lamer. Discovering that your mold problem has ruined part of the only material posession you truly treasure = the MOST LAMEST EST of ALL.
So in case you haven't picked up on this already, POKA BEAN = NOT HAPPY.
The good news, however, is that the chunk of our wall that had to be torn to bits today in order to correct the problem is considerably smaller than I had anticipated. And the smell is getting better. And the most IMPORTANT part of the beloved material posession is in great shape. My mom's old guitar. I'm not entirely sure but I'd guess it hails from 1965 or so. The guitar itself is fine, I think. The case, however, is toast. Or I guess I should say it's MOLD which sort of works better anyway since toast becomes mold after it sits unnoticed in a damp, dark corner for several weeks too. But whatever. However you slice it (geez, enough with the bread inuendo) that baby is ruined. With a capital R. And it's not just any guitar case. It's dear to me because it belonged to my musical genius mother (don't worry guys, she's still alive, it's not the last thing I have to remember her by or anything tragic like that) and it's lined with the most ridiculous, fuzzy, flourescent red material, material I am certain they stopped manufacturing after the world's disco boots cooled off.
Tears were shed. Scrubbing and drying and fanning and airing and disinfecting were attempted but it was all in vain. I fought the mold and the mold won. The guitar case is still sitting outside my front door because I just don't have the heart to put it in the trash yet. I feel like I should bury it or something. Give a eulogy. But I should really just be grateful the guitar itself is fine because that is treasure enough.
Anywho, I suppose this unravels the mystery of why I've been an allergic maniac for the last several weeks. The mold zone is about 5 feet from where I sleep. Well actually, it's in about a 5-foot radius of pretty much anywhere you can possibly go in our apartment which is the beauty of living in a cubby hole. But finally figuring out what the heck the problem was is a friggin' miracle so I guess I oughta count my blessings and give mad props to our bomby landlord (meaning our landlord who is THE BOMB) who figured out what was wrong and is fixing it for us even though his wife just birthed their first born child. Mad props, yo. (And extra mad props to our bomby landlord for having given his first born child the middle name of "Sodapop." Do you see now why he is so bomby?)