The Dedicated Shopper...

I didn't grow up with a normal attitude about shopping. My mother had grown up with a very glamorous mother herself, for whom shopping for a coat entailed the following: First, looking through all the magazines to see what "they" were wearing. Then, white gloves and hats would be donned for a trip into the city (San Francisco), and at each and every department store of note, several coats my grandmother chose would be tried on by my mother in turn, modeled, mulled over, examined in minute detail, and from one to three might be put on hold with an elegant saleslady. Then, it would be time for lunch, or tea, while figure faults were sighed over, and the pros and cons of each coat were weighed. After lunch, or tea, the coats on hold at each store were revisited and considered. The end of the day might, or might not, produce a coat, but according to my mother what it did produce was headaches, nausea, dizziness, spots before the eyes, dry mouth, palpitations, sweating, as well as monumental feelings of self-loathing and inadequacy.

All this would be related to me by my mother as we set out once a year to buy me whatever clothes that Mom had been finally made to concede were going to have to be bought for me. Since Mom would probably have preferred to spend a day getting her eyelids tattooed by naked Aborigines she'd have put the shopping trip off for some time, so chances are my very appearance was a reproach to her mothering skills. I brushed my hair, much as my mother herself did, as an afterthought, and sometimes not at all, so that it was usually a giant tangle in the back that took half an hour and a lot of tears and cream rinse for me to unsnarl at bathtime. I had shapely little legs but somehow my itchy woolly tights always bagged out at the ankles, making me look like one of those little old ladies with piano legs, and my clothes were wrinkled, shabby, and usually either hopelessly too large or too small. So Mom, looking my way with a critical eye through her cigarette smoke as she drank the morning's first cup of black coffee, was doubly challenged by the demands of the day; not only did the clothes have to be purchased, but since the point of shopping was that, ideally, I would be a bit less of a visual reproach to her mothering skills when I was decently dressed, then the clothes purchased might perhaps actually require some thought. In theory. But it was early yet.

Mother would be wearing her hair in it's perpetual French Twist, a bouclé suit, square-toed pumps, a little ineffectual handbag over one shoulder. In the handbag were a coral lipstick, a rather battered red leather wallet containing several charge plates to Fifth Avenue stores she loathed and rarely frequented. More importantly, inside the bag under her handkerchief, were her old fashioned filterless Philip Morris Commanders, and her little gold lighter, for moral support. Whatever I was wearing, when I appeared downstairs, would be wrong. A quick up-and-down appraisal confirmed the reproach of everything about me. Then a shrug , another cup of coffee for Mom while I squirmed out of my skin with anticipation, and then off we went.

The problem was, that by the time we got to Best & Co., or Martins', or Saks, or whichever store Mom had decided would be the least fraught with tension, Mom had been running through endless scenarios in her head and had already had several ugly scenes with imaginary saleshelp and rude shoppers, so that the slightest interaction with anyone brought out her worst demons. An angry letter in a file years later alluded to some reason she'd never liked Macy's, but she'd always told me that the reason was that the store---well it was just tacky.

Mom would storm into the store, shoulders forward, heads down, arms swinging, black-browed and determined, me practically running to keep up and herding my baby sister along, she oblivious of Mom's mood and prattling gaily, running towards whatever pretty thing catches her eye until I manage to steer her giggling back towards our rapidly vanishing mother, I catch a glimpse of the salt-and-pepper suit through the crowd and catch up with her just as she steps into the elevator, she gives my sister a dirty look as the baby prattle of observations fill the elevator and people turn and smile us all indulgently.

