Closet Cabinet Quotes

And speaking of on board, she'd moved into John's room properly. In his closet, her leathers and her muscles shirts were hanging next to his, and their shitkickers were lined up together, and all her knives and her guns and her little toys were now locked up in his fire proof cabinet. Their ammo was even stacked together. How frickin' romantic.

A Gift for You I send you... A cottage retreat on a hill in Ireland. This cottage is filled with fresh flowers, art supplies, and a double-wide chaise lounge in front of a wood-burning fireplace. There is a cabinet near the front door, where your favorite meals appear, several times a day. Desserts are plentiful and calorie free. The closet is stocked with colorful robes and pajamas, and a painting in the bedroom slides aside to reveal a plasma television screen with every movie you've ever wanted to watch. A wooden mailbox at the end of the lane is filled daily with beguiling invitations to tea parties, horse-and-carriage rides, theatrical performances, and violin concerts. There is no obligation or need to respond. You sleep deeply and peacefully each night, and feel profoundly healthy. This cottage is yours to return to at any time.

The mess in the drawers was in contrast to the neat desktop. Many people’s lives were like that. The neat room and the messy closet. The well-ordered counters and the chaos in the cabinets.

The moving parts of the house were all silent, its surfaces smooth. The closet doors had no handles. None of the woodwork had fixtures. Drawers had gentle indents. The kitchen cabinets pushed open and shut with a click. Franklin, the whole house was on Zoloft. You

Her mental list of items she’d need from her apartment was growing. There were things a girl just couldn’t live without, so Keegan would have to get them when he retrieved Muffin. “I need another purse. Can you get me my Prada knockoff? It’s in my closet on the shelf. Pink. It’s pink. I got it from a vendor in Manhattan. Jeez he was a tough negotiator, but it was worth the haggling. It’s soooo cute.” Keegan sighed, raspy and long. “Okay.” “Oh! And my nail polish. I have two new bottles in the bathroom under the sink in one of those cute organizer baskets, you know? Like the ones you get at Bed Bath and Beyond? God, I love those. Anyway, I need Retro Red and Winsome Wisteria.” Another sigh followed, and then a nod of consent. “My moisturizer. I never go anywhere, not even overnight, without my moisturizer. Not that I ever really go anywhere, but anyway I need it, or my skin will dehydrate and it could just be ugly. Top left side of my medicine cabinet.” “Er, okay.” “My shoes. I can’t be without shoes. Let’s see. I need my tennis shoes and my white sandals, because I don’t think there’s much hope for these, wouldn’t you say?” Marty looked up at him and saw impatience written all over his face. “And my laptop. I can’t check on my clients without my laptop, and they need me. Plus, there’s that no-good bitch Linda Fisher. I have to watch that she’s not stealing my accounts. Do you have all of that?” He gave her that stern look again. The one that made her insides skedaddle around even if it was meant in reproach. “I’m going too far, huh?” His smile was crooked. “Just a smidge.

Eli was fascinated by kitchens. By the way people ordered their lives, the cabinets they used, the places they kept food, and the food they choose to keep. He’d spent the last decade studying people, and it was amazing how much could be gleaned from their homes. Their bedrooms, and bathrooms, and closets, of course, but also their kitchens.

At the Afghan restaurant today I identified in myself a burbling in my reservoir of annoyance when I realized that people were going around the buffet in the wrong direction, which was, the annoyance felt, a kind of wretched incivility, a sign of our imminent plummet into lawlessness and misery. The delight is that I can identify that annoyance quickly now, and poke a finger in its ribs (I have shaken up the metaphor, you are right, how annoying), and so hopped into line with all the other deviants, and somehow we all got our food just fine. Same when Stephanie doesn’t turn on the light over the stove to cook, or leaves the light in her bathroom on, or leaves cabinet or closet doors wide open, or doesn’t tighten the lids all the way, all of which the annoyance regards as, if not an obvious sign of sociopathy, indication of some genuine sketchiness. A problem. But somehow no one ever dies of these things, or is even hurt, aside from my sad little annoyance monster, who, for the record, never smiles and always wears a crooked bow tie.

