Coming out of the closet

My house is little.

I mean, iddy biddy, teeny tiny, makes-my-hubby-claustrophobic-little.

And I love it.

Not the part about my honey suffering from a spacial dilemma upon arriving home from work each day. I just love the minimalist aspect of it. It is a basic scientific principle that the smaller a space is, the less one is able to cram a bunch of crappity crap into it.

You know what I'm talking about. It's just like with your purse (or man bag for all the metrosexuals out there).

Everybody is carrying a Mary Poppins purse these days. Yes, I know Mary came up a couple of blogs ago, but I cannot help myself. She is, after all, practically perfect in every way.

Practically.

The only reason she is not perfect is because of her big bottomless bag. Anyone who can fit a coat rack into their carry-on has some issues, and not just with airport security.

I digress. Back to my hobbit house. It has minimal accessible storage.

No basement.

No attic.

No garage.

No storage shed.

All we have to work with here in the shire are seven closets and a crawl space. And if our crawl space were to be declared modern art, its name would be "Cellophane on Moist Dirt Pile" as it is only good for storing the gasoline for the lawnmower and the snow shovel we have yet to need.

I say all this to warn you. Beware of your closets! Closets are sneaky-sneaky. They give the appearance of tidy when in reality your collection of #5 sour cream containers that you are saving until the day they become recyclable in your area are lurking precariously behind that closed door.

You know the cartoon where the optimistic protagonist opens the closet door only to meet his maker in an avalanche of gadgets and gizmos a-plenty, whozits and whatzits galore, and twenty thingamabobs? We used to have one of those at where I work.

Used to.

Then this obsessive compulsive midget came on the scene. And even though I have since purged the space of its weapons of mass destruction, I still lovingly refer to it as the closet of death.

My point is this. I may only have seven closets, but none of them could be classified as a closet of death.

Just because you have a closet, that doesn't mean you have to put anything in it.

Am I saying all this to brag?

Yes.

Yes I am.