I Still Have It. . . I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It (15 page)

I’d replied, “An investment is also when you put money into something and when you go to take it out there’s nothing there. We’ve made a lot of those investments. At least I can wear this one.”

It’s true that good clothes last forever. It’s also true that cheap ones last a long time too. For instance, I have T-shirts I can’t throw away because they’re good for when I condition my hair. I also have stockings with holes in them that I can wear under slacks. You get the idea. One of the harsh facts of life is that as you get older, your wardrobe expands and your closet seems smaller. I’ve had to begin piling sweaters on top of shelves that NBA players couldn’t reach. I’m not the only one with this problem; I read that Cher bought the house next door to hers and converted it into a closet. I don’t know how long I’m going to live, but I’m saving up my money in case I have to buy the house next door.

One of the pluses of age is that things you have owned in the past come back into style. I’ve learned the hard way never to discard any article of clothing in my closet. One of my few regrets in life is a leopard jacket (fake; don’t get mad at me) that I gave to a friend of mine. Leopard was so over that year. I was absolutely sure that the only time anyone would ever see that print again was at the zoo. In fact, leopard was so passé, I felt the actual animal might even be eliminated from the feline exhibition. That was a mere five years ago, and this year leopards are everywhere. They’re on feet, hands, waists, heads, handbags, and most of all my friend’s torso. She still wears my jacket, and every time I see her pairing it with black slacks and looking chic, I want it back.

I did, however, learn my lesson. I’d thought peasant skirts had seen the end of their life expectancy, but last year they were more ubiquitous than pigeons in a park. I was ready. There was a store that I used to frequent when I lived in New York twenty years ago that constructed long flowing skirts out of antique fabrics. Being a big believer in covering my legs and not wanting to wear jeans every single day, I bought three of them: a black lace one, an apricot organza one, and a navy velvet one. I’ve moved many times, and each time I’ve looked at the skirts I thought it was time to separate from them but couldn’t. They’ve joined me in seven different houses. For twenty years I’ve seen them peeking at me from the back of each closet. I could almost hear them saying,
Is it time for me again yet? Am I going out today?
and, sometimes sadly,
Why don’t you love me anymore? What did I do that was so wrong?

I am proud to say that this year, I’ve worn two of them, the black one and the blue one. I updated them slightly by adding a few chain belts. I’d already owned the belts but had worn them separately. I put four together and all of a sudden they were trendy. Each time I’ve ventured out wearing one of my antique skirts, young women have come up to me and asked me where I bought it. I tell them, “I bought it in a store in New York that no longer exists. I carted it around with me through seven different houses. I waited patiently for twenty years, and at the right moment I paired it with some tarnished belts and, voilà, it’s something you want. You can’t have it. You’re not vintage.”

I was happily providing housing for clothes I might never again touch when I got a notice in my mailbox from a resale store. It said, “Are you wasting closet space on things you no longer wear? Bring your clothes to me and I’ll sell them for you. I’m Susie the Spacemaker.” There was even a handwritten P.S. on the bottom that said, “Rita, I have lots of customers your size.” I couldn’t tell if it was real or if it was computer-printed (marketers are so adept at writing lies on junk mail these days), but I realized it could be a sign that the universe was telling me to let go, and so I made the trek to visit Susie.

The neighborhood was a little dicey. Susie was located in between a massage parlor and a cheap motel. I rang the doorbell. I was scrutinized and eventually buzzed in. The place smelled like old wool. Women were busily holding dated clothing up to themselves in front of mirrors and then disappearing into the changing booths.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” said the frazzled saleswoman working the cash register. “There,” she said to the customer, wrapping up a coat, a pants suit, and an evening dress. “All that, and for only sixty dollars.”

“Thank you, Susie.”

“No, thank
you,
Stacey. See you again soon.”

I was jealous. There were women out there who weren’t like Cher and me. There were women out there who could let go of their clothes and let other people enjoy them. There were women out there who had room in their closets for new purchases and who didn’t have to pile them to Pluto.

“That
is
a good deal,” I said to Stacey, admiring her purchases. “I love that coat—I love the collar and I love the shape. And I saw you try it on. It fits you perfectly.”

“I know,” Stacey said. “It’s mine. I’m buying it back.”

Evidently, Cher and I have company.

These days it seems everybody has a tattoo. I would never get one, but luckily, on my left leg, I have a vein in the shape of a ship.

The Proof Is in the Child

B
ECOMING A MOTHER LATE IN LIFE DID NOT PREVENT
me from worrying about absolutely everything that occurred in the course of our child’s development.

Although our daughter is, of course, a genius, she was not an early crawler. She was, however, an early roller. At seven months, she had mastered the roll so thoroughly there was no need for her to crawl. She could roll wherever she wanted to. I would hold her bottle across the room and she would roll to it. I would tempt her with her favorite bunny and she would roll to it. I pictured her wedding: the guests waiting, the groom watching, and my daughter rolling down the aisle.

Children develop different skills at different times,
the child-rearing encyclopedia explained.
Don’t worry if your child isn’t doing the same things as other children.

I repeated that mantra in my mind as I watched my baby propel herself across the room like a drunk while my friend Sheri’s little boy, who was the same age, crawled around the room quicker than a crab on crack.

“Her bottom has to be up in the air,” Sheri told me. “If you get her bottom up in the air, everything else follows naturally.”

I would lift Molly’s bottom up in the air and say, “Hand, hand, foot, foot.” Instead of moving forward, when I let her go she would collapse on the rug and, of course, roll to her chosen destination. I decided to let my child move diagonally until it occurred to her that there were easier ways to travel.

