So Take THAT!!

I have a phobia of closets.

It all began when I was in preschool.  My best friend was Janet.  She lived in this awesome two story house and she had a giant dollhouse that her granddad had made her.  It had working lights and everything!  Janet's mom, Peggy, was my babysitter while my mom worked at the soil conservation office in town.

Oh!  In a total aside, I saw a sign the other day.  It said, "Behind every successful rancher is a wife who works in town."  And I laughed at how true that statement really is...

Anyway, Peggy was my babysitter, Janet was my best friend, and Janet lived in an old awesome two story house.  You climbed up the stairs and there was a little landing, then on the right side was her brother Ward's room, and to the left was Janet's room.  I thought having an upstairs room must certainly be the coolest thing ever.  Especially when the room had built in book shelves where Janet arranged her Little Golden Books by number. 

They even had one of those big red barns complete with a hay loft and stalls that had ladders leading up to the hay loft.  Our brothers had a secret hideout in one of those stalls.  The door could not be opened from the outside...I actually kind of think it was a grain bin of some sort.  Regardless, the boys could get to their hideout from the hay loft.  Janet and I were quite certain that it was the coolest thing EVER.  I mean, seriously people.  It had a dart board and certainly all of the very best hideouts had dart boards!

All Janet and I had was a little play area in the trees where we made mud pies and plotted the downfall of our obviously evil older brothers...

But this story is not about the fact that Janet had an awesome house with a giant tree house and a POOL.  It is not about the tree in their front yard that we used to climb, and Janet told me, "Daddy told me not to climb out on that limb.  He said it's too small and it will break."  Of course, I was two years younger and quite certain that I could climb out on that limb.  And so I did.  And then it broke, and it made a giant scratch all the way up the middle of my belly, and I landed very hard on my bottom on the ground...

So Janet and I ran to the house, she to get her mommy, the fixer of all things, and me with big tears running down my face and snot running out my nose...

Peggy took me into their bathroom and cleaned the scrape and doctored it with monkey blood and gently inquired as to what exactly lead to my having a giant scratch running the length of my torso...and of course being the stoic gal that I am I spilled the whole story.  And Peggy scolded me for foolishly climbing out on the limb.

And then she painted a little smiley face on my belly with the monkey blood.

So that made everything all right.

I stayed the night with Janet quite often.  We had a little game that lead to my fear of closets.  I can remember lying in Janet's bed and her closet door was not quite closed.  And we argued about who had to get up and close the door, because obviously the door NEEDED to be closed.  Otherwise we would lie there half the night (or at the very least 15 minutes, whichever happened to come first) and discuss what could possibly be IN the closet peeking OUT at us... 

Neither of us would dare leave the safety of the covers tucked in firmly all the way around us to deal with the ominous closet.

Not even when we began to imagine SOMETHING looking out the closet out at us.  I was pretty certain it was either a monster or one of her dolls.  She thought perhaps it was the devil's face...

I don't remember if we finally cried out for help and Peggy swooped in to save the day (or night as it were), but I do know for a fact that my fear of closets is directly linked to that fateful night...

Even as an adult, I am unable to go to sleep with the closet door open.  I remember being pregnant and trying to use the excuse of "finally getting comfortable" so that Brent would have to close it.  Oh, don't get me wrong.  Closets in the day time, or with the lights on are completely harmless and innocuous.  The only thing to fear about a well lit closet is the light exposing all of the clutter from the rest of my life that I've crammed into my closet to be dealt with at a time in the unforeseen future.  However, a closet after dark, when I'm tucked into bed, and trying to sleep?

FORGET ABOUT IT.  It is as if thousands of eyes are boring into my sole, and the monsters that live in the closet are surely to burst forth if I'm foolish enough to close my eyes, or...shudder, turn my back.

Excuse me for a minute while I go collect myself.  Is anyone else experience cold chills right now?

Well, fortunately for Brent and his desire to get in bed and STAY there, our last two houses have had the master closets in the bathroom.  Our nights are so much more peaceful now...

We shared a closet until we moved into our current house.  And that means that the first twelve years of our marriage my husband blamed our messy closet on me.  I tried to defend myself and say that he was equally responsible for any messiness that might ensue, but he was steadfast in casting all guilt onto my meager shoulders.

But now we have separate closets.  And our counseling bills have decreased considerably since we no longer have the "who trashes the closet" argument.

Speaking of messy closets:

This would be BRENT's closet.  He claims it is impossible to get his closet clean because the luggage is in that back right hand corner, clearly making any attempts at organization utterly pointless.  And I can absolutely back him up in that.  I mean what would be the point in putting anything in an orderly fashion if there will always just be a big pile of luggage cluttering the place up?  Not me!

Guess who cleaned her closet out today?

 I began by dragging every single item OUT.  I then swept and dusted.  Then I assembled two new shelves to organize my sweaters, then I finally put away our Halloween costumes (and not a moment to soon, might I add), and then I weeded out some clothes that I had not worn since we moved here, and finally ended by disposing of...

Oh, wait.  Before I admit to the final disposal, I must make you PROMISE to never tell my mother.  You see, I am getting rid of several bunches of silk flowers.  Yes, yes, I know.  Silk flowers are FOREVER, and believe me, I've had these silks darn near that long.  I bought most of them the first year we were married.  I had planned to use them for decorating graves over Memorial Weekend.  However, when I arrived at my in laws house (we were living out of state at the time) I was very firmly informed that my flowers would NOT be going on any graves, and my mother in law proceeded to make arrangements out of HER flowers that were supposedly "from Brent" to place on his dad's grave.

So, clearly it was time to say goodbye to the unworthy silk flowers I ignorantly purchased nearly 16 years ago...I bagged them up and am delivering them along with my clothes that are still decent to our local crisis center...

Because surely someone in a crisis will appreciate my poorly chosen silk flowers?

Anyway, after four solid hours, my closet now looks like this:

Please pardon the small pile of workout bands and weights on top of my new shelves.  I plan to get a cute basket to put them in and complete the organized look.  Notice that the scrubs are all together, right at the front.  And the few dresses I own are all the way to the BACK...

If that is not a reflection of real life, I don't know what is.

So now the spring cleaning ball is rolling.

What shall I tackle next?  I want to tackle our floors, and by that I mean rip out the carpet in the living areas, the tile in the kitchen, laundry and front areas, then learn how to stain concrete on our very own floors...However, my husband who has been taking classes on treating concrete is not nearly so gungho as I am.  He claims that other men do not have to make their wives promise to not rip out the flooring before leaving town.  I think that other wives don't make the mistake of asking before doing, so therefore a job begun has to be done!  And, please refrain from all of the voices of reasons talking about how this won't be as easy as I think.  That voice of reason lives with me, and I hear enough from him.  However, after living with the voice of reason for over fifteen years, I do know that it is capable of finishing all of the lovely jobs I begin.  Like our kitchen:

Surely the man capable of rescuing the debacle I'd begun in our kitchen can manage a concrete floor!