THE EMPEROR'S NEW SUIT

I love this time of year—who doesn’t? Spring means blooming flowers, great weather, and outdoor fun. It also means a whole new wardrobe. Time to change out of those heavy sweatpants, warm hoodies, long-sleeved shirts, snuggle socks, and neck-hugging mufflers, and trade them for comfy shorts, cool Tees and airy flip-flops. And that means shopping, since last years’ shorts are too tight, the Tees are too stained, and the flip-flops have no tread left.

While I enjoy updating my closet, my husband Tom doesn’t see the point in buying new clothes. Ever. Even if his old pants won’t fasten any more, the T-shirts are dyed spaghetti sauce red, and the shoes have more duct tape than leather, then he’s fine. If I want to dress him up a bit for a special occasion, like going out in public, I have to buy the new clothes, rip the tags off, and sneak them into his drawers so he thinks they’ve been there forever.

The other day we had to attend a formal event. This required a suit. Tom doesn’t own a suit. Never has. And he prides himself on that fact. He’s an electrician, so his wardrobe consists of holey T-shirts covered with clever double entendres, such as “Check your shorts?” In spite of the fact that they’re embellished with coffee spills, burrito blobs and even blood stains, he insists they’re “perfectly good—and who’s going to notice?”

When this solemn occasion arose, obviously he had nothing to wear. Even his best work shirt—the one that reads: “Extreme Makeover” and is signed by Ty Pennington—would not do for this event. I gave him an ultimatum: Rent a suit or buy a suit. So off we went to the Men’s Warehouse, where my son met us. Unlike his dad, Matt just wanted a new suit to add to his closet full of suits. He was so impressed by his dad’s willingness to “dress up,” he offered to give the buy-one-get-one-free one to his dad.

After an hour or so of trying on suits—how long can it take? Don’t all suits basically look alike?—Tom picked the one that made him look just like his father. Once we were back home, he tried on the suit again. I caught him standing in front of the mirror, admiring his distinguished look.

“You like the suit, don’t you?” I said, grinning.

He shrugged, and didn’t put it on again until the event. As soon as the occasion was over, he carefully put the suit back in its plastic holder and tucked it at the back of his closet. The next night we were to go to dinner with friends. I suggested he might want to wear his new suit. Moments later he appeared at the doorway in his stained khaki pants (top button missing), his Charlie Sheen shirt (featuring chest peek-a-boos between the buttons), and the scuffed deck shoes he not only wears for formal occasions, but also for working around the yard, cleaning the garage, and climbing on the roof to clear the gutters.

I shook my head.

“What?” he said, looking down at his outfit. “These are perfectly good.”

What was I thinking? A new suit was not about to change my husband into a fashion model. Oh well. I’ll get a few new T-shirts and shorts for the summer, shove them in his drawers so he doesn’t know they’re new, and use the rest of the money on my own new wardrobe.

DO YOU HAVE HOARDER-CLUTTERER DISORDER?

I got an email the other day from a television show asking if I might want to be on the program. Apparently she had read one of my columns some time ago and thought I’d be a good interview. The topic: “Are you a hoarder or a clutterer?”

I beg your pardon? I immediately checked to see if the email had come from “The Jerry Springer Show,” or even “60 Minutes,” but no, surprisingly, it was from one of those nature channels. They were offering me an all-expenses-paid trip to the East Coast, just to find out if I was a hoarder or a clutterer.

I’ve done some television segments over the years, for products like sugar-free chewing gum (“Cleans your teeth just like a toothbrush”) and colored plastic wrap (“Make your leftovers look even more appetizing”). I enjoy my occasional fifteen minutes of fame. But I had to laugh at the suggestion that I might be a hoarder or clutterer. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Sure, like most normal people without H-C (Hoarder-Clutterer Disorder), I save stuff. Important stuff that I think I’m going to use in the next decade so I don’t have to buy it again and waste money. And sure, while I’m not using all that stuff, I may set it out on a table or mantel or windowsill or empty floor space, so I don’t forget I have it and accidentally buy more. But that hardly makes me a hoarder, let alone a clutterer.

Thinking my kids would get a kick out of the email, I sent it to them. My son-in-law Mike wrote back immediately: “DO IT!!! Go on the show! If there is even the slightest chance you will get rid of the 5,000 fake books, cutesy birdhouses or plastic grapes, it will be worth it!”

I looked up from my son-in-law’s email and glanced around the room. OMG, he was right. There were fake books, cutesy birdhouses and plastic grapes everywhere. Where and how had I accumulated all this crap? Judging by the amount of stuff that filled the wet bar alone, I was not only a pathological hoarder, I was also a chronic clutterer.

I immediately went to the wet bar, the catch-all for anything that I couldn’t find room for elsewhere, and began to remove the first layer of stuff. Out of that tiny hole in the wall came a wicker basket, an armload of fake ivy, candles that look like tomatoes and pinecones, a couple of humorous wine bottles (“Mad Housewife Chardonnay”), some sidewalk chalk, a laptop computer, a picture of my husband dressed as a school cafeteria cook, a pair of socks, somebody’s sunglasses, an empty gift bag, and some old Polaroid film.

It took me most of the day to decide whether to toss out the stuff or move it to another place. By the time I was done, the kids were arriving for dinner. But it was my husband who first noticed the change.

“Where’s all my stuff?” he said, frowning at the wet bar.

My son-in-law’s head jerked up. “You have a WET BAR?!!! Has it been here ALL THIS TIME?”

