Designer Label

Perhaps, I should come to grips with the fact that my Inner Slob is simply sugar coated with Kate Spade and Lilly Pulitzer. My Inner Slob doesn’t care that my linen closet won’t hold up to Martha’s white glove and organzational treatment - due in part to the uneven height of the linens occupying the closet, and partly due to the vast array of towel colors, in various bleached out hues vying for space. The sheets for beds I no longer own, that my dogs have either eaten or destroyed in other fashions, still snuggled up to the ones that actually fit the beds I do own, droop over the top shelf, partially hiding the array of unused bath products lingering in infamy on the shelf below.

My Inner Slob knows that most people will simply check out my designer label front, and assume that my home is as well groomed as it’s deed holder.

I’m embarrassed that my cashmere sweaters are still in their drawer, and not tucked into a cedar chest, to ward off moths, mustiness, mildew - and, to make room for…uh….both of the pairs of shorts I can squeeze into at the moment. Perhaps, if I take a cue from my Exterior Me covering my Inner Me, I can come to grips with keeping this place in show room condition - okay, yes. It would be lovely to have ONE closet that looks lovely. And the countertops being free and clear of clutter and excess unopened mail - isn’t that why God made drawers to hide things in? My pantry is hiding appliances behind the can goods and pasta boxes, and I’m terrified to think exactly where I’ve hidden say, the bathroom cleaner, or worse, my vibrator.

I’m hoping that no one looks behind the panels covering the plumbing to the jacuzzi tub in the master (where all the sex books a friend sent me live), or, heaven help me, goes through that off-the-closet attic space, where I’ve crammed everything from a carpet shampooer, to several boxes of unmatched socks, (yes, I said several boxes) old toys and The Things That Have No Home. Like the mattress and box spring that Lucy ate. Down to the coils. But I’ve not found anyone to haul away yet. I’d put it out, and dress it in linens, like a guest bed, only Guage had a horrendous accident on the sheets, and Horace ate the comforter. Three strikes, it stays in the attic.

Honestly.

I think this house is lacking closet space in the same way I don’t think I need to lose ten pounds, I need to grow three inches taller. Then, there’d be room for all that Junk In My Trunk. Or livingroom. Office. Whatever.

I could shove all the stuff I don’t know what to do with, or, more accurately, don’t want to deal with, into them, and slap a kate spade label on it.

‘Cuz god knows, anyone will buy anything with the right designer label.