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.

Putting the math in fashion since 1984

                Last week I was in Portland, Oregon for a leadership conference and as the attire for most days was business casual I decided to wear my colored chinos with appropriately coordinated outfits and accessories.  As we have previously discussed, I think I’m a cutie-tootie in my ensembles (pronounced ahn-sahm-blahs because I’m like that) and I receive myriad reactions depending on the audience for these outfits.  Of course, I try to absorb some of the color.  And other than a younger, more attractive homeless contingency, I wasn’t sure what to expect from Portland locals. 

                I was staying at the Heathman Hotel.  I will let that sink in.  If you are confused as to the reference, then you’re fine; I was confused too.  If you recognized that name, know that I am judging you and not just a little bit.  Apparently this hotel featured prominently into that confoundingly popular “Fifty Shades of Nasty” book series, according to some of my friends who shall remain nameless as they should be, but I assure you are not, properly shamed.  Someone asked me if I had read any of the series, of which there are three.  I responded, “If the fans of the books call it ‘mommy porn’, I don’t think I have to read it to make an assumption of the level of yuckiness therein.”  Feel free to disagree.  It won’t be the first time we’ve not seen eye-to-eye.  I was never a fan of the gauchos/poncho trend in the 70s, although I do miss the velvet blazer/plaid wool skirt/knee boot look from the 80s.

                And I said all that to say this, the breakfast breads in the hotel restaurant were so good I was able to stop feeling all ‘ookie’ and partake each morning.  Their croissants were delectable and the scones were just delicious.  I told my Daddy this story and he asked what a scone was and I explained it was like a biscuit made with sugar, which he appreciated but it dampened my ‘fancy’ just a touch.  The manager of the restaurant was the nicest lady who remarked on my outfits every morning and decided I needed a free scone for “being so dapper”.  And since I agreed that I was dapper, I accepted her offer of cinnamon scone with marion berry jam. 

                I always laugh when I see marion berry anything as the former mayor of DC, who was caught on camera smoking crack with a hooker and was then re-elected and to this day serves on the City Council, is named Marion Barry.  I don’t know why I shared that, other than the unspoken crack addiction joke that I’m not sure is even appropriate at this juncture or any juncture for that matter.  Crack is not something to joke about, people, so stop it.  Apparently, if it’s in my head, it’s on the paper, y’all.  No apologies. 

                Anyway, on my jaunts around the city I met all and sundry of Portland.  Some of them weird like the homeless guy I gave money to for he and his woman to eat at Subway (how does he have somebody and I don’t?  At the very least, I have a home…with a roof AND walls).  Also, I had a messenger bag full of $1 coins because the public transportation that I was forced to take under pressure from my peers in the leadership conference ticket kiosk wouldn’t take debit cards and I only had $20 bills so I ended up with a ticket for a train ride I didn’t want to be on to go to a bowling alley in a sketchy neighborhood and $18 in $1 coins because that’s how they roll at the Portland Transit Authority.  Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Sacajawea but I don’t need eighteen of her likeness ruining the line of my trousers, which at this point were red.  What I mean was that day.  They didn’t turn red; they started out and remained red throughout the day.  It had nothing to do with setting the tone for possible gangland slaying and whatnot, although the neighborhood was a little more CSI than made me comfortable.  That the bowling alley had loaded tater tots, more than made up for it the gang territory feel of the neighborhood.  I’m not going to list where or off of what I would eat a tater tot.  Suffice it to say, when I see potatoes in ‘tot’ form, it is ON, do you hear me?

But getting aback to this homeless person, I think I am some sort of magnet for odd people (keep comments to yourself, it’s too easy) and that was before I embraced the rainbow of chinos that comprise my non-work wardrobe.  Mr. Subway and his woman saw me later that day and gave me an update on his life (his issues with Social Security which I presume he thought he told me about) and asked for more money.  When I reminded him he had just eaten at Subway in the last two hours and I didn’t think it was possible for him to be hungry again, he seemed confused.  I don’t know, maybe his girlfriend is a heavy eater.  Boy, she’s selfish for a homeless person, right?  What’s her deal?

                Portland is an awesome city because they are all about their vintage/thrift store clothing choices.  And there is a difference between vintage and thrift.  Vintage means sometimes ugly stuff from past decades at today’s retail prices.  Thrift means sometimes ugly stuff from today at past decades’ retail prices.  And, you know I love me some thrift stores.  And there are so many of these stores in downtown Portland, I found one that is solely big and tall vintage.  Who knew?  The manager and I became fast friends because she is awesome (Hi, Carlie!) and we had a fun conversation about, among other things, rodeos…in a thrift shop…in Oregon.  After leaving Fat Fancy, I got caught in a sudden sleet storm and sought shelter in the nearest Starbucks, of which there is one every 6 inches.  Seriously, there are two across the street from each other.  When I entered, I was awarded “Best Pants of the Day” and another free scone.  How people equate baked goods with awesome pants is beyond me, but who am I to argue although at this point, mis pantalones (that’s Spanish) were going to be el tighto, por favor (also Spanish), if I kept eating said scones. 

              I could find that homeless guy and give the scone to him, I suppose.  But I’m not going to walk around looking for him since I already went to all the thrift stores.  I’m wearing fuchsia chinos (with a gray pea coat and gray suede wingtips); maybe I’ll just walk to the center of Portland and let him find me.  But, is that really helping him?  Give a man a scone and he eats for one meal; give him teal chinos and he eats for one meal, if he's lucky, but boy doesn't he look good doing it.  I'm trying to stay humble but being all Ghandi-like while wearing Brooks Brothers is hard work, y'all. 

            At the very least I should be rewarded with one of those 'secret' government drones taking a photo of my breathtaking approach to men’s fashion and giving the Department of Defense new ideas to elevate their uniform options.  Khaki and Navy are not exciting colors, y’all. Do you really want people defending your country taking their fashion cues from one of those chain stores?  It’s called Old Navy for a reason, people.  We want a New Navy, which could be purple or at least aqua.  Am I right?  And Olive is not a pop color to anyone except my sister and the Mennonites.  At least Amish women embrace color and can’t we all learn something from them, other than they can be straight-up trashy during Rumspringa.  What?  I watched that documentary.  And no, I’m not talking about the ridiculous, fake ‘Amish Mafia’ that my Daddy watches.

                I have been wearing colored chinos, colored socks and pocket squares for a number of years and it seems that the fashion world is slowly following suit.  Lately it looks like an Easter parade in most menswear departments at better retailers nationwide.  Am I mad at the Johnny-come-latelies jumping on my bandwagon, which sounds like a trailer you pull behind the band bus?  Absolutely not.  If we can make the whole world a better-dressed place, I am all for it.  Plus it pays unexpected dividends: better service when shopping, access to the first-class security fast lane at airports without ticket verification (‘cause you know my government employee tail is not flying first class) and requests for assistance in coordinating outfits from total strangers while shopping.  And, as we have just learned, free foodstuffs. 

And if I become those within my sphere of influences’ frame of reference for awesome, then they will have come into alignment with the thinking I have embraced for far too long to honestly admit.  Colored Chinos + Suede Wingtips = Free Scones.  I wonder if that’s the new math I’ve been hearing about?  No child (or tacky person) left behind, y’all!

                And that is all I’m saying.