Why I’ll Never Remarry: I Don’t Have the Closet Space

So one morning last week I’m rifling through my closet for a shirt. Rifling is probably not the correct lingo since my closets are fuller than Kylie Jenner’s lips. This fact sorta inhibits my ability to see all the clothing I own, making it extremely convenient to forget what’s hiding in my closet.

Kylie Jenner


What I’m trying to say here is I have a LOT of clothes. An awful lot. Apparently I tend to buy things but don’t often get rid of those things, even years later. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a hoarder if that’s what you’re thinking. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But clutter makes me anxious unless it’s out of sight. So closets are perfect places to be a closeted hoarder, so to speak.

The problem is, I don’t like 90% of my clothing. I have absolutely no fashion sense like some of my friends. For instance, Pam and Sue always look put-together, you know what I mean? They have quality clothing that drapes their bodies as though sewn specifically for them. It doesn’t hurt that they have awesome figures. Even Polyester would look wonderful on them.

sue hook2

Stylish Sue

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My Friend, Lady Tremaine

As you know from last week’s blog, I was in Texas helping my friend Sharon unpack hundreds of boxes from a recent move. You might be interested to know (or perhaps not) that I didn’t develop a Texan drawl. That’s because Sharon ensconced me in her home for 6 days so I never got the chance to develop a proper Southern twang.

Sharon's unpacking

Floor to ceiling throughout 3400 square feet

Now don’t get me wrong. Sharon didn’t exactly crack the whip. But close. Very, very close. Let’s just say she reminded me of Lady Tremaine (Cinderella’s wicked stepmom) but without poofy hair.


Sharon with her “To Do” list

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Being Prepared (just in case)

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a Girl Scout. That’s because I’m always prepared. I can’t help it. I’m a compulsive planner and a bit of a pack rat.

My mom said whenever she gave us kids Popsicles, I always asked for two, “Just in case I drop one.” Invariably, she’d insist one was enough. So I’d grip the stick tighter and hope for the best.

In high school, my sister thought I was demented. She couldn’t fathom why I finished my homework before dinner when I could do it over Cheerios in the morning. But I liked knowing it was done, just in case. In case of what?  I have no idea. Continue reading