We step off into Heaven. While living in my hand-me-downs from Helen and Anita up the street, I have been dreaming of some sparkly fairy godmother tapping me with her wand, dressing me in bellbottoms, miniskirts, the kinds of fashionable things my friends in school wear. Now, my eyes are dazzled by fringe, suede, chains, peace signs, paisley, purple, Peter Max, Pop Art, far-out movie posters, go-go boots, yes!!! This is it, the motherlode of fashion at Best & Co., I've never seen so many things at once, outside of a candy store, that made my mouth water. But the look on my mother's face is reminding me of real life, that we aren't going to come home with armloads of exciting clothes that make me look like Twiggy.We're going to come home with some baggy tights and a jumper, most likely, if I'm lucky mom will get tired and give on on something really crazy. Things are looking good for the latter plan, because Mom has that migraine-attack face-freeze thing happening and I can see her eyes glazing over already.

The fact that I ended up with the grooviest clothes I have ever owned doesn't make my memories of that trip to Best & Co. any less loaded with guilt for having needed clothes and thereby sacrificed my poor mother on the altar of motherhood and caused her to have a migraine. I was also, alas, unable to reign in my sister's exuberance, which was needling Mom's fragile equilibrium. Finally, my sister had a meltdown. A rolling-on-the-floor, screaming-at-the-top-of-her-lungs meltdown. I'm sure my child's pragmatic and mercenary nature was very calculatedly attuned to the situation, because I can enumerate for you the fruits of that journey:

1. a pair of white faux-leather pants with hippie fringe up the sides. I later pitch a fit myself for being sent home with the mumps from a class ice=skating excursion, I was wearing these for the first time and had visions of the impression of Bohemian chic I would create.

2. a faux-fur jumper with a gold-tone link chain belt around its dropped waist, two contrast-stitched front kangaroo pockets, very Mary Quant.

3. a suede fringed vest, the fringe being around 3' long.

4 purple tights with peace signs going up the outer side of my legs, I loved those tights to distraction.

5. A leather belt whose clasp consisted of two brass hands, suggestively gripped just below my belly button on a pair of jeans.

These items were the apex of my style chart in Elementary school, I had nothing more until some years later when I was given clothing allowance. Still, that allowance wasn't large enough to underwrite shopping excursions for glamorous items and I always remembered my trip to Best and Co. with wistful happiness.

Don't forget to remember....

It's one of those summer days that you wish you could somehow preserve a little of for future use. Poured into a Tupperware and stashed in the freezer, or carefully pressed between the pages of a heavy old Riverside Shakespeare or Dickens, on a gray and grim January day in the future, you could then carefully slide your fragile summer day out from between the pages of Little Dorrit's patient fortitude or of Malvolio's downfall, and by blowing upon it, endow it with the warm breezes and long-lighted afternoons fragrant with honeysuckle, citronella, and the smoke of charcoal fires.

I've preserved summer in the form of a couple of dozen jam jars in the basement: the flavor of real strawberries in June tastes like summer to me, and that's the only way I've found to bottle a summer's day. So until I can slide this lazy afternoon out from yellowing pages and blow it full of honey-colored light and the smell of fresh-mown grass, I will have to make do with a batch of biscuits, and a jar of jam, and maybe a few pressed petals, to beat next winter's January blues.

Outlawed

Our little house in Park Slope is roomier than most New York City apartments, especially since it's just the two of us, but nevertheless when it comes to overnight guests, we are spatially challenged. Slightly on purpose. Anyone in New York who has a guest bed has had someone overstay their welcome, either by a few days or by a few years. the rents here being what they are. I put my old daybed, the bed of my childhood, down in our musty basement, underneath that is a roll-out trundle bed. The extra bedroom upstairs is a little library/sewing/drawing/dabbling room, it's lined with its' crammed-to-bursting bookshelves, and a tattered Hepplewhite fainting couch alongside the window makes for a cozy spot to read or draw.

