The Spook House

In the woods next to our pink split level house on the cul-de-sac of Comfort Court was an abandoned house known to the neighborhood kids as The Spook House. Most of the children in the neighborhood were forbidden to go there. But many did. It was rumored someone had fallen through the second floor and legend was that more terrible things lurked there. The boys and girls from the closely set homes in our small sub-division had grown up together, playing kickball until our parents called us in for dinner, climbing the apple trees in our back yard, and building forts in the woods while avoiding the decrepit house that seemed right out of a horror movie.

I was ten years old when my best friend Jeanne and I decided we were old enough to go see it up close for bragging rights to our bravery. It couldn’t have been more than fifty yards from my house but it felt like we were Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion approaching the witch’s castle. We crept up the path tamped down by those who had ignored the warnings and we made it to the front of The Spook House. The house was boarded up except for a broken first floor window. The only color around the drab peeling house was a flowering purple lilac bush left by its long gone owners. Peeking inside I could see an ancient wooden wheelchair and some dusty books on the floor. My heart raced. I was a 50 pound sissy who slept with a nightlight. Jeanne repeated the tale her older brother, Rusty, had told her. He said a ghost lived in the house and that if we looked up to the second floor window we might see her waving. Knees trembling, I looked up and I thought I saw a pale, disembodied hand waving slowly up and down. I ran the whole way home wondering if I’d actually seen that horrifying apparition or if my mind was playing tricks on me.

Jeanne and I stayed far from that house after that. But the frights weren’t contained to the dark woods. They were right there in plain sight. As we all grew up I learned to be wary of other things. The rambunctious boy, Chris, who lived behind our house, pushed me down one day and I came home with bloody knees. I learned to stay away from him. When we were twelve and finally allowed to go to the bus stop alone, there were more opportunities for his torment. As I stood one morning with Jeanne, he and another rough boy from the development threw coins towards me. I stared at the pennies as they spun around and landed on the sidewalk. I had a bad feeling it was a set-up.

“Pick up the pennies,” said Stephen, a pale, freckled hooligan with a crew cut and glasses.

“Why should I? I don’t want them,” I said.

He looked at me with a mean glint. “Don’t Jews like money?”

My face paled. A few kids laughed. The bus pulled up and I got in and walked to the back. I slumped into a seat and tried to make myself invisible. I learned to fear the monsters at the bus stop. I dragged my feet to miss the bus or got stomach-aches and stayed home. I dreaded going to my locker at school where a group of bullies would find me and harass me about my looks, my friends, my religion. I stopped playing outside after school. Mercifully, my body summoned a case of Mono and I spent weeks at home recovering my health and my confidence. After only a month back at school my parents announced we were moving to another town. I’d like to think it was because of my problems and the anti-semitic neighbors, but in reality they were motivated by the horror of sharing one bathroom with three daughters. Nevertheless, I was glad for the escape route.

Several years ago, I was in the area and curious to see my old street. The Spook House was long gone — replaced with a white Colonial and green lawn. I am not haunted by that vision of a waving hand. I am sure I imagined it. I know I did not imagine the terrorizing of the real phantoms. It turned out the scariest things didn’t live in the crumbling empty houses. They resided in the pretty painted houses. I don’t like scary movies. But I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. Sometimes the most frightening things happen in broad daylight.

Boots on the Ground

I was wearing black Billy Martin cowboy boots, a sweater and leggings when I met my husband on a blind date. He wore a towel. I was trying to project nonchalant chic.  He was running late, but I’m pretty sure he was just boasting his biceps.  Boots and leggings are pretty much still my uniform, but I’ve since trained my husband to wear pants when answering the door.

Thirty-two years have passed, but when the leaves and the temperatures drop and boot season begins, I am reminded of that fall when we fell in love. Maybe that’s why I still love wearing boots.  Boots are comfort food for my soles. My feet have taken me through almost sixty years, twenty-five countries, fifteen years of work pumps, hundreds of runs in stiff ski boots, thousands of uneven subway steps, hours of parties in crippling stilettos.  I’ve worn shoes that would make Chinese foot binding feel like Ugg slippers.  My big toes have endured two painful surgeries as a result.   My feet have earned the right to be comfortable.