Whenever I see lifestyle magazines where everything’s so clean, I wonder, “Where’s all the junk?” The first thing I figure out when furnishing a room is where to put the junk. Two words: secret storage. The key to a harmonious and clutter-free living area, especially when you have kids, is to hide everything. I’m talking about closets everywhere, drawers on everything, and ottomans that are really storage chests. Baskets for Legos. Shelves for games. Just please don’t open any cabinets in my house . . . I’m afraid there might be a waterfall of toys coming at you!

screen T.V. A comfortable and well-stocked family room, including a wet bar with a locked liquor cabinet and a closet with door standing open, shelves packed with tennis rackets and snowshoes and ice skates. All the accoutrements of a well-off, athletic family in a room now tainted with the overwhelming presence of death. The father was slumped in a club chair in front of the television with a rifle at his feet and a bloody cavern where his head had been. Blood and brains sprayed the carpet beneath him. At first glimpse just about anyone would see it as a suicide. “Basement is concrete block,” Epps said. “Family probably never heard the shot.” “The gun his?” Roarke asked, and heard the edge in his voice. “From the cabinet upstairs. Guy is a sportsman,” Aceves answered.

to look around. At first sight, the apartment was perfectly ordinary. He made a quick circuit of the living room, kitchenette, bathroom, and bedroom. The place was tidy enough, but with a few items strewn here and there, the sort of things that might be left lying around by a busy person—a magazine, a half-finished crossword puzzle, a book left open on a night table. Abby had the usual appliances—an old stove and a humming refrigerator, a microwave oven with an unpronounceable brand name, a thirteen-inch TV on a cheap stand, a boom box near a modest collection of CDs. There were clothes in her bedroom closet and silverware, plates, and pots and pans in her kitchen cabinets. He began to wonder if he’d been unduly suspicious. Maybe Abby Hollister was who she said she was, after all. And he’d taken a considerable risk coming here. If he was caught inside her apartment, all his plans for the evening would be scotched. He would end up in a holding cell facing charges that would send him back to prison for parole violation. All because he’d gotten a bug up his ass about some woman he hardly knew, a stranger who didn’t mean anything. He decided he’d better get the hell out. He was retracing his steps through the living room when he glanced at the magazine tossed on the sofa. Something about it seemed wrong. He moved closer and took a better look. It was People, and the cover showed two celebrities whose recent marriage had already ended in divorce. But on the cover the stars were smiling over a caption that read, Love At Last. He picked up the magazine and studied it in the trickle of light through the filmy curtains. The date was September of last year. He put it down and looked at the end tables flanking the sofa. For the first time he noticed a patina of dust on their surfaces. The apartment hadn’t been cleaned in some time. He went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. It seemed well stocked, but when he opened the carton of milk and sniffed, he discovered water inside—which was just as well, since the milk’s expiration period had ended around the time that the People cover story had been new. Water in the milk carton. Out-of-date magazine on the sofa. Dust everywhere, even coating the kitchen counters. Abby didn’t live here. Nobody did. This apartment was a sham, a shell. It was a dummy address, like the dummy corporations his partner had set up when establishing the overseas bank accounts. It could pass inspection if somebody came to visit, assuming the visitor didn’t look too closely, but it wasn’t meant to be used. Now that he thought about it, the apartment was remarkable for what

After loud overtures from his daughters, Anthony finally left the house and went up the winding path to the “museum,” to the mobile home where he and his parents had lived from 1949 to 1958. It has been left untouched. The furniture, tables, the paint on the walls, the ’50s cabinets, the dressers, the closets, are all unchanged, remaining as they once were. And in her closet in the bedroom, past the nurse’s uniform, far away in the right-hand corner on the top shelf, lies the black backpack that contains Tatiana’s soul. Every once in a while when she can stand it—or when she can’t stand it—she looks through it. Alexander never looks through it. Tatiana knows what Anthony is about to see. Two cans of Spam in the pack. A bottle of vodka. The nurse’s uniform she escaped from the Soviet Union in that hangs in plastic in the museum closet, next to the PMH nurse’s uniform she nearly lost her marriage in. The Hero of the Soviet Union medal in the pack, in a hidden pocket. The letters she received from Alexander—including the last one from Kontum, which, when she heard about his injuries, she thought would be the last one. That plane ride to Saigon in December 1970 was the longest twelve hours of Tatiana’s life. Francesca and her daughter Emily took care of Tatiana’s kids. Vikki, her good and forgiven friend, came with her, to bring back the body of Tom Richter, to bring back Anthony. In the backpack lies an old yellowed book, The Bronze Horseman and Other Poems. The pages are so old, they splinter if you turn them. You cannot leaf, you can only lift. And between the fracturing pages, photographs are slotted like fragile parchment leaves. Anthony is supposed to find two of these photographs and bring them back. It should take him only a few minutes. Cracked leaves of Tania before she was Alexander’s. Here she is at a few months old, held by her mother, Tania in one arm, Pasha in the other. Here she is, a toddler in the River Luga, bobbing with Pasha. And here a few years older, lying in the hammock with Dasha. A beaming, pretty, dark-haired Dasha is about fourteen. Here is Tania, around ten, with two dangling little braids, doing a fantastic one-armed handstand on top of a tree stump. Here are Tania and Pasha in the boat together, Pasha threateningly raising the oar over her head. Here is the whole family. The parents, side by side, unsmiling, Deda holding Tania’s hand. Babushka holding Pasha’s, Dasha smiling merrily in front.

