A Closet Psychotic

Every time I open my closet, I hear voices.

They are from varied eras. Some have accents. Others speak in tongues. And they are all fighting.

A vintage suit circa 1960 is disgusted hanging next to the patchwork peasant skirt with a handkerchief hemline. Dirty hippie. Get a job.

The metallic disco shirt made without one stitch of natural fibers wonders rudely from what Mongolian rock the tribal wool coat has crawled. You're itchy and stink of yak.

The menswear bullies the delicate florals. And the ridiculous pair of skin-tight spandex pants that lace up the back is rocking back and forth in a corner begging to be taken seriously, muttering over and over, "I'm more than the bottom half of a pirate costume. I'm more ..."

I mean. Really. Look at them.

Look at them!

The waist ends at the top of the rib cage. And they are so long that you need to wear four-inch heels just to keep them off the ground. How could the same person who bought this elfin disaster have also bought the fully lined Italian linen hunting jacket hanging right next to it?

Who indeed. That's my point.

So, I've decided to let them fight it out. The strongest will remain. I'm not betting on the vintage suits or the hippies. A pencil skirt is simply too tight. And everyone knows hippies can't fight. And I worry about Disco. It's going to be hard to find a new gig. But the remaining rock-n-roll, equestrian, military-inspired, 1940s USO factory worker personalities will integrate and emerge anew. Regenerated. Reinvented.

The old me, with her divergent styles requiring too much attention, too much time and too much hanger space, none of which is in surplus, will become a streamlined individual who will breeze from school drop-off to client meeting to playground to drinks without the need of a costume change.

No more will I ask, "So, who will it be today?" The multiple personality sartorial disorder that is currently my wardrobe will no longer be a constant re-run of Sybil. The ill-fitting, the ill-conceived and the ill-behaving pieces who don't go with anything will be banished. I will soon be able to reach into my closet with only minutes to spare and achieve the "Oops, I look fabulous" effect.

This won't be easy. But I'm inspired by a woman I know. Diagnosed with multiple personality disorder, I once saw her change from a frightened child to a foul mouthed bar tramp to a middle-aged male trucker in the space of one hour. That was years ago. Now her personalities are fully integrated and, when last I saw her, wonderfully accessorized to boot. So, I know this is possible.

I will miss the personalities that don't survive, though. They have accompanied me all these years and have taught me much. Things like: Don't trust hanger appeal. And, showing a little clavicle is infinitely more sexy than showing a lot of cleavage. Color choice comes first. Beige is a death knell. Browns need to be tweedy and the reds need to be bluish. Grey is my new black. But, of course, black is golden. Florals must be Asian. And patterns must work with my crazy mop of curls and glasses. It can be a lot of look. And just about any mistake can be fixed with the right coat, especially a sweeping military one; so, have plenty on hand.

Create a mantra and repeat it aloud as you're tempted to buy the Same Mistake. Talking to the clothes helps. Undefined empire waists? No thanks. I've already done the maternity thing. Fitted-waist peplum? Get your pretty self over here. Bold geometric color blocking a la Mod? No. I'm no longer That Girl. English countryside tweeds and woolen riding pants? Well. Don't you look smashing. Let's put a kettle on.

You must be willing to spend quality time together and to talk it out. As with all healthy relationships, communication is key.

Post-election Day Clean-up. Who Let That Fly In?

The primaries in Washington, DC are over and life is returning to normal. Well. Relatively speaking.

Elections make for tight living in an apartment when your work-from-home husband is a political consultant. My love of organization is often theoretical, but not after election day. Win or lose, all the glossy, paid-for-by-the-candidate campaign promises are promptly thrown out of my home. I figure I lost about 10 square feet of precious real estate to political literature and posters alone. And let’s not even talk about the two large political banners hanging from the roof blocking two of our son’s bedroom windows.

Okay. Let's talk about them.

The color scheme of one candidate is red and casts a bordello-like glow throughout my son's bedroom. This I like. But their eerie flapping haunts my son's sleep and gives him nightmares. Sometimes you have to take one for the team, I explain. I have. I love my upstairs views that are now blocked by the waving blues and reds of two carefully conceived political colors. Not unlike gangs, actually.

