A little Valentine’s Day closet porn anyone?

C’mon down the rabbit hole.

Alert readers may have noticed that I have been rather conspicuous by my absence of late. The rest of you have probably been hanging out at the portable bar speculating on more pressing issues than why I can’t seem to get it together to post something pithy, and good on you.

As it turns out, I have been busy rather than slothful recently, though, let’s be honest here, there’s always at least a whiff of indolence mixed in with the miasma of eau de cologne, vodka processed through the skin and apple cider vinegar (trust me, you don’t even want to know) that surrounds me.

closet walk in

Image via bagsnob.com

So where have I been you ask? Down the rabbit hole of middle-aged porn, obsessively re-screening the homeowner’s peep show, hanging out at the housewife’s glory hole. That’s right, my friends, I’ve slipped on my trench coat and have been spending huge blocks of time, and outrageous sums of money, at The Container Store. If you’re over forty or female or both, you probably require no further explanation, but for those of you who fail to grasp the significance of my new predilection, let me explain.

As I may have mentioned, I have some shoes — considerably more than pictured above, though nowhere near Imelda scale. Let’s just say it’s a substantial collection, carefully curated, lovingly arranged and personally significant, at least to me. As we all know, you can gain fifty pounds, develop female pattern baldness and a goiter, but your shoes will still fit. They are the foundation of the adult woman’s wardrobe, her security blanket, her hedge against sartorial disaster. As such, they need to be properly organized and displayed; they need “breathing room,” if you will.

Oh Imelda, one never is enough, is it?Image via pinoygigs.com.

Oh Imelda, one never is enough, is it?
Image via pinoygigs.com.

Now, Mr. Slattern and I have shared a rather large, though inefficient, walk-in closet for several years, and in that time my need for space has increased. Unfortunately, this has impinged on his need to keep my off-season shoes out of the area designated for his shirts. Rather than accept marital discord as the inevitable result of this rather fraught arrangement, however, I came up with the clever idea of dividing the one large closet into two smaller ones. Well actually one smaller one and one really tiny one, but that’s more of a detail than a feature item. Let’s move along.

Anyhoo, it was during the closet renovation project that I began frequenting that den of organizational iniquity, The Container Store, to ogle its aisles of color coordinated hat boxes, ingenious rolling shelving units and mad clever “storage solutions.” I’d spend hours talking about retractable fixtures with the staff, stroking the finishes on cabinet facings and fantasizing about stackable accessory storage. I fetishized the perfect reach-in closet and lingered in front of the titillating array of colorful bins and coordinating hampers. I was hooked, an addict, a filthy closet junkie who could not get enough of that sweet organizational stuff.

See? There really were costumes.Via Wikipedia.

See? There really were costumes.
Via Wikipedia.

Now, before this little adventure, I had never really understood the obsessive need for this kind of stimulation. It wasn’t until I was in college that I saw my first dirty movie, an X-rated version of Alice in Wonderland, complete with costumes, dancing, singing and more than a few acts of extreme lasciviousness. Given that Cosmo generally tucked the particulars of its centerfolds out of sight in those days, and that the interwebs wouldn’t be invented (and cluttered up with naked girlfriends, randy phone repairmen and bleating Kardashians) for decades yet, I had very little experience with this kind of thing, which is to say none at all. But my friends and I figured it was time we found out what all the fuss was about, so we located a fellow student with a car, offered to spring for gas and trundled off to the Stillwater monoplex for a double feature.

If you’ve never seen a pornographic musical, it may be somewhat difficult to imagine. It is certainly a singular experience, what with all the dancing and singing interspersed with nudity, fellatio and random episodes of fornication. If memory serves, it was all very light-hearted in tone, what Patsy Stone would call, “a bit of cheeky fun.” In truth the particulars of the film are a bit hazy owing to the extended Blue-Nun-and-bong binge that preceded our attendance, though I do recall being somewhat taken aback by Alice’s escapades with the Red Queen. Let’s just leave it at that.

In any case, not since Alice dallied with the Mad Hatter (in his improbable size 9 1/2 hat) has one pleasure seeker found such fulfillment in a single location: aisle 5 of the Container Store to be precise. Enter at your peril and try to be discreet is my advice.

