Part of what made my recent vacation so enjoyable was staying in a lovely house.  The owners, an architect and his designer wife, had created a tranquil, beautifully appointed mountain retreat in the desert complete with three walled gardens and a trickling waterfall.  Every morning I took my coffee outside, closed my eyes, and listened to the wind chimes and hummingbirds.  Idyllic.

But I also derived an embarrassing degree of pleasure from another space:  the perfectly arranged master closet with its piles of throw pillows, brightly hued Indian blankets, and tidy little packages of sheets and pillowcases bound with matching grosgrain ribbons. What a shame that this display, worthy of a high-end home furnishings store, was hidden away in a dark, walk-in storeroom!

When I got back home, determined to keep a little of the desert magic with me, I arranged the shiny black, San Ildefonso pottery bowl and bird on the mantel, cooked a green chile stew, and took stock of my linen closet.  It was not a pretty sight.

I’ve always felt a little frisson of excitement at the prospect of transforming my life into a marvel of organized efficiency through the purchase of storage receptacles to hide my inner slob.  Considering the success of The Container Store and Real Simple Magazine, I suspect I’m not the only one who indulges this fantasy.

So off I went to HomeGoods, where I scored a set of cloth-lined, wicker baskets from the half-price rack.  I stayed up entirely too late that night folding towels into precise thirds and stuffing rolled sheets (I long ago accepted my inability to fold fitted sheets) into the darling containers.  And then I opened and closed the doors over and over to admire my handiwork.  Not as pretty as the architect’s closet, but good enough for me.

There’s only one small problem.  The discard pile of faded beach towels and frayed sheets culled during the reorganization is still sitting in the middle of the hallway.  So much for inner peace.