We are long on closets, lucky with closets, lousy with closets. Not only are they numerous, plentiful and many, they are big. Cavernous, yawning, monumental. Two, here in the entry.
Another in the family room.
This one in the den. And they are all, perhaps, within five to ten giant steps of one another. Kissing cousins.
Our closet, too, to the left, is ample. It’s a complete and total disaster (they all are, which is why they are being so dodgy with the paparazzi) but I think it will suit us just fine.
So, my beef? My bitch? My befuddlement? No linen closet. Nothing. Nada. Nowhere.
And here is where you will think I am bizarro and not the house. This stackable washer/dryer hook-up to the right of the master closet? Yeah, I think I’ll skip that. Who needs that hovering nag there every day just as I get home from work-out and coffee? Why be confronted with constant guilt before I am out the door for lunch and a hc/hilite? How could I enjoy a pre-carpool cocktail haunted by the thought that I could so easily be doing laundry?
Shelves is the answer. A respectable linen closet to save these wayward sheets and tablecloths. Washer and dryer firmly knowing their place in the basement. Visitation on Sundays. As it should be.