In NYC shoes are transportation. My favorite wheels are my worn-in, black, knee-high Aquatalia boots that have mercifully morphed to the topography of my aching feet.  They are low-heeled, waterproof, and rubber soled. They are an SUV for my feet – sturdy, reliable and designed for all types of terrain.  I zip them up like I am buckling my seatbelt and I’m ready to hit the road. I’m a superhero.  I feel like Wonder Woman — without the bustier and the gorgeous hair.  NYC is my territory.  In boots I can cover a lot of ground – taking in street after street of Chelsea galleries without getting a blister.  I feel powerful hopping on a Citibike and pedaling to Soho with my trusty treads and my foldable helmet. I have no fears heading to the Union Square farmer’s market with the confidence that I can stride back home lugging bags of apples, greens and a bouquet of zinnias.  The Lake Erie size slush puddles are no match for these boots as I conquer the icy mountains and melting pools that form on street corners after a winter storm.  I’m impermeable.

Each fall I head to Saks and Bergdorfs to hunt through the shelves of stunning shoes and boots.  But those shoe departments might as well be a shoe museum.  The pointy, high heeled styles are like a European sports car – sleek and sexy, overpriced, impractical and hard to get into.  At least a sports car is built for speed.  These are most definitely not.

I feel fast and safe and strong in my favorite boots. But it’s time for a change – so I’ve bought them in gray.  For too many years I chose style over comfort.  In my boots and leggings I have the best of both worlds.  I can truly be comfortable in my own shoes.

Snakes in the Grass – A Father’s Lesson 

I grew up the middle of three sisters in a pink house on a cul de sac in the suburbs of Randolph, NJ, in a neighborhood so idyllic our street was named Comfort Court. My sister Meredith was four years younger so she was either being ignored or tortured by my sister Lisa and me. Lisa was only 16 months older than me. We couldn’t have been more different. While I was always in girly clothes with a bow or headband in my hair, Lisa was a tomboy with horn-rimmed glasses and frizzy hair. I played with dolls…she collected all kinds of pets and insects. Despite our differences we liked to be outside exploring our neighborhood together.    

Across from our house was my best friend Jeannie’s house, and behind their house was a sheep farm. We liked to visit the wooly sheep and feed them carrots. To get to the pasture you had to jump over a small stream, scramble onto a large flat topped boulder the neighborhood kids named “Big Rock”, and hop over the low security wire fence onto the grassy field. One afternoon, we must have been about 10 and 11, and we were wandering in the sheep field when I spotted a striped garter snake wriggling among the grass. It couldn’t have been more than 8 inches long but to me it might as well have been a python. I was terrified. I jumped onto the nearest boulder as high pitched screams came from my tiny 60 pound frame. My sister calmly grabbed up the snake for her menagerie as my cries pierced the air. It was only a minute or too later that I spotted my savior — my terrified father running up Jeannie’s driveway sweating in a white undershirt and pants, looking stricken and shouting, “What’s the matter?! What’s wrong?!”  

“HELP! I saw a snake… Lisa caught a snake!!!” I shouted, knowing that I was about to be saved from this dangerous viper. Realizing that no one was bleeding, kidnapped or dead, and angry that I had caused him so much alarm, my father looked at me standing there knock-kneed and screeching. With relief and annoyance he chastised me, “That’s why you’re screaming like that?!” Before he even crossed into the field for my rescue, he turned and walked back towards our house. Somehow I managed to gain the courage to jump off that rock and run home too.  

Don’t get me wrong – my father is warm and sweet and loving. He’s also a war hero who experienced danger much graver than a harmless snake. At 18 years old, he left for WWII and earned a purple heart, an oak leaf cluster and a silver star for his brave actions in combat. He seemed to love being the only guy in a household of women, but he wasn’t about to raise a bunch of sissies. During the late 1960s when traditional roles meant girls couldn’t even wear pants to my school, my father taught us to be confident and strong. He taught us to draw, and grow pink roses and how to plant string beans and corn in our garden. He also taught us to shoot a bb gun into an old Clorox bottle used as a target hanging from the swingset in our back yard. He taught us to bait a hook, ski down a mountain, and change a tire. He showed us how to fix a broken toilet, and a broken heart.  

That day in the sheep pen my sister gained a new pet. I gained an insight into where my father’s patience for nonsense ended.

Meredith has forgiven me for the teasing. My sister Lisa has a farm now. She raises chickens and takes in neglected animals. I still like fancy clothes and accessories. But I also have my own power tools and I can patch sheetrock.  

 One thing my father never taught me – a love of snakes. Good thing I live in a city now.  

