The Quantum Mechanics of Closets
By Joe Acton
I hate closets. You spend all your money on nice clothes and then what do you do with them? You go hide them in the closet. Where nobody can see them. And, if you keep your closet like I keep my closet, you can't find anything in it once you put it there, anyway.
My closet is referred to as Dad's Land Of The Lost, by the comedians of the family. I prefer to think of it merely as a correctional institution for clothing that needs to be taught a lesson — you know, a clothes jail.
We all have clothes that need to be taught a lesson. Men's slacks, for instance, generally have a greater sense of humor than the men who wear them. For example, when you need that special pair for tomorrow's meeting with Mr. Big you can be sure those pants will have shrunk a full inch in the waist — making you look like a very well dressed sausage.
And if that were not enough, before you go to your meeting with Mr. Big, everything in this world that can possibly leave a dark stain winds up on the crotch of your light colored slacks so when you show up to your meeting, Mr. Big isn't sure that you've been fully potty trained yet.
But if anything needs to be punished it's ties. First of all, the ones that go with what you're wearing are always hiding on a hanger somewhere — underneath something else. And then when you do find them they get vindictive and won't let you tie them unless the little end is longer than the big end.
I have a rule: I'll tie a tie three times and if the little end is still longer than the big end, I cut if off with a pair of scissors. Hey — if the tie doesn't want to cooperate, I can get another one. But the rest of them have to be taught a lesson. They're watching, you know.
Now, if you're going to run an honest-to-god clothes jail, you've gotta have some solitary confinement piles. They work like this: Cell Block #1 (get out of the habit of calling these things "piles" — let your clothes know right off you're not fooling around — they're in the Big House now) consists of clean but unpressed clothes. Typically these are the white collar offenders — generally purchased on the fraudulent assumption that if you take them out of the dryer soon enough, you won't have to iron them. Put them in Solitary for lying to you.
Cell Block #2 has slightly soiled but still usable clothing — who wants to wash something just because it's been worn once or twice? Take my word for it — if you wash your clothes every time they get a little dirty it sets a bad example for the rest of your clothes, like your gardening and work clothes — next thing you know EVERYTHING wants to be washed just because you tried it on. Cave in to this and pretty soon it's a case of the inmates running the asylum.
Cell Block #3 is for seriously dirty clothes but kept in reserve in case nothing else goes with the outfit you've selected. (Generally brightly colored socks — notorious trouble makers in the color-run department. Throw these hard-cores in with the whites and just for laughs they'll run your shorts pink.)
I have resorted to this system over a period of years, but was largely inspired to institute it because the last time my wife got involved in washing my clothes was when she mistook them for stuff she was sending to the Salvation Army. Now we have a strict rule around here: she tells me when I'm on the Bullet Train to Pee Wee Herman's Fashion Palace and I, in turn, personally change the color of my own clothes every time I wash.
Anyway, I've been jailing my clothes for various offenses for years. And many of them have been totally rehabilitated — recidivism is low, but still prevalent. And I would still be using this system except for the fact that we have a teenage daughter. Now I'm supposed to set an example. The Warden said so. (When I was growing up my dad always referred to my mom as "The Warden." I didn't get it then, but I now assume he must have also had a clothes jail and needed a Warden to run it. Right?)
Anyhow, The Warden told me to install one of those closet organizers in my clothes jail. So off to Ernst I went and bought one of those trick white wire systems that ANY IDIOT can install.
Well, according to the instructions, all you need is a screwdriver and a drill. That's cool. I've got screwdrivers coming out my ears. But none that fit the screws that come with the system. And I loaned my drill to a neighbor but can't remember which one. And no, I'm not going door to door asking if they've got my drill. After all, if they know I don't know whose got it, why should they admit they have it?
No big deal, I can put one of these systems in with the wrong kind of screwdriver and a hammer. After all, if you can buy it at Home Depot, how complicated can it be?
Well, it can be complicated enough that it takes all day long to put the damn thing in. Then you've got to spend all night hanging your clothes up. And putting all your shoes just so on the racks. And folding all your sweaters so they fit on the top rack. Then you go to bed.
Then at precisely 2:30 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time the next morning, there's a sudden outburst of sun-spot activity on the surface of the sun. This aurora releases certain nuclear particles measurable only through specific calculations of quantum mechanics. These particles each have the weight of two tenths of a gnat's ear-hair follicle which has been cross-cut sectionally and dehydrated three years in the Sahara Desert so its only weight is equal to the fading memory of yesterday's dream-bubble.
Traveling at 186,000 miles per second, two of these particles arrive at your house about 2:45 a.m. give or take a light year. One of them is killed trying to slide down the chimney while the other makes entry through the cat door. The survivor then stomps into your closet and leaps onto the top rack where he performs a solo Lambada dance routine to a re-run of Desi Arnez singing "Ba-Ba-Lou."
This tremendous additional weight upon the closet organizer system causes the entire erector set to collapse like Sarah Palin's foreign policy insight, cascading all your nicely folded clothes back into their original Cell Blocks. The Warden is not happy and your life is back in the toilet.
Sometimes it goes like this for days and days. And then you get organized. And then the gods punish you for selling out. And then you're back at square one. And then it gets worse. Because now it's the Warden's turn to organize your life. And then it really gets worse.