And I’m more than a bit concerned that my husband plans to leave the banners up until November. He reminds me that legally we don’t have to take them down until after the general election. Who said anything about violating municipal regulations? I'm talking about aesthetics. Feng shui. Did I accidently speak to him in Chinese? Is that the root of this misunderstanding?

I wish it were that simple.

But we're different animals. If possible, he would live in 77-degree, climate-controlled, muffled, shaded Man Cave. Not I. (Well, unless it's 98 degrees and humid. Then suddenly I'm banging at the Man Cave door.) Mostly though, I like living with the windows unobscured so that sites, sounds and smells of the city … er, let's just make that the sites and sounds ... fill the apartment. The iron fire escapes. The grinding gears of buses. The blue neon of Heller’s Bakery bouncing off the walls once evening comes. Over-modulated Latino music. Couples fighting in the alley. Drunks. Drunk couples. All of it. And on this beautiful late-summer, post-election day I open all the windows, which unfortunately, lets in a fly. Not good. My husband hates flies. When he sees one, his eyes go black. Like a shark. He says drastic things like, "I won't live like this," which only confuse me.

But I'm not without my own domestic idiosyncrasies. If my husband were allowed to comment here, he may speak of my my habit of taking the vacuum out of the living room closet only to abandon it in the middle of the room for a couple days before actually using it. Or not.

It's the type of vacuum that has a squat body from which grows a long, spiraling hose ending in a series of interchangeable attachments, an appendage used to ensnare anyone attempting to walk by. (I show my disdain of vacuuming by purposefully not knowing the specific model I own. Kind of like pretending to not know who Snooky is. Or is it Snookie?)

For a couple of days it sits by my dining room desk like a deprogrammed Japanese robot pet. The vacuum, I mean. Not Snooky/Snookie. If I were the psychoanalyzing type, I could possibly connect this behavior with procrastination and fear of completion. But I'm not. I'm the type that doesn't like to vacuum.

So, after a couple days of Vacuum silently tripping my family, I hear it whirr to life. The sound traveling into the kitchen is shocking. Whatthehellwasthat?? Then it dawns on me what has happened. My husband has plugged it in and has turned it on. “Wow,” I think. “With all his post-election work to do, he’s vacuuming? Probably needs to clear his head with a little physical work.” I’m smiling, nearly giddy, at this life development when suddenly it goes quiet and he yells from the living room, “Well, that’s one less fly in the world.”

Oh no he didn't.

After a few comic beats, I yell back, "You know ... in addition to hunting, that thing is also good for sucking up dirt! From that thing on the floor called a carpet!"

"Yes. I've heard that!" He parries with equal comic timing.

Then quiet.

Men.

Actually, I can't say, “men" here. After sharing this incident on Facebook, two women bragged about how many invertebrates they've spinelessly killed remotely at the end of a vacuum attachment. But as these women are both related to my husband, I blame genetics. Although, truth be told, their mechanical approach does seem much more effective than mine, which is to load my son’s Galactic Grabber with a wad of about twenty paper towels, close my eyes and punch aimlessly until the home invader disappears into a corner.

Still. I can’t imagine plugging in a vacuum for the purpose of sucking up a fly. It starts me wondering. Did he use an attachment? And if so, which one? The angled corner? Or perhaps the rounded brush? Did he wait as if perched in a deer stand? Or charge boldly with the hose flailing behind him? Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that one. Well. No. Not a fly on the wall. Let's make that a dust bunny in a corner because obviously they weren't in danger of death by vacuum. They all survived unscathed.

I mean, really. What stopped him from attacking the warren of dust bunnies living only a foot from where he bagged his fly? Why not simply bend at the waist and suck up those crumbs from the night before? What? What am I missing? Single-mindedness? That alpha-male quality of not deviating from the task at hand? (I guess I am the type to psychoanalyze. The couch pictured below is Freud's. Not mine.)