All of which is very nice, for us, but then when guests are imminent, there's always a level of panic because we aren't used to putting people up. A sleeper sofa upstairs would solve the problem, but since we don't really want to solve the problem and thus have a constant stream of guests, we're inclined to keep the recamier and its toss pillows and relegate our overnights to the basement bed. And then, a few weeks ago, my mother-in-law announced that she would be coming to stay a few days, along with Jane, Dale's sister. (During, I might add, the hottest part of the summer, and we have never installed central air, the house being so tiny it doesn't seem to warrant it.)Two guests are a little tricky, so I figured I'd just order a new mattress to replace the ancient piece of petrified foam that lay on the trundle bed, and in the meantime went on a cleaning frenzy, trying to sort through the piles of clutter and make the house somewhat presentable. Well, to make a long story short, I had to make do with a cushion from the fainting couch sheeted up to resemble a real mattress and tucked into the trundle bed downstairs. I guess the bright side is, they won't be back anytime soon, not after those sleeping arrangements. In all fairness, we did offer then our bed, but they would have had to share it, at which they demurred.

So, they came, they stayed, I cleaned within an inch of my life, and I am half-conscious now that they have finally gone. I ran around setting tables, cleaning, baking biscuits and pie, folding linens and fluffing pillows, like some crazed Stepford wife who is all amped-up on crystal meth. The whole visit was focused on what we were going to eat next, and when we were going to eat it, like some fat-people's Carnival Cruise. A breakfast of champions the first morning: bacon, as much as I could possibly fry up, piles of white toast, fresh brown eggs from the farmer's market scrambled up in glossy, fluffy curds, and fresh-squeezed (store-bought) orange juice, but I realized too late from the still-hungry looks around the table, that I should have tossed up some home fries, and maybe attempted Yankee-girl grits or some kippers. Sigh.

So, realizing that tonight's dinner is probably inadequate for these appetites, we pile into the car. The plan is for me to get dropped off at the farmer's market and Trader Joe's to hunt and gather and take the bus home laden like a pack mule, while Dale chauffeurs the girls in a peculiar scenic tour of the backside of Brooklyn. I fetch sausages, fresh chopped meat, corn on the cob, heirloom tomatoes, breads, fresh string beans, spring onions, and some snack food. I lumber onto the bus, swinging bags from both shoulders like a Sherpa climbing Everest, glad that the plan is to cook out, since last night for their arrival dinner, the homemade biscuits at 475º heated up the kitchen a bit oppressively.

My back and legs are throbbing, and a kidney stone is making its presence felt though not in the mindbending stage of pain yet. Still, when I get home I ache to lie down, but before I do I need to shuck corn and slice tomatoes, to have all the side dishes ready at dinner. In my mind's eye, Dale has pulled over during their tour and fed the ladies on empanadas or knishes, pupusas or somosas, dolmades or cuchifritos, babaganoush, hummus, any of the thousands of delicacies I iamagine they are bypassing on their scenic tour.

Except that the door clangs open and they troupe in, ravenous, because Dale has driven them around Lowe's, the piers, Ocean Parkway, Avenue S, a kind of odd's eye view of Brooklyn only without any lunch. He is suddenly nowhere to be found, no doubt desperately in need of a moment alone, but I know full well that it simply hadn't occurred to him since he wasn't hungry himself, so I pull down a platter and start tearing apart the cabinets for anything that will pass for a surprise late lunch, spreading crostini with artichoke pesto, slicing a summer sausage and some cheddar cheese, putting out little bowls of olives and nuts, crackers and then a few little cakes and ginger snaps, pouring tall glasses of iced tea for my exhausted in-laws who by now are ready to pass out from hunger. I leave it out on a tray for them, excusing myself, because at this point I really have to go upstairs and put ice on my back and take some mega-Advil.

And so it goes, Dale manfully attempting to fend off the worst of the cooking for me by doing the grilling outside, we pray a blessing over every meal, also not a habit Dale and I are used to. Not that I altogether mind that, sometimes I feel like doing it when it's just we two, but after the hostess going to so much effort to serve the food piping hot, I think blessings should be kept short, sweet, and to the point. So, I grumble, but only because of the disturbance to the usual household routine: the truth is that it's helpful to have an excuse to get the place a bit cleaner, and to have an in-law visit without having to drive for ten hours to Ohio. And my in-laws, I know, are the best of their kind, because they have always been welcoming, warm, and eager to know me.