At about eight and a half months, Molly created a kind of soldier-shimmy across the floor as if she were avoiding enemy fire. It would take her approximately ten minutes to travel two feet. The good news was she had stopped rolling, and the better news was she was now very slowly cleaning our floors. As her shimmy became more and more adept I became confident that the army was in her future.

Molly began to crawl at ten months. It was only then that I realized the joy of having a baby that didn’t yet crawl. All those blessed times when I could leave her in one place, turn my head for an instant, and expect her to be in roughly the same place when I turned back were over. Now, although not a crab on crack, she was certainly a turtle on speed. Of course, by now Sheri’s little boy was already standing.

“You need a portable playpen,” Sheri advised. “Clayton loves it. That’s how he learned how to stand. He pulls himself around in a circle all day, and boy, does he get tired.”

That sounded good to me, especially since at night I performed my live stage show and at Molly’s nap time I attempted to write this book. We ordered a playpen with a disco. It included a musical chicken as well as balls the baby could prod and pound. My husband fastened the hinges of the playpen/disco together and we waited for the magic to happen. Very quickly Molly discovered the musical chicken. I’ve never heard “Old McDonald” played in a disco, but then I don’t get out much.

Instead of supporting herself and moving around the playpen and learning to stand, Molly decided that the playpen was a movable environment. She used her head to push the playpen to wherever she wanted to be.

It was another month before Molly could stand and make her way around the playpen like a baby inmate looking at freedom over a colored plastic wall. Of course, by now, Sheri’s little boy was walking.

“You mean you don’t have a walker?” Sheri asked incredulously. “That’s how Clayton learned. You sit them in the middle and they wheel themselves around. It’s great. You don’t have to carry them around all the time and they develop coordination.”

The walker was less of a learning device and more of a weapon. Who decided it was wise to give a baby a set of wheels? Every time we turned around, a rolling plastic table sailed into our shins. After a few unfortunate encounters with his tail, our dog took refuge underneath my desk and only came out when the wheeling monster was asleep.

At about thirteen months Molly began to walk. It was actually more of a stagger. She would take a few steps and then, without warning, just tip over like a table that had three legs. Of course, by now Clayton was running.

“Have you childproofed your house yet?” Sheri inquired.

“No, not yet.”

“You’d better do it soon,” she warned. “Now that Molly’s walking she’ll be into everything. The other day Clayton opened our liquor cabinet and tried to mix a martini.”

The next day, my husband and I drove to our favorite store, Babies Are Expensive, and stocked up on devices designed to prevent babies from harming themselves.

We bought:

1. Plastic table-corner covers, none of which fit the dimensions of any of our tables.

2. Locks for our sliding glass doors that already had locks.

3. A lock for our toilet lid to prevent our child from drowning that also prevented me from going to the bathroom.

4. Drawer stoppers that had to be drilled into the wood of our cabinetry.

5. And the only thing we really needed—plastic covers for our electrical outlets, which cost fifty cents.

Molly never attempted to run into a table corner, pry open a glass door, swim in the toilet, stand in a drawer, or mix a margarita, although I did suggest a few of those activities to her so as to justify the holes in our furniture. I suppose it’s better to be safe than bloody, but most of the things that were true for Sheri’s baby were not true for mine.

Toilet training is next. Sheri says she bought a musical potty that plays a fanfare whenever her child christens it and it has been very effective. I think I’ll take her advice and pick one up. Not for Molly, for me. I can’t figure out how to unlock my toilet.

I’m kind of a wimp. I was once hospitalized for three weeks with a bad perm.

The Pillow Show

I
CAN’T REMEMBER WHEN MY FASCINATION WITH
fancy pillows began, but in my fifties it is alive and well and threatening our marriage.

“Rita, it’s easier to undress a nun than it is to get into this bed,” my husband moans nightly.

When I make our bed, I have a strict and rigid system of pillow placement. Putting the show together is a task that rivals the creation of a Broadway musical, so I will attempt to explain my pillow philosophy. This is not written in stone, by the way. It’s just how I’ve choreographed my own personal pillow show. However, I hope it will help you to create your own unique pillow vision.

1. The two anchor pillows must be leaned diagonally against the headboard. These pillows will never be seen in their entirety, so they don’t have to be gorgeous, but they do have to be attractive enough to keep the integrity of the pillow show intact. They should, although it is not a prerequisite, have ruffles around the edges because although they will never be seen completely until the pillow mountain is moved, an edge might peek out. They must also be large and sturdy. They should be square rather than rectangular to give dimension to the piece. They must be stuffed with foam rather than feathers because they are the foundation of the structure.

2. On top of the anchor pillows are placed the shams. A sham is rectangular, and though not as dense as the anchor pillows, it must still be firm. While an anchor pillow is usually one color, a sham can begin to have a pattern. A sham is bigger than a regular pillow and for some reason is absurdly expensive.

3. With the pillows that lean against the sham, you can begin to go a little crazy. I would suggest two square or squarish textured (possibly velvet) pillows that express your personality. I’m a butterfly and tassel woman myself. I don’t know what that says about me. Maybe I wear too many colors and need a haircut.

4. Next, we’re going to change shapes and go for a single round antique pillow that somebody’s grandmother would have owned. This is a conversation pillow. Example: “Is that your grandmother’s pillow?” “No, but I bought it in an antique store, and the salesman said it may have belonged to Eleanor Roosevelt.” This is your important pillow.

5. We’re coming to the end now. The bolster or accent pillow is the final bit of foam that you will place on your bed. It should lie on one side of your important pillow and should be placed at an angle so as not to appear studied.

6. You will realize that I have left out pillows that you actually place your head on. These must be kept in a closet and placed on the bed only after the decorative pillows have been removed. They are functional pillows and do not belong in pillow show business.