A Tale of Two Cities

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When my son, Dylan, moved to Chicago almost two years ago I was really sad. I consoled myself with the hope was that he would work there for two years and then return to New York. As I wished – he started to express interest in coming back this summer. He loves his job but he misses family and friends and he contacted some head hunters and has an interview coming up. I was hopeful.

Last week he flew to San Francisco for the weekend to visit two great guys who had left his company last spring for jobs out there. He had a fantastic time and visited Sonoma and mentioned how much he loved it there. Who wouldn’t….!? He texted me he could live there. I texted back “Nooooooooo!”

Three days later my husband Marty and I flew out to Aspen for a last minute weekend trip. We were having a wonderful time. I had a nearly perfect day. As we headed to take the van into town Friday, Marty asked if I saw the email Dylan had sent him. I had not. He handed me his iPad. Dylan’s email to Marty said, “I was asked to fly back to San Francisco next week to meet with the guys from Rockpoint who I had met with last week and they hinted I had the job and if they offer it to me I would most likely take it”.

I was speechless. I didn’t even know he went there for an interview. I felt deceived. I felt devastated. Disappointed. Hurt. I felt like crying. I immediately texted my friend Lori to tell her what happened and how upset I was. As we piled into the van to go to town, Robin and Peter, our hosts in Aspen, tried to console me, telling me their son might move to LA. As we rode into town I started a rant – only half seriously, I loudly announced that we shouldn’t have had children – you spend time and money and kill yourself for them and they just leave you. I pictured my son across the country living his own life and not being there for holidays and birthdays and last minute dinners.

Marty didn’t seem as worried as I was. He said – “you can visit him, it’s not so bad.”
“You’re a father. It’s not the same,” I yelled. “You didn’t breastfeed them. You didn’t bond the same way. Maybe I should breastfeed you and then you’d stick around more too.” Robin thought this might be a good time to point out that there were others in the van who I hadn’t even noticed. I sulked in silence.

We got into town and walked around for a bit. I tried retail therapy. I was feeling dejected but tried to think of some positives and how I wanted to move there at his age and was held back by my parents and friends. I didn’t want to do that to him. Well, actually I did. After an hour or so Dylan called Marty. After a few minutes Marty handed me the phone. I calmly told Dylan I saw the email. “Oh, dad showed you?” he asked guiltily.

I was restrained. I told him I was sad to hear he would think about going so far. I told him it was a wonderful place to live. And I understood the appeal but wasn’t the point of leaving Chicago to be with family and friends? He said he had two great friends out there. He could go to wine country every weekend. And maybe it wouldn’t be permanent. I asked, what if you fall in love with someone there and never come home? Dylan said – Wouldn’t that be a good thing if my life was good? I have to think about myself right now..

I nearly lost it. … I was stunned. That little shit…he continued talking but I barely heard him as I thought of what to say next. Wait, what did he just say? Did I hear that right!?

Yes! April Fools. He was saying April Fools! Yes! I fell for it! I started laughing. I started crying.  It was April 1. Practically a national holiday for me. I had even mentioned that morning that I needed to try to prank him. I tried to get Marty to help me think of a plot. But after years of elaborate pranks and epic tricks that included filming him looking at his pink bedazzled bar mitzvah invitation and then playing it for 200 people, planting fake prize winning notices inside boxes of fruit roll ups, and convincing him his soccer team had to take ballet lessons since the practice fields were unavailable – he’d gotten me back. Big time. And my deceiving husband was in on it. At what point I don’t know. I guess this scenario fed into my biggest anxiety and I didn’t even take a step back to think. It was terrible. It was wonderful. The student became the teacher. I’ve never been so mad. I’ve never been so relieved. I’ve never been so proud!

And I have 364 days to plan my revenge.

 

The Jury is Out

I received my Jury Summons a few weeks ago – it’s always a shock to see that blue envelope – it’s like getting a parking ticket or one of those speeding tickets caught by a mounted camera. You didn’t intentionally do anything wrong and yet you are being summoned to court.

