It's about time.
Yesterday, after all these years, I came out of the closet.
Not in the way you're thinking, and not that there would be anything wrong with that, and not that I like quoting "Seinfeld", you gullible readers.
No soup for you.
The previous owners of this home we've lived in for twenty six years were obviously royalty, because the queen designed what's known as a California closet, with slanted shelves and straight shelves and an insane amount of space.
My California closet looked like it had just been through an earthquake--9.8 on the Richter scale.
I used to say I was NOT a hoarder.
I used to believe I was not a hoarder.
My name is Karen, and I am an 'effin' hoarder who is compelled to remind you in every post that I am named Karen.
I used to think I wore the same three shirts(sans bra) and pants every week because they were "pandemic friendly."
The truth is, one needed the Herculean strength I lack to negotiate the mess of tangled wire hangers that were probably donated to me by my dearest mommie decades ago.
It was easier to grab a pair of pants with stains or rips or disintegrated elastic at the waistband then to try to move a neighboring garment a fraction of an inch.
I justified it by saying nobody would see me during a pandemic.
I justified it my saying I'd break a finger..or have a cardiac incident..if I tried to move the slacks even the distance of a strand of hair.
My tops were color coordinated, but toppling over, which meant the pinks and turquoises were co-mingling, even if they chose not to.
(I have a LOT of tops in these colors. My brain thinks I live in Turks and Caicos year round)
If shirts could talk, they'd say, in unison, "OMG..it's one thing to overstuff her gut--that's HER personal choice--but our foundation WILL collapse, and then we'll be on the floor with the dust and stray hairs and old handbags and totes forever!"
The novelty shirt I never wore because it was too much trouble to reach, the one Jim gave me for my last birthday that mentioned Karens and managers, was bursting at the seams with rage.
So was her pile-mate, the novelty shirt I got while touring Warner Bros. Studios in Burbank with the "Luke's Diner" logo from my beloved "Gilmore Girls"..that one was being "saved" for "vacation."
The shelves against the sides of this closet were suffering too. No room to breathe, no room to move, no way to believe that some of them would still fit.
The dresses looked like they had too much to drink the night before; so overhung(my attempt to be clever with the word "hungover") that they practically screamed, "this is a hook up only..a one night stand."
And don't even get me started on the floor!!
I should have learned my lesson the weekend we got Luke in 2009.
We had to go to an out-of-town funeral early that day and he managed to find a Roach Motel that was probably buried in there since the house was built in the 1960.s
I needed to say goodbye to my wonderful Aunt, but I feared my new dog would have an adverse reaction and uncover a lot worse than an aging Roach Motel.
And no..there were no actual roaches..I'm not an effin' ANIMAL!!
Tote bags.
I had about 45 tote bags with different logos. Sports teams, TV networks, vacation places we've been to, 'though God only knows how I managed to pack a suitcase for any of those said vacations..how did I "find" the right things to pack?
My totes were totally full of..Karen.
Things I've written that were never published.
Camp memorabilia.
Arts supplies. Writing tablets. Pens that worked. Pens that didn't.
Empty cans of sunscreen. Old daily schedules from Woodloch. Old coveted medals won at Woodloch. Combs. Hair ties.
OMG..How did I NOT KNOW I was a hoarder? Just because nothing dead was uncovered?
I am a hoarder!!
And like those pathetic losers you see on TV, that swear they're going to change once the experts come in, I WILL change, because my closet NOW looks like a chic boutique for plus-sized fashionistas.
My walk-in closet is finally a walk-in-closet.
It is beautifully, beautifully organized, color coordinated, garments separated by season.
I would have taken before and after photos, but those who read my blog regularly know I am afraid of cameras, even simple to use ones, ever since my parents sent me to Montreal in 1972 with two rolls of film and I came back with 24 photos of my eyeball.
My closet is a work of art and no, WTF are you smoking??..I did NOT fix it myself.
This is the wizardry of Tami, my former neighbor, my closest closet friend, my personal shopper, stylist, and organizer.
She knows me so well that she knew what to toss on sight--what won't fit, what is outdated, what cannot be worn even to do housework in.
(Like I do housework)
She could teach a master class.
She is to organizing what Lebron James is to basketball.
And I promised her, with every fiber of my being, with every fiber on every clothing item that now sits or hangs with grace and dignity, that I will maintain this stunning work of art.
Which I will.
As long as nobody calls me a hoarder.
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