I woke up with a vision. A Martha inspired vision. Always a bad thing. Certain failure if it involves Martha.
In my vision, there were neat stacks of towels and sheets and pillowcases. As opposed to piles of them stuffed everywhere. I know. Not even a slightly exciting vision when I could have said the vision was of:
Impeccable tiny linework on a full back piece tattoo of crosshatched dogs in motion and winged spirit animals and their friendly squirrel onlookers. With a rope border and little Victoriana embellished areas.
Of a compound in the woods with cabins handwhittled from redwood burl and Mexican tile porches and the fence made of pine cones, river rock and taxidermy blanks of deer legs. A driveway paved in cobblestone and moss lined with shiney disco urns holding potted palms.
A grass pasture full of glossy horses, but when you get up close each glossy horse has a nose to tail floral wallpaper pattern stenciled into their deep bay coats, made with tiny little clippers, that glisten under the sun.
Instead, I give you sheets and towels. Nooks and crannies such as under the bed and in the closet and places I will, never, ever repeat, Function as The Linen Closet. In 800sf, unless you are Martha, Sunset Magazine or my friend Brody, it just doesn't look good. Oprah could send Nate over, but I think he has to rebuild Montecito. It's just me and vision quest.
Part of my bright idea was get every single sheet and towel from the hiding places and throw them all over the bedroom. Millions. Always a popular gift item for me, I believe. A hint to friends and family. We have no more space. Not an inch. Not a centimeter. The Tiny House on Walk Circle never turned into a ranch. Beach cottage, rotten porch. No more room. Any room now, currently covered with sheets and towels. Like the Lucy episode where they infiltrate the laundromat to find the lottery ticket and the conveyer belt has exploded except it is my entire floorplan. Why do we have so many sheets? What have I gone and done?
Abandon ship. Because it was my plan everything wlll fit neatly into one tiny, wooden chest. About the size of one small dog.
I make fish tacos. I update some websites. Do some work stuff. Work out the steps to Thriller. Gustavo has a hard time with MJ steps. Pretend that every square inch of house is not covered in mismatched sheets and pillowcases and duvets and towels. I am not an organized person, Martha. I hate folding. If I was on your show I would dump the glitter out by mistake on the floor and then get sidetracked with some whole new project because, LOOK, I have discovered the iron melts the buttons and then you would shame me on National TV. There's a reason Sunset Magazine did not even print my name.
By the end of the day, somehow had stuff stuffed. Found out chest actually size of 3 small dogs and Martha doesn't have to know about my cramming technique. Or that have decided the garage now a place where sheets and towels can live nicely in some stacks. Sorry Martha. I wanted to believe. My towels would look like yours on Turkey Hill and Barack's trim figure will bail out the country. I tried. But I guess I just keep the sheets in the garage now.
3 comments:
I want to know, if martha has dogs who shed and who don't get groomed regularly, as in pretty much never, how she gets the dog hairs out of all the towels and sheets, and for crying out loud the dogs are never even NEAR the towels but they've still got dog hairs all over them, laundered or not, in a chest or not. Not that I know anything about this.
There is only one explanation for this, Elf: hired help. Martha's got it. Don't let her fool you!
Maybe the problem isn't that your house is too small but the amount of sheets and towels are too big? I bet the team could shred some of those for you so you won't have to store some of them in the garage.
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