Beckerman column: Sock-drawer treasure hunt
When we moved into an apartment with no basement and no attic and only four small closets, we realized there was no way we were going to fit a houseful of clothes in a thousand-square foot space. We managed to get rid of as much as we could without having to join a nudist colony, and then we got a few of those vacuum sealable storage bags, sucked the life out of our clothes, and shoehorned all of our belongings into the small storage space we had.
But then came the social isolating, and we decided we should have enough supplies to last us for a month … just in case. I loaded up on cans of beans and soup and tomato sauce, bags of rice and pasta, toilet paper and paper towels, dog food for the dog, and chocolate for myself (because everyone knows in every emergency, you must have chocolate).
The good news was I felt we had what we needed. The bad news was, we had nowhere to put it all. It soon became clear someone was going to have to give up a closet and a couple of drawers, and that someone was most definitely not going to be the someone with two dozen pretty shoes and a handbag in every color for every occasion.
So, one day while my husband was at work, I commandeered his closet and drawers and used them to store all our extra groceries. I managed to find a new home for everything and proudly stood surveying the excellence of my work until it dawned on me that all my husband’s stuff was tossed on the bed and now I had nowhere to store his things.
Knowing I had to relocate his clothes before he got home, I got creative and found spaces where I didn’t realize we had any. And then, I immediately forgot where those places were.
When my husband arrived, he went to the bedroom to change into his comfy clothes. And that’s when he realized there was toilet paper where his t-shirts used to be, his pajamas had been replaced by pasta sauce, and there were dozens of cans of black beans in the drawer where his underwear had lived. It wasn’t just confusing. It was underwear anarchy.
“Hey honey, why is there pasta sauce in my pajama drawer?” he shouted from the bedroom.
“I needed places to store all the quarantine supplies,” I replied.
“So, where are my pajamas?”
I thought for a minute.
“Try the bathtub!” I said cheerily.
He disappeared into the bathroom.
“No pajamas. But I did find my shoes.”
“Still looking for the pajamas,” he said. I shook my head. It was amazing this man hadn’t divorced me years ago.
“Check the Pyrex drawer in the kitchen,” I suggested. A moment went by.
“No pajamas. But I found my socks,” he said. “Where are the pajamas?”
I shook my head. I really had no clue. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the dog plunk down on his dog bed which looked suspiciously more colorful than it had the day before. He seemed delighted with his new bedding and as I watched, he somehow managed to work his way into one of my husband’s pajama tops.
“I found your pajamas,” I finally said to my husband.
“Great!” he said. “Where are they?”
“Let’s just say, the dog looks great in paisley.”
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