When the Dog Bites, When the Bee Stings, When I'm Feeling Sad

Anyone who asks my parents what I was like as a child will always, always, regardless of day, time, year, or mood of said parental unit, receive the same standard answer:

"Oh, she was such a good child. No trouble at all." Then the inevitable lowering of voice and shifting of eyes. "Unless you messed with her stuff."

To say I was a child possessed of a possessiveness towards my possessions is like saying the earth revolves around the sun instead of the other way around. In other words: DUH. Once, when I was six, my brother, in a fit of toddler pique (and just to piss me right the heck off), somehow managed to wrestle my beloved teddy bear from my Iron Grip of Death and mercilessly fling it into the fire where it immediately burned to an amorphous mass of singed synthetic wool that wafted what I am sure were dangerously toxic fumes out and into our lungs. But screw my lungs; my heart was broken into a million little pieces.

My father, witness to the whole unfortunate event, sprang into immediate action. Scooping me up in one of those safety holds that teachers use on kids who aren't quite right, he then yelled at my mother to quick! open my bedroom door! so he could prevent me from going flat out nuclear on my brother's ass. Reflexes like a cat, my father. Of course, he'd had plenty of practice. Just two months earlier, when my brother broke into my bedroom and cold as ice scalped one of my Barbies? I attempted to stab him in the head with my plastic Easy Bake Oven bread knife.

Don't worry. I am no longer violent. But I am still possessive. So much so, that I have a hard time letting go of most stuff that enters my household. Some people would call this neurotic. I call it prescient. As in, "This could be worth something some day and when it is and I sell it on eBay for a gazillion dollars and retire to my über cool villa on Capri complete with vintage Vespas and bronzed, non-gay pool boys toting margaritas and crap magazines, we'll see who's calling who neurotic."

In other words: You never know.

Still, one must always push one's limits, mustn't one? So, in response to Aunty's challenge to clean out our closets for the New Year, I hereby pledge myself to let go of the Iron Grip of Death when it comes to the following items:

1. These shoes/boots. What possessed me to buy those Nanook of the North jobbies off to the left, I'll never know. Maybe because they were on sale for a buck and some change. Sketchers usually are. But they're useless in the snow and nearly just as much as a fashion statement. So off they go.


Those black boots in the middle that show hardly any wear? A wee bit too tartish por Moi. These days, I'm all about the riding boot. And the Frye. Thanks to eBay, I scored myself a deeply discounted pair and have literally been sleeping in the things. So, I dunno, maybe one day I'll be back into sky-high dominatrix-style boots, but it won't be anytime soon. Unless I can find these deeply discounted on eBay.



While I love a Mary Jane as well, the toe on the pair above make me look like I'm twelve years old and I dropped the Kinderwhore look somewhere back in 1994 when I suddenly woke to the face slapping reality that I would not grow up to play drums for Hole after all. So why did I hang on to these? Who knows. Likewise the knotted lil' cork heeled wedges. They hurt my feet. Really.

2. I also need to seriously edit my jacket wardrobe. Yes, Party People, I'm admitting it to y'all here first: "Hello. My name is Moi. And I'm addicted to jackets." It's almost as bad as the shoes. And not just jackets, but all outerwear, including sweaters and athletic gear. Loves me a Horny Toad hoodie. But, alas, I'd like to get the 'drobe down to the following essentials:

Two winter blazers, one light colored wool, one tweed.
Two summer blazers, one linen, one cotton.
One leather jacket.
One all purpose black blazer, poly/blend, multi-season.
One boyfriend cardigan.
One shrunken cardigan.
Two regular cardigans.
One black evening jacket.
One black wool pea coat.
One . . . oh, hell. Never mind. If I can get rid of that weird ass turquoise wool wrap peeking out there at the far left, I'll be happy.



And maybe this.


I know, here come Wicked and Boxer and maybe Shamu and K9 to shriek in horror, but dang it, it was five buckaroos at a vintage shop, y'all (clicky on photo for full effect). It's from the seventies, and I heart it so because it looks most excellent with the Fryes and a turtleneck and some skinny jeans. Tres Get Christy Love, no?



Besides, those rabbits were long dead and gone before I got to this jacket. So, you decide. Should it stay or should it go?

More stuff that's gotta go to follow tomorrow . . .