By Joe Acton
I hate closets. You spend all your money on nice clothes and then what do you do with them? You go hide them in the closet. Where nobody can see them. And, if you keep your closet like I keep my closet, you can't find anything in it once you put it there, anyway.
My closet is referred to as Dad's Land Of The Lost, by the comedians of the family. I prefer to think of it merely as a correctional institution for clothing that needs to be taught a lesson — you know, a clothes jail.
We all have clothes that need to be taught a lesson. Men's slacks, for instance, generally have a greater sense of humor than the men who wear them. For example, when you need that special pair for tomorrow's meeting with Mr. Big you can be sure those pants will have shrunk a full inch in the waist — making you look like a very well dressed sausage.
And if that were not enough, before you go to your meeting with Mr. Big, everything in this world that can possibly leave a dark stain winds up on the crotch of your light colored slacks so when you show up to your meeting, Mr. Big isn't sure that you've been fully potty trained yet.
But if anything needs to be punished it's ties. First of all, the ones that go with what you're wearing are always hiding on a hanger somewhere — underneath something else. And then when you do find them they get vindictive and won't let you tie them unless the little end is longer than the big end.
I have a rule: I'll tie a tie three times and if the little end is still longer than the big end, I cut if off with a pair of scissors. Hey — if the tie doesn't want to cooperate, I can get another one. But the rest of them have to be taught a lesson. They're watching, you know.
Now, if you're going to run an honest-to-god clothes jail, you've gotta have some solitary confinement piles. They work like this: Cell Block #1 (get out of the habit of calling these things "piles" — let your clothes know right off you're not fooling around — they're in the Big House now) consists of clean but unpressed clothes. Typically these are the white collar offenders — generally purchased on the fraudulent assumption that if you take them out of the dryer soon enough, you won't have to iron them. Put them in Solitary for lying to you.
Cell Block #2 has slightly soiled but still usable clothing — who wants to wash something just because it's been worn once or twice? Take my word for it — if you wash your clothes every time they get a little dirty it sets a bad example for the rest of your clothes, like your gardening and work clothes — next thing you know EVERYTHING wants to be washed just because you tried it on. Cave in to this and pretty soon it's a case of the inmates running the asylum.
Cell Block #3 is for seriously dirty clothes but kept in reserve in case nothing else goes with the outfit you've selected. (Generally brightly colored socks — notorious trouble makers in the color-run department. Throw these hard-cores in with the whites and just for laughs they'll run your shorts pink.)
I have resorted to this system over a period of years, but was largely inspired to institute it because the last time my wife got involved in washing my clothes was when she mistook them for stuff she was sending to the Salvation Army. Now we have a strict rule around here: she tells me when I'm on the Bullet Train to Pee Wee Herman's Fashion Palace and I, in turn, personally change the color of my own clothes every time I wash.
Anyway, I've been jailing my clothes for various offenses for years. And many of them have been totally rehabilitated — recidivism is low, but still prevalent. And I would still be using this system except for the fact that we have a teenage daughter. Now I'm supposed to set an example. The Warden said so. (When I was growing up my dad always referred to my mom as "The Warden." I didn't get it then, but I now assume he must have also had a clothes jail and needed a Warden to run it. Right?)
Anyhow, The Warden told me to install one of those closet organizers in my clothes jail. So off to Ernst I went and bought one of those trick white wire systems that ANY IDIOT can install.
Well, according to the instructions, all you need is a screwdriver and a drill. That's cool. I've got screwdrivers coming out my ears. But none that fit the screws that come with the system. And I loaned my drill to a neighbor but can't remember which one. And no, I'm not going door to door asking if they've got my drill. After all, if they know I don't know whose got it, why should they admit they have it?
No big deal, I can put one of these systems in with the wrong kind of screwdriver and a hammer. After all, if you can buy it at Home Depot, how complicated can it be?
Well, it can be complicated enough that it takes all day long to put the damn thing in. Then you've got to spend all night hanging your clothes up. And putting all your shoes just so on the racks. And folding all your sweaters so they fit on the top rack. Then you go to bed.
Then at precisely 2:30 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time the next morning, there's a sudden outburst of sun-spot activity on the surface of the sun. This aurora releases certain nuclear particles measurable only through specific calculations of quantum mechanics. These particles each have the weight of two tenths of a gnat's ear-hair follicle which has been cross-cut sectionally and dehydrated three years in the Sahara Desert so its only weight is equal to the fading memory of yesterday's dream-bubble.
Traveling at 186,000 miles per second, two of these particles arrive at your house about 2:45 a.m. give or take a light year. One of them is killed trying to slide down the chimney while the other makes entry through the cat door. The survivor then stomps into your closet and leaps onto the top rack where he performs a solo Lambada dance routine to a re-run of Desi Arnez singing "Ba-Ba-Lou."
This tremendous additional weight upon the closet organizer system causes the entire erector set to collapse like Sarah Palin's foreign policy insight, cascading all your nicely folded clothes back into their original Cell Blocks. The Warden is not happy and your life is back in the toilet.
Sometimes it goes like this for days and days. And then you get organized. And then the gods punish you for selling out. And then you're back at square one. And then it gets worse. Because now it's the Warden's turn to organize your life. And then it really gets worse.