A "corner" isn’t literally a corner, but an area in the home that has been decorated in a certain way (could be seasonal, could be a vignette filled with items of a particular time period . . . ) Like this. And this. Lovely, no?
I decided I could try to keep up with the Jones’. So I have photographed a corner of my home to share with you.
Mine is literally a corner. And there’s nothing special about this corner that warranted sharing with y’all. Except that it was the most inviting corner I could photograph right at that moment without doing any heavy lifting. Or lifting a finger.
Like the way the unfolded laundry sorta compliments the colors in the upholstery and pillow? Oh--and in case you’re wondering why I didn’t just move the pile of laundry, it’s because it was conveniently hiding the stains on the upholstery.
Oh sure--I could clean the upholstery. I have special cleaner for that fabric. But I can’t find it. I know its general location is the linen closet down the hallway. But . . . well, the linen closet is kinda scary.
Oh sure--I could clean the linen closet, but . . . Honestly? I don’t like cleaning closets. Or upholstery. Or pretty much anything.
The linen closet has been an unthinkable tragedy for a long time. A few weeks back (when Number One Son was here for the summer--sharing a bedroom with his little brother) I noticed a Bad Sort of Smell every time I walked down that hallway. Naturally, I assumed it was the boys’ room. I instructed them to shovel out the goat pen and encouraged them [nagged til their ears fell off] to catch up on their laundry.
The boys complied. Well, you know, kinda. But the Bad Sort of Smell didn’t go away. In fact, it became a Worse Sort of Smell. I became suspicious that maybe the smell was coming from the linen closet. And I became suspicious that it might be up to me to take care of it.
I cleaned out the linen closet. Okay, I started cleaning out the linen closet. I got as far as moving the ironing board which reminded me of a project I was working on for my sewing basket which reminded me that the sewing machine was set up on the kitchen table anyway and . . .
Some days later, sweet, patient, God-only-knows-why-he’s-still-married-to-me Mister needed a vacuum attachment. He braved the linen closet. He got further than the ironing board because, unlike me, he doesn’t suffer from a debilitating case of Easily Distractedosis Syndrome.
He sounded so perplexed when he asked the question, "So . . . who put a loaf of bread in the closet to rot? And why?"