And am I a typical multi-tasking female because while playing Go Fish or doing yoga, I also pick at the carpet like some over-attentive mother ape grooming her young? It's not easy holding a balanced Triangle Pose while scraping dried bits of yogurt off the carpet, something the instructional dvd would likely advise against. But I seem to manage.

Perhaps I'm over-thinking this. Maybe it has nothing do with the male and female brain and everything to do with my mother. (Now we're really getting our psychoanalytic dollar's worth.) After all, she was the one who invented Pick-A-Lint, a game where she unleashed her brood of seven on the floors giving a prize to the one who picked up the most detritus. Brilliant, really.

So many questions. But for now, Vacuum will go back into the closet. Yet again unused.

Unless you ask my husband.

Goodbye. Have fun. Please come back soon.

School started this week for Washington, DC's public schools. And as my only child takes his first taste of formal education, I’m split between sharing his cautious excitement and my desire to be alone. “Yes, Love, you’ll have fun at school and make lots of friends. Yes, of course, I'll miss you terribly ... er, but right now I have an office space to organize."

Very split indeed.

I was expecting this. With the exception of the occasional play group, a few concerts, one wedding and a four-day solo vacation in Miami, I’ve been with him continuously for nearly five years. (My lovely mother who had seven children and stayed home with all of us always laughs at this.) Even during my weekend gig at a neighborhood farmer's market, I'm often corralling him or sharing a homemade gourmet popsicles. He's been my museum-hopping buddy. My co-conspirator in all things silly. At times, perhaps my nemesis.

Excepting chocolate morsels, the start of school is what the term bittersweet was made for. Memories of nursing, first steps and first words wash over me as I return to my apartment without him by side. It's quiet. A little too quiet, as he likes to say. He's really funny, I realize. The tears come easily. And then they go. I have a list of projects as long as my arm. On his first day of school I redecorate the dining/office space, upending bookcases, moving furniture.

The second day, I exercise. A lot. On the third I write. I write uninterrupted. This is amazing. I can do whatever I want.

And I don't have to feign excitement over Candy Land or negotiate to play some other game. Any other game. Connect Four? Chutes and Ladders? Trouble? Anything but his beloved Candy Land. I hate Candy Land.

Don’t say the word “hate” mommy, he would remind me if he were here. My moral compass.

For those without children, just imagine the first morning after finishing an all-consuming five-year project. Or for my theater friends, imagine saying goodbye at the closing night party. How much time do you use to decompress? Or do you just jump right into something new? I guess everyone's different. I haven't written for my blog in months and selfishly blame my son even though I could've woken up at 5 am to write like J.K. Rowlings did while penning her way into Richer Than God status. I'll have time when he's at school, I reasoned. Well, now he's there. Here I go. No more excuses. Any minute. I wonder what he's doing right now. 8:45 am to 3:15 pm certainly is a long day. He's not even five.

I need some time to focus and get a new routine going. That's it. A routine. Brilliant. Armed with one of those I'll be able to regain my Chinese fluency which will decidedly be a part of my "real job" again someday. A real job. I'll use this newly-acquired time to reshape my career. Most people, parents or not, hit that point. For this I don't need a Life Coach. I need a time-out. A very long time-out. When my son was home, I would try to commit enough Bad Decisions, usually cursing, to get a lengthy time-out. But he always granted me clemency not because he's forgiving but because a time-out for me, albeit amusing, only meant playing by himself. So, now is my chance. For reflection, I mean. Not for cursing like a sailor although that would be fun too. I could also do yoga without someone crawling under my Downward Dog. I could curse while doing yoga to really confuse the Universe.

I could blare Queen and tap dance which will, luckily, not disturb my work-from-husband in the least as he is extremely tolerant and is also slightly hearing-impaired from 400 loud rock-n-roll concerts. Speaking of my husband, he keeps reminding me that now during the day we'll both be home. Alone.

He must miss playing Scrabble as much as I.

But there's no time for board games when I have a SteamPunk corset to design. It's to be versatile enough to wear with skirts or jeans, functional enough to hold money and a cell phone and forgiving enough to not require the removal of a rib or damage internal organs making it a hit with women from all walks of life worldwide.