Starting Sunday, I called in for three nights in a row and my luck held out – a recording told me YOU ARE NOT REQUIRED TO REPORT TO COURT TOMORROW PLEASE CALL AFTER 5 PM TOMORROW. I breathed a sigh of relief and went about my days. I called Wednesday night expecting to hear the same but there it was… REPORT AT 8:30 AM TOMORROW MORNING with directions on where to go and what to bring (a pen with black ink) and what not to bring (phones, laptops, electronics).
I showed up at 8:30 am at 500 Pearl Street – WITH my cellphone and WITHOUT a pen. After going through security and having my phone charger picked up on the Xray I idiotically answered YES when asked if I had a cell phone.Trick question. The man unceremoniously handed me a numbered ticket in exchange for said cell phone. I thought it best not to put up a struggle.
I entered the large waiting area and took a seat trying to imagine the next seven hours without my cell phone or a book or anyone I knew within a mile. My anxiety was palpable – drawing the attention of an equally stressed out guy behind me. We commiserated as we filled out papers as instructed (with a borrowed pen) and tried to figure out our chances of getting picked.

The assistant DA came into the room. After a few announcements the lights started to dim, shades descended from the top of the large windows and he announced that we would be watching a “short” 30 minute film! This film depicted people being asked to be on a Grand Jury – showing how it worked, how important it was to fill this civic duty, and how much people got out of doing this duty. All I could think of was how do I GET OUT of doing this duty. Part of me thought it might be interesting – after all I watch Dateline NBC and love to figure out interesting crime cases…but they repeatedly mentioned the vow of secrecy surrounding the proceedings in a Grand Jury and I was pretty sure that would be a problem for me.

The lights came on, and the shades stayed down – adding more drama to the DA’s next announcement – they would be picking 23 people to serve on the Grand Jury – who would serve 5 days a week for a period of no less than 30 days — Hey wait – didn’t my envelope say two weeks!!? Civic duty is one thing but 30 days started to seem like a sentence. It got worse. They would be picking 2 alternate jurors who would serve for 2 days a week for 14 months – that seemed like a LIFE sentence. I don’t even think criminals serve 14 months. And they probably get to look out a window. Now I was worried. The guy behind me was worried.

We listened carefully for an escape route as they listed the six excuses that the judge would consider. The first one wouldn’t work–I’m not over the age of 70 even though my feet feel like they are. Next one – having small kids at home. Does a 25 year old son living at home count? He still needs me to pick up his socks off the floor and put toilet paper in his bathroom. Another – am I the sole caretaker of an elderly parent? My parents are in Florida and though they probably shouldn’t be driving – they do and while they would like me to be there, I’m not. The other excuses were lack of knowledge of English, or having been a convicted felon, or serving in the military or being a police officer or firefighter. No excuses here. I started to panic. I started to get creative. I started twitching in my seat and stretching my back – prepared to use back pain as an excuse. My “friend” behind me started “remembering” the two business trips he needed to take in March. I started thinking about how I volunteer at a hospital on Thursdays and how they depend on me (that is actually true) and how I suffer from migraine headaches (somewhat true) and how I had once robbed a liquor store in college (definitely not true).
I felt like Katniss Everdeen during the reaping as they started picking the juror’s names one by one out of a wooden box. My odds of winning the recent record breaking PowerBall were about one in a billion and I was confident. Here I had a MUCH greater probability of getting picked and I prayed I wouldn’t be.

The first order of business was picking the Grand Jury. As he said each name, and I heard a different consonant that wasn’t an “S” exiting his lips, I breathed a little sigh of relief. After the first 23 names were read those who were now moved to the left side of the room got their turn to speak to the judge one at a time about an excuse. Apparently there were more than six. Little by little there were only about 10 left. They repeated this process. More names were read, and more people had excuses. Every person around me was called. My buddy was called. He was excused. I was praying his empty chair wasn’t soon to be filled with my body. My fingers were tapping. My feet were twitching about. My heart rate was increasing. Steven Avery looked more relaxed than me during his murder trial, documented on the Netflix series Making a Murderer. This process went on until the Grand Jury was picked. Great – except now they were going to pick the last two alternates. The 14 month commitment. Twice a week. One hundred and twenty days. In a courtroom. For $40 a day. Few seemed to want to do this. I wanted to text a friend to share my panic only to remember I had no phone.

There were 23 people in the Grand Jury seats. There were about 90 people in the excused people area. There were about 25 people remaining on my side. There were very good odds they would call my name. I ran through my list of excuses and wondered which one to use or if I should spit out all of them and hope one stuck. I imaged me telling my husband (a law school graduate ) how I had allowed myself to get a 14 month jury position.