She was pleasantly surprised at how much remained. Her parents had abandoned a heap of old Caltreyan clothes. Selecting one of the island dresses, Kiela shook it out. Dust plumed in the air. The skirt was a quilt of blue--- sky blue, sapphire blue, sea blue--- all stitched together with silvery thread and hemmed with silver ribbon, and the bodice was a soft white blouse. Not at all a city style, but it was perfect for a picnic in a garden or a stroll on a shore. With a few repairs, she could wear a lot of her mother's abandoned clothes, and she could use her father's for... She wasn't sure what, but they were nice to have. She'd find a use for them. If nothing else, she could chop the fabric up into cleaning rags. Or perhaps learn to quilt? There was a moth-eaten blanket in one closet, in addition to the old quilts on the daybed and her parents' bed. Each quilt had its own pattern--- one was comprised of colors of the sunset and sewn in strips like rays of light, while another was the brown and pale green of a spring garden with pieces cut like petals and sewn like abstract flowers. We left so many beautiful things behind. She'd had no idea. She'd been too little to help much with the packing, though she remembered she'd tried. Carrying an armful of clothes into the kitchen, Kiela dumped them into the sink to soak in water. She planned to use the excess line from the boat to hang them out in the sun to dry. They'll be even more beautiful once they're clean. The kitchen cabinet produced more treasures: a few plates, bowls, and cups. Each bowl was painted with pictures of strawberries and raspberries, and the plates were painted with tomatoes and asparagus. The teacups bore delicate pictures of flowers.

Introduction For many folks, the kitchen is the catchall room for every item that enters the house. Mail and keys wind up on the counters, school books are scattered on the kitchen table, coats and sweaters are slung on the backs of chairs and the bowl of pet food always gets kicked over as you’re rushing around preparing a meal. In many ways, the kitchen is more like the family room than any other room in the house. Wouldn’t it feel amazing to have not only a sparkling-clean kitchen, but also one that’s streamlined, tidy and organized? We feel that the kitchen is the best place to begin a decluttering project because it sets the stage for how you want the rest of your house to appear. Now, some organizing experts will suggest you begin by clearing your counters first, which works well if you plan to tackle your kitchen in one decluttering event. But for this project, when you’re working in 10-minute increments, you’ll need to create space in cabinets, closets or drawers for those items you no longer want on the counter. For instance, Barrie has found beginning with the lower cabinets often frees up space for some of those countertop appliances. Here’s a suggested plan for tackling your kitchen: • Begin with the lower cabinets, moving left to right around the room. • Move to the upper cabinets, following the same pattern. • Move to the kitchen drawers, starting with the drawers used most often. • Now with more space above and below, clear the countertops. • Clean out and organize the refrigerator.

I have a quick remedy for the lack of contentment. Clean your house. Clean every room. Start with your child’s bedroom and then move to the playroom, family room, or wherever you store their playthings. Dump out the toy bins and boxes. Pull out all the books, every toy, game, electronic game system (or systems), and the software and accessories. Next, go to your own room. Clean your bedroom closet. Then go down the hall and clean out the closet you use in the spare bedroom. Go through the cabinets and drawers in your kitchen. Clean the basement. Clean the garage, if you have one. Go visit the storage space you’re renting. Just open the door and look at all the stuff you’ve accumulated over the years. I dare you.

In all the books on happiness that I’d consulted over the years, no one had ever suggested that joy might be hiding inside my closet or kitchen cabinets. Instead, countless experts agree that the kind of joy that matters is not around us but in us. This perspective has roots in ancient philosophical traditions. The teachings of Buddha, for example, advise that happiness comes only from letting go of our attachments to worldly things, while in ancient Greece the Stoic philosophers offered a similar prescription, rooted in self-denial and rigorous control over one’s thoughts.

There Are Five Hallmark Symptoms of ADD Short attention span, for regular, routine, everyday tasks. People with ADD have a difficult time with boring tasks and need stimulation or excitement in order to stay engaged. Many people with ADD can pay attention just fine for things that are new, novel, interesting, highly stimulating, or frightening. Distractibility. People with ADD tend to notice more in their environment than others, which makes them easily distracted by outside stimuli, such as light, sounds, smells, certain tastes, or even the clothes they wear. Their keen sensitivity causes them to get easily off task. Disorganization. Most people with ADD tend to struggle with organization of time and space. They tend to be late and have trouble completing tasks on time. Many things get done at the last moment or even later. They also tend to struggle keeping their spaces tidy, especially their rooms, book bags, filing cabinets, drawers, closets, and paperwork. Procrastination. Tasks and duties get put off until the last moment. Things tend not to get done until there are deadlines or someone else is mad at them for not doing it. Poor internal supervision. Many people with ADD have issues with judgment and impulse control, and struggle not to say or do things without fully thinking them through. They also have a harder time learning from their mistakes.

