I keep a running list of things I need to do – chores that I’ll get to eventually, at some point, when I have free time. Ha, ha. Free time. That’s funny.
Can we all just agree that when we have free time, we’re not going to do chores? Because we’re not.
We’re going to do something fun, like binge watch the series Yellowstone on Amazon, because Kevin Costner as a stern cowboy makes me stupid happy. That guy gets hotter with age. Swoon.
It also means my husband, the Carpenter, is going to have to endure another season of me saying saucy things like “why don’t you add chaps to your toolbelt?” Just a suggestion.
Amongst the chores on that list is the cleaning of the linen closet. Ugh. I get shivers just typing that.
People in new, modern homes, designed with storage in mind, will have no comprehension of the frustration of cleaning out a linen closet designed in the early 1970s, precariously built into the ceiling over a staircase, angled as such, with three useless, unstable shelves that challenge utility, function and personal safety.
Every time I open the folding closet door I am bombarded by an avalanche of blankets, towels, sheets and pillows trying to escape. I can imagine the tabloid story now: “She died under the weight of a million blankets and towels that fell out of the linen closet all at once. But as she lay there waiting for the rescue that wasn’t to come, she tried to reconcile why she had more blankets than beds, more towels than limbs to dry off, more pillows than heads to lay on them. Her last words were, ‘Why can’t people fold and stack? Why?’”
You think I’m exaggerating, but on Sunday afternoon when I opened the linen closet, I took my life into my own hands, which were already full of freshly-folded towels. I wedged the door open with my foot, and before I could stuff the towels in, the linen avalanche toppled over me, knocking the neatly folded towels out of my hands.
I stood there, waist deep in cotton and flannel linens, unsure of whether to laugh or scream. I went with option two. As the saying goes, I lost it.
I began furiously pulling everything out of the closet and throwing it wherever it landed. Guess what? It felt amazing to lose it. Why don’t I do this more? Stuff was flying everywhere. Heaps of linen in the hallway.
Nobody dared intervene.
I had no idea how much bedding we had accumulated; sleeping bags from sleepover days; Disney sheet sets; that towel we use to bathe the dog but can never actually find when we actually need to bathe the dog; and pillow cases galore.
I was my own Bed, Bath and Beyond Baffled.
I discovered a couple of screwdrivers in the far corner, by the attic entrance. I assume that means my husband took my threats to lock his mistress, the iPad, in the attic if he didn’t stop playing with her, with the seriousness I intended. Was he was planning her escape or fixing something in the attic? I think you and I both know the answer.
It was deeply satisfying to sort and organize our linen closet. But I hid the screwdrivers.
Kevin Costner would too.