The last two names were called. They were excused. Then two more names. They weren’t mine. They weren’t excused. I breathed a sigh of relief. I asked a man sitting next to me if he thought we were safe. “Yes,” he said, “ as long as they don’t ask us to come back and do this again tomorrow.” My face twisted in fear. Ten minutes later those who weren’t selected for the Grand Jury were asked to go into the hallway. The announcement that our Jury Duty was complete was met with cheers and applause. So much for civic duty. I felt that I had been acquitted. I used my Get Out of Jail Free card… for four more years

Honey, can you hear me?

My husband and I have been married for 26 years. Both of us are in our 50’s but we feel healthy and look pretty youthful. Ok, so we get up from a chair groaning with knees creaking like the Tin Man. And perhaps we can’t read a menu or price tag or anything at all without glasses or a flashlight app. But other than that we have all our faculties. Well, most of them anyway.

Recently I noticed that my hearing is on the decline. I’ve always been like a CSI with razor sharp instincts and a keen sense of hearing. I always knew whose footsteps I heard coming in late at night and who was chugging milk out of the container from a room away, but recently I noticed I need to turn up the tv volume and I can’t understand anything either of my sons say.

I have begun using my cellphone on speaker even though I have often complained to my own aging parents how annoying it is to have them call me on speakerphone, echoing like they are calling from a cave in Afghanistan instead of from their sunny kitchen in Delray Beach. On the rare occasions when when my own children call I pretend to hear them so they don’t call me deaf, although I suspect it’s because they are slumped in their beds, barely wasting enough energy to move their lips when they speak.

But what concerns me most is not that I can’t hear people – it’s that people occasionally can’t hear me. And by people, I mean my husband. My slight hearing problem was diagnosed by an ENT doctor as age-related hearing loss. My husband’s hearing loss was diagnosed by me, a KLAD (Kinda like a Doctor) as marriage-related hearing loss. It is called being Wife Deaf.

Most men with WD don’t even know they have it. Or if they do they don’t admit it. Unlike real hearing loss which mostly affects the afflicted – Wife Deafness is most annoying for the observer. In this case that would be ME. While my husband is oblivious to his problem, I find it extremely frustrating. For example, I often tell my otherwise attentive and loving husband about plans I’ve made for us. Hours or maybe days later he will deny I’ve told him about those plans. Other times I might share a story I heard or something I read and believing I have his attention, I finish the conversation. I may even get a nod or look of acknowledgment. Then not ten minutes later he will tell me the same story as if it is his own thought.

“Are you kidding me?! Didn’t you JUST hear me say that?” I will yell as I roll my eyes. In an instant he is backpedalling, saying that he did hear me, even throwing in a couple of key words that actually infiltrated his subconscious. Most of the time he swears I never told him, making me doubt my own sanity. What was he doing while talking? Working out a business problem? Thinking about who is starting for the Jets? Did I sound like Charlie Brown’s mother? WHA, WHA, WHA…

I notice this problem is very common among middle aged husbands. I venture to say most married men suffer from it. My own father has one of the worse cases of wife deafness and is actually proud of it. He prefers to call it selective hearing. For most of the 50+ years they’ve been married he has been burying his head in a book or puttering in the kitchen only occasionally looking up to ask my mother to repeat a long story or conversation he has just caught the tail end of. But I have also seen it among my own age group.

My friend Debi was trying to get her husband’s attention as we sat in a group of couples last winter. “David, David, David,” she repeated without so much as a turn of his head. “Watch this, “ I said and at the same decibel level I said his name again. Immediately he heard his name, looked at me and said “Yeah, what?” as she looked on in shock and disbelief. Diagnosis made – WD.

I shared my frustration with my friend Donna on a recent friday night. We had invited her and her husband George to meet us for a movie premiere. She told me what had just happened that very night. George is not known for his subtlety, so she asked him not to tell their teenage daughter that we were seeing the movie she had wanted to see. As he walked out the door 20 minutes later he called out to his daughter that they would be back late after the premier of the new Jennifer Aniston movie. Donna was flabbergasted.

Do they not hear? Do they not care? Do they not remember? Is there a cure? I don’t know the answers. I could take him for an actual hearing test – but unless those hearing tests that normally emit beeps and tones of various pitch match the actual sound and frequency of my own voice I don’t think we can get an accurate reading. Perhaps there’s a hearing aid for this disorder. But there’s not a man alive who’d use it. So I’ve come up with my own hearing aids. I’ve considered a megaphone but it doesn’t fit in my overstuffed handbag, so I make it a point to speak louder and check for rapid eye movements that might indicate voice recognition. Then my husband can’t complain that the window was open, or I speak softly, or that I never said what I know I said.

