When the Missus and I decided to downsize, we bought a clownhouse in the city.
That’s right: clownhouse. Like a townhouse, but with clowns.
They issue you a rubber nose that also functions as your key. Squeeze once, the door opens. Squeeze twice to lock. Honk! Honk!
Closet racks are designed to accommodate grotesquely oversized shoes, of course. And the garage is big enough to hold two Volkswagens... along with the fifty-eight clowns that ride in them.
We loved the finished bozoment, but what finally sold us was the house of worship next door, presided over by Charlie the Chaplain.
[This is the 1000th post at Lost in the Cheese Aisle. Whoop-de-do!]