Closet Doors: Classic Margarita
I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed as a homeowner right now. I know for some this will not garner sympathy but rather, antipathy and eager paroxysms of general four-lettered unpleasantness that I should be so lucky. Still, my problems are problems for me so stick with me a bit, oh renters cum potential homeowners and present day homeowners alike.
I need closet doors.
Now, this probably sounds rather humdrum. A genial call to a closet store would solve the problem right then and there. Sadly, I wish it were.
You see, the house was in quite a state when hubby and I purchased it. A HUD home that had seen better days back when Kennedy was president. When we acquired the house it was in a hole. The furnace had a note written directly on the front panel in sharpie from the local gas company, “Do Not Turn On. Fire Hazard.” The walls were written in crayon both by drug addicts scribbling recipes for crystal meth also evidenced by plenty of empty cough medicine bottles and chemistry paraphernalia. And let’s not even begin with the crusty pages of titty magazines that I had to pick up and throw away.
Needless to say, the closet doors were also weathered. Sliding 8 foot tall doors of aluminum (or tin, or iron or, something…) that were literally rotting through with rust. Even moving it open and close would cause flakes of orange metal to collapse and a puff of toxic dust to cloud the air.
So they came down and off they went. The doors to every closet.
I did, in fact, call Closet World to get an estimate to put doors on two single closets and one double wide.
Regular. Closet. Doors.
So I said I would think about it, which the closet door lady knew and I knew was my polite way of saying, “Get the fuck out of my house and take your color swatches with you.”
So we began looking at other options such as room dividing curtains sitting on rails attached to the ceiling. Very simple. Very clean. And at around $120 a pop it was the best path forward.
However, this simple solution keeps falling behind. Because the fridge is broken. Oh, and the 37-year-old original AC unit could possibly go out any second. (And, as I write this, I’m reminding myself to have a service person come out and give it a tune up. Prevention, prevention, prevention. I don’t have four grand to drop right now.) The car needs $300 in new brake pads and a $300 new brake light unit. We need to rebuild the garden box. The backyard is a jigsaw of incomplete projects from the previous owner. Then there’s the master bathroom with its gold glitter swirled faux marble counter, homemade from actual sticks shelving, the peeling oil-based paint in a bathroom of all places for some unfathomable and plain dumb reason, and curling linoleum.
So, you see, the closet doors that will actually be curtains keep getting bumped down the list.
All I want to do is hide my crap and the cat box.
Until then, I will forget things via margaritas. Because those I can afford.