The closet is revolting - and I don’t mean that it’s risen up and started to demand representation in the American Federation of Duplexes and Second Story Room Association.
Hangers! Where in the world did I get all these hangers? Why do they jostle each other so? And those in the back – are they? – what do you? – are those things mating back there?!
Perhaps now is the time we back up and explain that my turn-of-the-century house (that being the turn of the last century), has limited closet space. And we use the word “limited” here in its most basic sense. “Limited” as in “Are you sure you need more than four skirts?” “Limited” as in “You’re going to hang those pants? What are you, rich?”
Roughly four feet wide and several thousand miles deep, the people who built the house in 1904 had few clothes but apparently stored narrow farm implements in the closet. Or slept in there. Who am I to say?
The closet is foremost in my mind today for one reason and one reason only:
Pantsalanche.
This is what happens when you lose your cool, yank at any number of hanging items in your closet, and are rewarded with a Universal-Studios-like experience.
Pantsalanche.
If you have a dog accustomed to bringing small kegs of alcoholic beverages to the trapped, send him to Minneapolis.
I’ll be in my closet for the rest of the day.