And yet---we wave goodbye and I am thrilled at our newly quiet house; no doubt they have found some glaring example of my inept care of Dale to chatter about during the drive, but overall I seem to have passed inspection, the food was eaten, the beds were slept in, small talk was made, pictures were shown and admired, stories told and applauded. The house is cleaner than it has been since the last in-law visit, and I can turn to Dale and bask in the grateful gleam in his eyes.

Disorderly Conduct

My mother used to tell me that when I was a toddler, I was obsessively neat and would always put my toys away just so, and fussing about anything out of place. Her heart must have soared, back then, because the reason she used to tell me this was that from there on in, I have never, ever, been able to manage to be neat. I'd like to be neat, in the sense of liking order, liking things to be beautifully placed in vignettes on every surface, of exquisite objects balancing each other in the room creating a sense of harmony by color, texture, and art objects that endow the room with mood. And I love to create order from chaos, to distill the objects in a room until they make sense, by editing them and regrouping, and that's something I do very well. So you'd think that with my mother-in-law about to visit, I'd be smugly getting my nails done, not cleaning and decluttering this house from top to bottom, right? Wrong-er-oonie.

I find it physically impossible to be neat. Just can't do it. I can't edit down the clutter, can't stem the tide of mess, like pigpen in the old Charlie Brown comics the dirt and dust just find me. Spotless? I can eat a grape in your spotless room and make a mess with it. I can use a q tip in your sparkling bathroom and somehow when I leave there will be toothpaste caked around the sink and a hairball sticking out of the bathtub drain. I can sit in a spotless living room and cross my legs, look down, behold--I have just ground something into the carpet. Oh, and that stain isn't coming out, either, damn. Where did that even come from? White blouse? Grape juice. Smoke a cigarette, the ash will dribble down the front of my blouse, and in a semi=circle around the ashtray sitting in front of me for the purpose. Dust motes fly from every surface when I enter the room, what can I say, I create a disturbance.

Mind you, you should know the context of my growing-up. My mother, the one whom you will remember tearfully reminiscing about my days of neatness, was completely obsessed with order, and there was never a spoon out of place in her spacious townhouse, every closet was neatly stacked, mothballed, swept, a friend of hers, helping after a hospital stay once, gasped in horror at the sight of my mother's underwear drawer, neatly folded stacks of sensible things in rigid rows.

"A place for everything, everything in its' place", I still have a little sign, in French, that presided over the cellar where odds and ends were kept. Neatly. Never a glass in the sink, a dirty dish, a pair of shoes in the hallway. Never a hair on the soap, or a sock on the floor, nor any object of any kind on the kitchen counter. Imagine, with three children, the iron grip with which one must run the ship in order to maintain that kind of order, there was one rule above all other rules, which was that if we made any mess whatsoever it was a dagger to our mother's heart, a deliberate affront, a statement that she was our "doormat", a domestic servant slaving away, righting our careless disturbance of order. Tirelessly, our mother railed at us for each and every slight, a dress un-hung was a statement of contempt, a dish in the sink was fraught with meaning, in that it signified that we expected her to hang dresses and wash dishes, that we thought her to be our maid, a laughable concept when you consider that she didn't clean or put away a thing, that was definitely the job of all of us children who had tied her to this prison of a house and by our very presence exuded expectations of her, which she resented. And she did have, by the way, more paid domestic help than most women of her generation. Not a day went by when we were not her greatest disappointment.

So for me, you see, that bra gaily hanging from the back of that antique chair upstairs is a flag of freedom, and that little curl of hair in the upstairs tub? A runic spell to the goddess, declaiming the liberty of sloth. That pile of papers and unsifted mail is a monument to the liberty of not having to deal with those things until I am damn good and ready, which might not be never but is definitely not going to be right this minute. And all of that is joyful, and liberating, and makes my house my own, except for one thing. My mother-in-law is coming over and I have been cleaning for a solid week. Shit. Why can't I be neat like my mother was?