Dead Men Don't Dust

          Have you ever looked around at your home and in your closets and wondered if an investigatory team like CSI or NCIS could parse out your life based on your furnishings and clothes?  What do you mean, no?  Having recently binge-watched X-Files, Brooklyn Nine-Nine and NCIS, I've been hyper-aware of how my life might look to others.  

          Before Ben and I started dating, he was hesitant to respond to my initial message as he thought I was too fancy, or high maintenance.  When we started dating, and he saw my closets for the first time, he even jokingly began to call me Imelda, as in Imelda Marcos (of the three thousand pairs of shoes).  He wasn't referring to my shoe collection, as the possessor of 'old man feet' I only have 14 pairs of shoes.  I do, however, have 37 pairs of colored chinos, in a variety of colors for all seasons.

Of course, over the past 15 months of our dating, he has witnessed and half-heartedly participated in my shopping sprees, so he has seen evidence that I am a lover of all things clearance-priced, a patron of high-end outlet malls and a skilled thrift store shopper.

          You could look at my new favorite cashmere sweater, which retails for $300, and think I either have lots of cash or lots of debt.  You wouldn't know, unless I spilled the beans, that I got it for $30 at an upscale thrift store in my little neighborhood in Long Beach.  And that's what I'm talking about.  Misinformation such as this might lead those who have been assigned to investigate my disappearance or murder down the wrong path and I couldn't share the truth as I would be dead or missing or both.  And you know I love to inadvertently solve crimes, if you've read my first book, A Gone Pecan.  

          Beyond the clearance sale luxury goods, other appearances can be deceiving.  My home appears unlived in most of the time, because I straighten as I go.  My landlord uses my apartment as the model she shows to prospective tenants as my décor is stylish and my home always tidy.  Everything is in its place and decorated to the Nth degree.  Sister Parish (famed interior designer) once said, "Behind every attractive room has to be a very good reason."  My reason is an unending need to be surrounded by bold, tasteful, erudite awesomeness.  

          However, as Ben (now my fiancé) will tell you, as he does each and every weekend, "BooBoo (my nom de amor), your house is so fancy, why is it that you do not dust?"

          Yes, it's true  I don't dust as much as I should.  If you were to glance about you might notice layers of me, covered in layers of me as everyone knows dust is but the remnants of your own dead skin.  It's science, y'all, it's supposed to be gross.

          I will share with you a mélange of house-cleaning conversations 'twixt my Benjy and me:
          Ben: BooBoo, why is it dusty in your living room?
          Me:  I stopped the cleaning lady from coming over.
          B:  Why?
          M:  I should be able to clean my own apartment.
          B:  Yes, you should.
          M:  But I don't want to.
          B:  But you can afford it.
          M:  I'm trying not to waste money.  We have a wedding to plan.
          B:  It's not a waste of money, it's a service.
          M: I just wish I could save money and have my apartment cleaned by someone else.
          B:  You could drink less Starbucks Iced Tea, to save money.
          M:  That's crazy talk!
          B:  So, clean your apartment.
          M:  You make it sound so simple.
          B:  It is, really.
          M:  I know.  That's what so annoying.
          B:  When I move in, I will help clean.
          M:  You'll dust?
          B:  No, I will mop the kitchen and clean the bathroom.  They need attention as well.
          M:  In my defense, my bed is made every morning, like clockwork.
          B:  It should be.
          M:  Don't I get credit for that?
          B:  You want me to praise you for doing something you're supposed to do?
          M:  Yes.  Yes, I do.
          B:  I will not.
          M: I guess I'll get to dusting.

Is 'Shame' a Setting on Your Microwave?

                I recently became aware of a peculiarity of mine.  I never really paid attention to this little quirk, but now I am cognizant and since we’re friends, I feel it bears discussion.  My shameful secret?  I always stop the microwave at one second; I don’t let it complete the cycle.  I don’t relish the ‘ding’, y’all.  As someone who is always curious about why people do the odd things they do, I had to do a little investigation of myself, thinking back to where and when it all started.

                My family bought our first microwave in 1979, when we lived in Tallulah, Louisiana, in the two-story house directly behind the post office.  It was an old, historical house, but my mother was determined to have a modern kitchen.  She bought a combination stove/oven/microwave unit from Amana, I think.  The stovetop was ceramic and would instantly heat up.  The microwave was affixed to the top and it was huge.  You, literally, could have cooked a full-size turkey, if so inclined.

                We didn’t know how to use it.  For most of the first year, we only melted cheese with it; onto baloney or into sliced wienies, depending upon the preparer’s preferences.  We actually called it a “Cheese Melter”.  My classmates in Mrs. Green’s Fourth Grade Class at Tallulah Academy can attest to my bragging about the giant appliance purchased to melt cheese quickly.  I thought we were so fancy.

                When Christmas rolled around, we bought my mother a microwave cookbook at the S&H Green Stamp store with the stamps we had been collecting at the A&P Grocery Store all year.  With cookbook in hand, my mother began to experiment.  Grits, soups and warmed up leftovers were successes; turkeys and cakes were revolting failures.  However, I couldn’t remember having any ding-averse motivations as a child.  The ding was actually a welcome sound – it meant it was time to eat.  It was the 20^th century equivalent of the dinner bell or dinner gong, if you were British and had a butler.

                Surprisingly, I still have my mother’s microwave cooking set, with two pieces I have never used, both cake-related (bundt and cup, to be specific).  I typically only use the large dutch oven to make haystacks at Christmas or queso when the mood strikes, which is about twice a year; more often and I’d be quite a bit chubbier than I am.  And then it hit me.  The reason I avoid the ding is shame. 

                I was always a chubby child, but never actually fat.  The reason was my food intake was monitored by my mother (to ensure a healthy diet) and my sister (to ensure equal distribution, mostly related to Nacho Cheese Doritos).  When I was in high school in Tylertown, Mississippi, and I was actually allowed to go ‘to town’ and participate in (mostly innocent) night-time activities that caused me to get home late, awake long after my family had gone to bed, I began to sneak snacks.  A ding at midnight would have been the clarion call of gluttony; Dusty was violating scripture by eating something outside of approved meals and snacks, knowing full well that I had already eaten something at The Sonic that, at minimum, had included a large order of tater tots and a Cherry Dr. Pepper.

                If I was ninja-like in my reflexes, I could slip into the kitchen, nuke some vittles, stop the process pre-ding and slip away in the dark to my bedroom to savor my ill-gotten gains, enrobed in darkness, hidden from judging eyes.  I guess I thought Jesus had poor vision at night.  It was a nefarious activity, on par with surreptitiously watching Cinemax After Dark or USA’s Up All Night movies.

                For some reason this habit stuck with me through college and into adulthood, even now as I am chasing 48 like it robbed me at the outlet mall.  And that got me thinking they should re-design microwaves, adding a ‘Shame’ setting next to ‘Popcorn’ that gives no notification when the cycle is finished, knowing the intended recipient of the covertly reheated casserole has not left his or her post, impatiently staring, practically stalking their twirling tacos and pirouetting pizza slices like Jack McFarland stalks Kevin Bacon. 

                Ooh, maybe I should go on Shark Tank to tout my idea.  This screams “America”, am I right?