Today Girlfriend brought up the thing about cleaning the linen closet again. This particular closet has a dark history with us. It’s in the bathroom—a small linen closet with a full-length mirror on the back of the door. Inside are four shelves and the floor. When we set up housekeeping many years ago, we decided we’d each have a shelf in the linen closet for our personal things. That left a high up shelf reserved for Christmas lights, an eyebrow waxer, and a steam iron—in other words things we don’t use more than once a year. The next shelf is filled with towels and washcloths. I have the third shelf and Girlfriend’s is next. Because she uses fewer hair care products than I do, she also has the first aid stuff on her shelf.

The last time it was cleaned, I did it. And I still have some pretty strong feelings about it. You see, girlfriend has some pack rat behavior. She wants us to live sparsely and simply, but her behavior is inconsistent with that desire. She will hang on to a bottle of Vitamins or some almost empty store brand hand cream for twenty years. She sometimes digs things that I’ve thrown away out of the trash; for example, empty butter tubs, mayonnaise jars and coffee cans. This is not a problem with me—she has her shelf and I have mine. But a couple of years ago she asked me to help her clean the closet because it was simply too overwhelming for her. I took a couple of boxes and emptied the closet. Then I only put the things that we use back in. I learned this on one of those HGTV shows about getting organized. She was so happy that my life was heaven for a day or two. Gradually things built up again, but never to the extent that it had been. That would take ten years.

Then one day I opened the closet, and it had been ransacked—especially my shelf.

"What happened?" I demanded.

"You took my tooth paste."

How my question and her answer were connected was hard to see. But this happens a lot. She’s often three lines ahead of me in any debate. So I said, "I beg your pardon?"

"My Ultrabrite was missing and I found it on your shelf."

"I bought the tube that was on my shelf."

"You don’t use that brand," she countered.

"I changed," I snarled. "Give me my goddamn toothpaste." While I glare at her, I am setting shampoo and cream rinse bottles back up. Okay, maybe I was slamming them down a little. But this woman has a deferred comp account large enough to buy a sixty-foot yacht, not to mention the CD’s and IRAS. I fail to see why she could be so upset about a ninety-nine cent tube of toothpaste that she can’t find.

To tell the truth I don’t know why I can’t let go of this. She’s a good woman for the most part. And, let me tell you, you never appreciate a good woman until you’ve had the other kind, and I’ve certainly done that. But it’s always the small stuff isn’t it? I often ask myself, why couldn’t I just give her the darn toothpaste and kiss and make up? I mean, how much is it worth next to my own serenity? I couldn’t buy a yacht, but for some peace of mine, I sure could afford another tube of toothpaste.

And here’s the deal, we’ve raised two teenaged boys and launched them into adulthood. We’ve buried two dogs and one parent. We’ve been through at least one major illness each and two major surgeries. We’ve dealt with our aging mothers and raised two more dogs and two cats. We’ve supported each other through problems at work and problems with ex’s. We are pretty good at the big stuff. But the business of the linen closet is a tough one. I want to say, "Let sleeping dogs lie, sister," with that edge to my voice that says, ‘don’t go there." But instead I glance into the closet, and then I tell her that it doesn’t look that bad to me, and for the moment it works.--Martha Miller