Same when Stephanie doesn’t turn on the light over the stove to cook, or leaves the light in her bathroom on, or leaves cabinet or closet doors wide open, or doesn’t tighten the lids all the way, all of which the annoyance regards as, if not an obvious sign of sociopathy, indication of some genuine sketchiness.

I like that my closet is filled (to the brim) with my clothes and shoes and that I don’t have to save half the space for anyone else’s clothes and shoes. (I especially like this.) I like that I can eat cold pizza for breakfast and cereal for dinner if I choose to. I like that I can flip the two meals without concern that someone won’t like my random tastes. I really like that I can use my kitchen cabinets for storage space rather than for dishes or canned foods. I like that I don’t own a garlic press, nor do I know how to use one. I like that I have no need to know that right now. I like that I choose my own bedtime, my own alarm clock setting, my own home décor, my own vacation spots, my own TV channels, my own meals, my own life. I like that I’m only thinking and planning for one. I like that I have multiple remote controls and no clue what they go to, but I’m afraid to toss them out because they could be connected to a device that I might someday want to use again . . . and I control them all. I like that I can sit on my balcony on a cool autumn night with a blanket and a cup of hot cocoa and talk to God for hours, because I don’t have anywhere else to be or anyone else to be with. I like that my heart belongs to Him and is safe with Him. I like that He is the only entity I feel the need to consult with before making big life decisions . . . and I like that I have the luxury of a deeply intimate walk with Him, because He has my undivided attention and undistracted devotion. I’m pretty sure God really likes that too. So, after giving it all very careful consideration . . . I don’t think I’m merely settling for my life. I think I’ve chosen it.

When you die, your privacy dies with you. Eventually, someone will rifle through your purse, your bathroom cabinet, your pockets. Someone will discover your journal and your secret feelings, all of your angriest and silliest and most lustful thoughts on paper. Someone will notice the stains in the underarms of your t-shirts, the hole in your worn-out underwear, the stash of candy in your bottom dresser drawer, the birthday gift that you shoved to the very back of your closet in the box marked "Yard Sale." Eventually, all your secrets are told, all of you discovered and exposed. Perhaps this is the scariest part about dying. The living go on to know you better than you might have wanted. When you die, their discoveries will lift you on a pedestal or diminish your legacy.

You left the bathroom closet door open (typical woman) after you got a towel. Fortunately you took the towel on top and you didn’t find your bras stashed under the bottom towel. Hopefully, you didn’t open the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and find your scratched-up silver hair clip (I stole it the first day I stepped into your apartment, those clips are everywhere, you’d never miss it, right?). I needed it because a few delicious strands of your hair are woven in, holding your DNA, your scent. Did you open the refrigerator door and find your leftover bottle of Nantucket Nectar diet iced tea, half-empty? Your lips touched it and I wanted to keep your lips in my refrigerator. You did pour a glass of water and there is always the possibility that you would have mistaken your iced tea bottle for my own.

I decided to commemorate the dead I had heard about in the news by walking around the house, opening and closing cabinet and closet doors. But there were so many massacres and common graves and disappeared and kidnapped persons, that after a while, I lost interest. The television lit our faces pale blue. Death was such a common thing.

The Auers had a pantry. She hardly knew the word when she first heard it. It was an entire room devoted to food, each shelf lined with jars of jam and boxes of shredded wheat and bags of beans and tins of fish. So much food. Not a closet. Not a cabinet. A pantry. An altar to plenty.

The list was astounding. There were ten heads in all: one full head in the refrigerator, four skulls in a small floor freezer, three painted skulls in metallic colors, and two that were bone-dry white. Those that were still relatively identifiable were matched with either police or family photos. The large blue hermetically sealed industrial drum from the bedroom contained severed human flesh and four completely dismembered bodies covered in a solution of muriatic acid. There were sets of hands, a human scalp, and two well-preserved penises found in plastic pails hidden in the closet. A four-drawer metal filing cabinet from the living room contained the entire skeletal structure of a victim. The bones inside had been treated with the various solvents and were immaculately clean. There was a variety of knives. One had a large contoured black plastic handle with a six-inch serrated blade and the word Bushwacker molded into it. There was a small drill with several bits, numerous handsaws, forks, plates, and a stovetop broiler adapter, all encrusted with human bone and flesh and trace blood evidence.

She opened Myrtle's bureau drawers, investigating her underwear. Some of it was silk, quality stuff, but to Nettie most of the good things looked old. The same was true of the dresses hung on her side of the closet. Nettie went on to the bathroom, where she inventoried the pills in the medicine cabinet, and from there to the sewing room, where she admired the dolls. A nice house. A lovely house. Too bad the man who lived here was a piece of shit.