Or maybe I’ll just clean my office. And as I'm doing that I'll think about what fun game I can play with my son when he gets home. Anything but Candy Land.

Gimme Shelter

Oh, a storm is threat'ning, My very life today; If I don't get some shelter, Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away

As record-making snow from major blizzards melted away, a body was discovered in the woods near my apartment in Washington, DC.

Word on the street, which means Esther at the Korean convenient store, it's Bruce.

It was a tough winter for the homeless.

It was especially tough for people like Bruce who live in the woods. With a foot of snow, I struggled just walking down the sidewalk past those woods. Where he lived and where his body was found was under at least 3 feet of snow.

The remains were unidentifiable. So, I guess there's a very slim chance it's not him. But it's Spring, people are filling the streets of Mt. Pleasant and I have yet to see Bruce. I always see Bruce. And only a fool would doubt Esther about such things.

My apologies to Bruce for my drawing of him because I don't know how to draw.

More importantly, my apologies to Bruce if he's not dead.

Maybe he came into some money and moved to a kinder climate. Like California. Or Mexico. Maybe he's sitting on a beach enjoying the warm sun on his face and a clean pair of socks.

Or maybe he laid down in the snow and died in the woods alone. I wonder if he has family still living, a brother or sister. And do they know he's dead.

Bruce always nodded or smiled hello. He talked to himself very animatedly sometimes and walked with a crutch. I heard a woman once ask him about his feet. I think he had serious health issues. Not surprising.

He always said, "Thank you, Sister," when I gave him food or money. But he never really asked for anything. He just sort of stood in the right places at the right times.

He also sold things. I bought one of my son's favorite trucks from him. Looking out my kitchen window as I prepared dinner, I would see him sitting in Lamont Park with a stroller or toy or painting to sell. Once I saw him hobbling on his crutch with a huge, pink stuffed teddy bear slung over his back looking like he just escaped from the Island of Misfit Toys.

Once in awhile if I didn't have anything to give or simply didn't want to be reminded of homelessness, I'd busy myself with my son or my purse. We introverts do that sometimes to avoid engagement. But what did Bruce care about my Myers-Briggs personality profile? He just wanted to get something to eat. Not have an engagement.

You'd think I would've known better.

Dean, one of my half-brothers, was homeless in San Francisco for nearly 20 years. Anyone can hit hard times. "Dean, Dean, The Jellybean," I used to sing to him when I was a child. We thought he died in San Francisco's 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake because many highway bridges collapsed and we knew he was living under a bridge.

But he survived.

A few years ago when another of my brothers found Dean and tried to convince him to move back in with family, he said no. All his friends are in San Francisco, he said. And with the weather and social services, it's easier to be homeless in California than in West Virginia.

Hard to argue with that.

We used to be able to reach Dean by calling a pay phone near a diner. Anyone who picked up knew him or knew of him. Even the police. In a good way. But I think that phone is out of service. It is so hard to find a pay phone that works these days, isn't it?

When I ask my mother about Dean she always says the same thing with the same far-away voice, "He's doing his own thing and isn't hurting anyone. I have seven children and one just kind of drifted away." She also tells me that he has an apartment now and, never wanting to be a burden, has arranged his own funeral. Really, we should all be so considerate. He's to be cremated and family will be notified. Then her voice begins to crack and she changes the subject.

Sometimes it sucks being a mother.

I deliberated over whether to mention my brother and his homelessness. I intended to write only about Bruce. But then Dean came into the story and just wouldn't leave. If I imply that homeless people are just like you and me and that homelessness can happen to anyone, I shouldn't have hesitated. But I did. I thought, do I really want to write that one of my siblings was homeless? What if someone in HR reads this and doesn't give me a job someday? What if people think less of me? Or my family?

Then I came to my senses.

Nobody's life is perfect. And certainly nobody's family is perfect. Only children are perfect. Perfect little prepackaged bundles of hope and potential. Then we do the best we can. Even if every dream doesn't come true, there is no shame in that.

(Dean, Dean, the Jellybean 1957)