Now and again, our hall closet seems to experience that not-so-fresh feeling, and I want to run out and by some Massengill. Massengill for Closets, I mean. A douche for your depository, maybe? Go have a walk on the beach and talk about it with your mother. (Hold hands, even.)
It’s a normal phenomenon though – this small hall closet holds all the coats and most of the shoes, and many of the winter jackets are still in there (oh hai, May… what’s with only being 8 degrees in the morning, huh?) so the combined “worn” smells of wet wool and cotton, mixed with leather boots and bags and things sometimes makes my nose wrinkle in offence when I open the door.
As there is no such douche available, and I’m loathe to shell out beaucoup l’argent on a supply of fragrant cedar balls (and also because I start giggling every time I say the word balls) I cure this by 1) removing the too-warm-for-wearing items and banish them to the basement for the off season (though washing/drycleaning has to come first!) and b) I tuck a few dryer sheets into a corner in the back, and at the back of a shelf or two, and 3) if I’m feeling frisky, I might actually vacuum the whole space.
Sidenote: I haven’t felt such friskiness since 2005 or so… but under duress, I might sweep out the odd dust bunny, but only when said bunnies have multiplied to warren-like numbers and come rolling out the door like soft, grey tumbleweeds.
That said, I’ve done most of these closet-cleaning things for the season, and yet in recent days, every time I swing the door open, I’ve been met with a waft of something I can’t quite put my finger on. Not completely offensive… but just… kinda… wrong.
Cue to yesterday when I had a look at a few items that appear too small for Madame. Pass along? Donate? I pulled down an adorable little coat – a medium-weight navy blue military-esque number I picked up for a song at Old Navy a year-and-a-half ago that became a fast favourite around here. I gave it a once-over, trying to decide if it needed washing first. I pulled up the zipper to see what shape it was in, and patted it down.
A lump in the right-hand pocket…
Applecore? Say no more.
It is petrified. I have no idea how long it’s been there. But, I suppose the upside is this is proof-positive that the child doesn’t litter. (Joy!)
Oh, and there’s no need to force myself to haul out the vacuum cleaner, either. (Win-win!!)
Ever find anything suspicious in your children’s pockets? Wait… I’m not sure I want to know… *hides eyes*
Oh, village – I know that before too long it will be fewer dandelion heads and more… perhaps “contraband” items. *closes eyes and braces for misery*
And yeah, at least she ate the whole thing… I can’t tell you how many half-eaten things I tend to pick up though. Le sigh. Fortunately, they’re not rotting inside my closets at the moment. (I hope!)
OH grumbler I miss the days when I have found things in my kids’ pockets like dead insects and rubber bands and gum and scratched notes spelled phonetically with letters backwards and rocks and pennies because they are pretty and shiny and little girl hair barrettes . Now its TTC passes and lipgloss.
BTW, gotta love a kid who eats an apple to the core with all those starving children and whatnot…