I also cover all bases by emailing a summary or confirmation of important conversations so I have a record in my computer, and in a court of law, that he was informed of dates and times and plans. Not that it helps when he double books us and we have a standoff to see whose plan prevails.

There is a cartoon I love that captures this universal issue – it pictures an elderly couple sitting in a living room with the husband looking up from a newspaper and the caption “Can you please repeat everything you’ve said since we’ve been married?” That is the line he says to me when I catch him being wife deaf. It always makes us laugh. I know he may not always hear me. But I know he gets me. And a sense of humor is definitely the best medicine.

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SECRET SLOB SOCIETY

I’ve always taken pride in my reputation as being extremely neat and orderly. My house looks like no one lives there – if something is moved an inch I know it. I talk on the phone with a paper towel and a spray bottle of Fantastic in my hand. My hangars match. I never go out with chipped nail polish. I iron my sheets.

It’s hard to live up to this standard of perfection.So recently I noticed that I am relaxing my ideals. Perhaps I am swaying a bit too far in the other direction. No one would ever know what goes on behind closed doors, but I have to confess — after every fashion crisis, which is basically 90 percent of the time I get dressed to go out, I leave a wake of discarded tops and pants on my bedroom floor. It looks like the dressing room of a Broadway diva after a performance with numerous costume changes. I have even caught myself kicking the rejects into a pile in my closet so my husband doesn’t see it when we come back late at night. I also have begun using my kitchen counter as my office and catch-all for newspapers, mail, handbag, keys and post-it notes with lists and reminders. My husband has been well trained to keep most of his personal belongings out of sight and recently I realized the tides were turning. As I criticized him for leaving some dresser drawers open (a pet peeve), he glanced from me to the kitchen counter strewn with shopping bags and groceries and magazines, and back to me without saying a word. The student had become the sensai.

In fairness he has a real office in midtown Manhattan with file cabinets and shelves and they are piled high with files and documents and notepads on the desk and under the desk. Our home is my office and if I don‘t see things in front of me I don‘t get anything done. It got me wondering – what are my friends doing behind closed doors? So I asked them.

One was very forthcoming. In order to spare her identity and embarrassment and to save our trusting friendship I will call her “R”. She told me she doesn’t wash her bras very often. She justifies it because she puts them on a clean body every morning but really she’s too lazy to wash them out as often as she should. She said she felt like she was Stradlater from Catcher in the Rye – the friend that Holden Caulfield realized was a Secret Slob. So I decided to form a Secret Slob Society where my friends could reveal their private slovenliness.

They say “never go to bed angry” but in my book it’s never go to bed with a sink of dishes. Yet “D” confessed that she leaves her kitchen a complete mess when she goes to bed at night with food on the counter, dirty dishes in the sink, and pots filled with water and she gets up at the crack of dawn to deal with it before going to the gym. She’s a morning person.

At first “L” wouldn’t admit to any secrets other than watching Real Housewives and soap operas. She said she is very tidy and has never left her house without making her bed because she thinks it’s bad luck. I pushed her to come clean. Join the club. Finally after reflecting a bit she offered that her bathroom cabinets were stuffed with bags and bags of old makeup samples and her basement of old furniture and baby toys looked like she was a candidate for the show Hoarders.

I too never leave the house without making the bed and never go on vacation without leaving a perfectly clean house in case something happens to me and I never return. Not everyone feels this way. I know that because a neighbor of mine once called me from vacation with her four small children and asked me to check inside the house and see if they had left on an appliance before they dashed out. Their beautiful house is always decorated with hanging baskets on the front porch and lovely lights around the holidays. Inside it looked like they had left the country in a hurry to flee a war… the remnants of breakfast were still on the table, stray socks were balled up on the kitchen floor, the dog bowl still had kibble in it.

“H” admitted that when she travels she wears the same underwear the next day as she did the night before so she doesn’t have to wash it.

Aunt “L” lets her pet cockatiel sit on her shoulder and poop on her blouse. She also copped to turning the guest towels to the untouched clean side instead of washing them.

I know a college student who is smart and beautiful and who didn’t change her sheets more than 3 times a semester. That is probably two times more than many students. And my own sons.

I live with someone whose toothbrush develops stalagmites of gooey toothpaste as it charges on its stand.

My dear friend “G” has a spotless house and a manicured lawn – however to climb in her car means sweeping the seat and floor of petrified French fries, coffee cups, sweaty gym clothes, and errant shoes.

