The Trouble with Closet Doors

No, this isn't a story about homosexuality finally brought into the public light. This is actually a story about the trouble with closet doors, or at least the trouble Marianne seems to have with them. Marianne is a tiny little thing at best - one of those girls who is about a hundred pounds soaking wet - yet when it comes to basic household maintenance, she seems to take on the rage and strength of the Incredible Hulk.
In my two plus years living in the Family Housing Townhomes at the University of Victoria, I had never had any problem with any of the amenities in the unit. If memory serves, the closet doors had operated smoothly every time I used them, so much so that I have no memory of using them. They were reliable to the point of having commanded none of my memory's attention.
However, upon my first return from Mexico after Marianne had moved in, I called her from the Vancouver International Airport to let her know I had landed safely in Canada and that I would be heading for the ferry imminently. She gleefully welcomed me home, expressed that she missed me, that it had been too long apart, that she couldn't wait to see me, . . . and that the upstairs hallway linen closet door had "fallen" off.
"Wait, wait, wait - did you say the closet door fell off?"
"Yeah. I was just putting some towels away and when I went to open it, it fell off! I couldn't get it back on properly so you'll have to fix it. Sorry."
"Uuuuuuh, MJ, in all my time living there I've never even noticed it was slightly loose. How did this happen?"
Slowly, as her story of the situation unfolded, a greater truth emerged. Marianne is a little OCD in her cleaning and organizing habits. She tends to re-organize furniture on a weekly basis. I actually walked into the house one evening after a late night working and thought I had walked into the wrong one! It kinda drives me nuts, but after a few weeks, the furniture usually finds its way back to where it was originally so I usually just keep a civil tongue and wait until my house is back to normal. The closet door situation had more to do with overstuffing.
"I was trying to get all of the towels in there."
"All of them? MJ, with all of your towels added to mine (she has enough to dry the Titanic) they couldn't possibly all fit in there."
"Well, there's no other place to put them, so they had better all fit in there! When I tried to open the closet, it was so stuffed with towels that I had to pull a little harder than usual."
"A little harder than usual? Those things are fastened pretty securely, hon, I mean . . ."
The conversation went on in that vein until I had come to deduce that she had full-out torn the closet door clear from its hinges. She denies that evaluation to this day and still blames the poor design of my horrible choice of homestead. After a lengthy conversation replete with vehement denial on her part she finished with, "Oh, and I also broke the stove. See you soon, honey." Little did I know that that was only the beginning of what would prove to be a full-fledged career of her household rage-ripping amenity destruction. Fortunately, in terms of well matched couples, I have become quite handy with minor repairs over the years, and on days when I would be otherwise too idle, she manages to keep me busy.

See you in hell,
Shakes.