About WSW

Writer, wife, mother. Toiler in the bottomless, black, soul-sucking coal mine of domestic life. Thank God for the portable bar.

Posted on February 13, 2013, in Life and times, The Slattern Speaks and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 33 Comments.

  1. I fear the organizational bug has hit me too. My husband wanders around cluelessly because I keep moving and reorganizing things. I can’t help it; I need to control my environment a little. If the only place I can do that is under the sinks and in our closet then so be it.

    • “Control my environment.” My words exactly! It’s become a cliché around my house, as in “Stand back and hide this gin bottle, Mom’s trying to get control of the environment.”

  2. WTF is a Container Store? Damn it. I want one. Canadians have storage needs too. It sounds like the storage section of IKEA on steroids…um…you got me. I must confess that I have an unhealthy fascination with all things IKEA. Damn Swedes. And I once knew a great Volvo named Sven.
    And don’t knock a lady for finding booze wherever she could–even in a bottle of Blue Nun. I confess to resorting to Vodka & Tang in my younger days. Yes, the screwdriver preferred by astronauts. And my friend’s father’s not-quite-ready-for-human-consumption, way-too-freshly-made vinegar…ooops…I mean wine, Mr. Brady. Wine. It was lovely stuff. Really.

  3. We. Are. Getting. A. Container. Store. I have the date scribbled in blood on a calendar that I wear around my neck. Whatever you do, don’t tell my husband. He has no idea how organ-fucking-ized we are gonna be!

    To my two favorite blogging beee-ya-itches, Stacie Chadwick and Kitchen Slattern, I am happy to report to you that my town serves booze everywhere. Everywhere. I haven’t been to a movie theater yet that DOESN’T serve Jesus Juice. Can I tell you how much more enjoyable movies are now…especially all those three hour long Oscar contenders? Can I get a refill on my Long Island Iced Tea?

    • And now the real reason for the snowbird migration is revealed. The active seniors move south not for the weather and early bird specials, but to hang around the multiplex gobbling Viagra, swilling daiquiris and starting trouble. Thank you for that important piece of information. i’m going to vomit now.

      • Only because you’re so jealous, but you’re always welcome to visit. We can spend the entire day at the movie theater. There’s even a theater that serves you DINNER right in your seat. For once, Florida has something on the northeast.

  4. Wendie, you can tell me the truth. You had an integral part in the making of the porn musical, didn’t you? And that’s why you now despise all musicals.

    (I’m also ashamed to admit this isn’t the first time I’ve seen Alice in Pornland.)

  5. The Container Store is worth going back into the closet for.

  6. I can’t believe you used to drink Blue Nun. For goodness sake I had you down as a person of taste and discernment.
    And just how do you intend to fit all your shoes in the tinier of the two wardrobes you’ve created? I assume you’re taking the smaller one.
    🙂

  7. Musical porn, hmm, has a nice ring to it. A quickie chorus line with high kicks after a steamy scene is just what the average couple in need of spicing their .love life should have. As to the Container Store never seen one. The bug war has given me the boutique shop Target for my storage needs. As a guy got four pairs of footwear boots, Western, ankle high and loafer, LL Bean and Merrill running shoes. The only time this number was exceeded was when I worked in kitchens. Then I’d hit Wal Mart when cheapo sneakers came on sale. Hit the clothing fund and pick up three or four pairs. When they got beyond funky, usually 6-8 weeks, toss ’em and pick out the next pair.

  8. Are you making peace with Martha Stewart?

  9. I can spend hours at Paper Source (www.paper-source.com). I’d rather peruse every corner than do just about anything else. Except drink. On second thought, heaven would be trolling the aisles with a Makers and ginger ale.

  10. I left my heart in the Container Store. Seriously. Every time I go to Atlanta I have to go. I keep my bead and jewelry supplies in their clear shoeboxes, jewelry in their stacking clear shelves and jewelry trays, and they always have some little something that’s just cool! And I love their giftwrap. Oh, I could go on and on. Definite organizational porn.

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