Everyone has their secrets — not changing their toothbrush or razor head, leaving clumps of hair in a brush or drain, sniffing their clothing or underwear to see if it’s clean, not washing their jeans until they stand alone, wearing a pair of socks twice. I’m guilty of a few. Growing up I was told cleanliness was next to godliness. I no longer think that’s true. Cleanliness is overrated. I recently saw a poster that said , “A Clean House is a Sign of a Wasted Life”. I will repeat that mantra to remind myself that my newfound messiness means I am having too much fun to stay in and clean. I will proudly wear my badge as a member of the Secret Slob Society. If only I could find it in the mess I call my closet.

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#secretslob, #cleanfreak

YOGI BARE

It’s 11 pm. I have been wearing yoga pants for 15 hours. If you had told me 20 years ago that I would spend an entire day wearing yoga pants I would have laughed and sworn it would never happen.

Twenty years ago I moved to the suburbs from NYC and went to the bus stop the first day of school wearing soft buttercup yellow DKNY jeans. The other mothers wore Mom jeans and looks of amusement as they checked out the new city expatriate. I didn’t care if I looked overdressed. I’ve always found it preferable to being underdressed. As the school year wore on they would roll up the street in their SUVs at 7:30 am in bathrobes and pajamas, with sunglasses covering their swollen morning eyes. I had my hair washed and makeup on. I knew I’d never become one of them.

My new friend Gail, who lived down the street, commented that I would soon be wearing “normal” jeans and sweat pants and showing up at the bus stop looking ragged and rushed like the others. We have now been friends for 19 years. Our boys are grown. It never happened.

But now it HAS happened. I returned to the city from the suburbs where you would think I would spend the day wearing chic city clothes, but I am looking at myself and I’ve spent the day in yoga pants. How did I become that person? It started when I signed up for Pilates in a real studio instead of the safety and privacy of my basement gym and I bought some rather cute yoga pants. Yoga pants are really comfortable. There’s a reason I’ve fallen asleep on the floor at the end of any yoga classes I’ve taken. It’s the pants.

I usually feel energized when I put them on in the morning and they get me motivated to exercise. But to be honest I didn’t do any exercise today. I put on the pants this morning planning on the 9 am Pilates class. I answered some phone calls and missed the class. I spent an hour thinking about going to the gym instead while I threw in some laundry. I never got there. I kept them on while I sat at my computer barefoot and comfortable in my stretchy soft pants and I wore them for the next few hours while I clicked on Huffington Post links, read emails and cleaned the kitchen.
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Yoga pants have become the house dresses of our generation. My very stylish grandmother had an assortment of snap front pastel house coats she wore to dust and vacuum and cook inside her Jackson Heights apartment. But you would never catch her wearing one to her nearby Waldbaum’s.

I broke that wall. At 5 pm I needed some groceries. I thought about changing but I threw on some boots over my yoga pants. It almost looked like I was wearing real pants. I went outside to walk to Whole Foods. And do you know what I noticed while I was outside? I was not alone. There were LOTS of other people wearing yoga pants. Some of them looked healthy and fit. Many of them were dressed for exercise but looked like they hadn’t broken a sweat quite a while. Because that’s the thing about yoga pants. They usually feel better than they look. They feel tight and uplifting like a girdle or Spanx. But those are worn under clothes. Yoga pants are not. Once you see your behind with your legs thrown over your head as you do a crunch in the exercise studio mirror you realize they aren’t as shapely as you thought. Unless you are actually a yoga instructor or trainer you should not be wearing yoga pants all day. Its risky. They are a “gateway” pant — you could wake up one day and realize you have been wearing them for weeks at a time. And wearing no makeup. And not exercising at all. Pretty soon you are overeating in those stretchy pants with the expanding waistband and yoga pants will be the only pants that fit. Look around the streets of any suburb or city and you will agree. It’s a cautionary tale.

I believe there’s a solution here. I’ve spent most of my adult life in tight clothes and painful shoes and I think I’m just tired of suffering. Yoga pants made me realize how much happier I could feel if I spent the day in more comfortable attire. I think it’s time to lose some of my more restricting clothes and high heels and go out and buy some pants that are as comfortable as yoga pants but appropriate for the real world. I wonder if DKNY still makes buttercup yellow jeans. Or if all else fails – Maybe I’ll just have to become a yoga instructor!