I nodded proudly at my decluttering skills. “Next I’m going to tackle the fireplace (full of fake candles), the mantel (a showcase for my Smurf collection), and the family room cabinets (more birdhouses and grapes). That should take me the better part of a week. But it’s a start.

And it leaves me plenty of time for my H-C Anonymous meetings.

Penny Warner can be reached at http://www.pennywarner.com

48 HOURS WITH A FOUR YEAR OLD

5:00 am. Phone rings, jangling me from my spirited pirate dream. Son Matt tells me that wife Sue isn’t feeling well and needs to go to hospital. I head for the car in my pajamas, then realize I need to wear real clothes in case I‘m pulled over for Driving While Asleep. Put on yesterday’s clothes.

5:10 am. Sue, Matt and their one-week-old baby Stephanie are off to hospital. I try to sleep on their couch but the house is freezing. Turn up thermostat to comfortable 72 degrees. Just nod off when I get a message from my son. Sue needs surgery to remove useless organ called “gall bladder.” She’s on meds and loves them.

6:00 am. Decide to get up. Need to be on my game for this busy four-year-old. Will watch TV until he wakes up. Can’t find the remote.

7:00 am. Still can’t find remote. Go to computer and check emails, look up funny videos on Yahoo (Ellen Show: “I Drink a Little” and “Single Ladies” performed by oversized guy in leotard.). Play Solitaire for next two hours.

9:00 am. Haven’t had a shower, coffee, or breakfast. Time to wake up Bradley and get this party started. Tiptoe in and find him playing happily in bed. We hug. In spite of the fact I’ve been to his house hundreds of times, he gives me a tour.

9:15 am. Offer breakfast. He wants toast and milk. Doesn’t like the way I make toast, the way I butter it, or the way I cut it. Drinks the milk after much cajoling (“No pizza rolls until you finish your milk.”)

9:30 am. Potty time. Bradley enjoys a leisurely potty time and isn’t done until he “reads” the complete works of Calvin and Hobbes. When potty time is over, I get clean-up detail. No need for details.

10:30 am. Get him dressed (outfit has to match!) Head for grandma’s house with armful of Smurfs, games, toys, and promise of a burrito for brunch. Wants to watch Tom and Jerry cartoon while eating. I realize it’s way too violent and turn on “Dora the Explorer” instead. Ear-piercing screams. Consider making a margarita. For both of us.

11:30 am. Play Candyland. Cook “Popcorn” in mini kitchen. Do animal puzzle. Read “How Do Dinosaurs…” series. Jump on guest bed. Drive little cars. Make up clues for Blues Clues game. Build castle from blocks and knock it down. Repeat.

Noon. Finish playing with everything in house. Make pizza rolls for lunch. Watch more bad cartoons.

1:00 pm. Suggest we make cookies. He wants green ones. Covers them with sprinkles until they are no longer visible. When done, takes one bite, says “Yuck,” and spits it into my hand. I toss the rest when he’s not looking.

1:30 pm. Go outside to play. Push him around court on tricycle. Teach him how to play basketball. Run after ball. Draw pictures in front of neighbor’s house with sidewalk chalk. Use up all chalk.

3:00 pm. Call rest homes and ask prices, availability. Don’t qualify. Yet. Let Bradley play on computer while I lie on couch with heart palpitations.

5:00 pm. Husband Tom comes home. His turn. Convince him into taking Bradley back to his house so he can play in his own bedroom with his toys and his Wii. Wave goodbye. Sit down on couch with glass of wine. Realize have another full day of this tomorrow. Consider getting a nanny.

5:06 pm. Experience an odd feeling. Actually miss Bradley. Lie back on couch and reflect on the day. Fall asleep within seconds.

That's what she said...

Here are a few tips on Writing Dialogue that I shared on a panel at the San Francisco Writers Conference.

The purpose of dialogue is to:
1. Move the story along
2. Make the story come alive
3. Show, instead of tell
4. Increase the pace
5. Reveal character
6. Reveal information
7. Add reality
8. Create drama

When using attribution:
1. Use tag lines sparingly.
2. Use "said," not variations on said - exclaimed, sputtered, announced.
3. Substitute action instead of using attribution - "I love you." He kissed her.
4. Avoid “said” substitutes – snarled, snapped, interjected, declared
5. Avoid “Swifties” – adverbial modifiers, such as He said hotly.
6. Use props that can be fiddled with instead of using "said."
7. Use body language and motion – eyes, hands, etc.- instead of "said."

When writing different types of dialogue:
1. Use a local or telling word, such as "Chirren” (New Orleans) for “children”
2. Consider the syntax, such as “You want, yes?”
3. Tell us how he spoke, such as "in a slow southern drawl."
4. Distinguish the style of speech, such as, “Sorry. Don’t know. Want help?”
5. Use individual character tags, such as "Hypers!" said, Nancy Drew.
6. Watch stereotyping – it’s offensive
7. Watch heavy dialect – it’s hard to read and slows the story

Learn by listening to other speak, then condense it so it's readable

Finally, read your dialogue aloud to see how it sounds.

WILL YOU FRIEND MY FACE?

I was recently invited to join MyFace. Or SpaceBook. Or was it FaceSpace? Whatever. It’s a website that’s currently all the rage—even with people of my discerning age. Since I like being invited to things, especially popular things, I joined up.

I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.

Once you belong, it sort of looks like you’ve joined a cult—granted a very happy one. First you fill out a Profile. This is where you enter intimate details about your life, like where you went to college (I went to four), what you do for a living (write columns), and what your hobbies are (joining online groups I know nothing about). They also want your marital status, so I know it’s not just a front for one of those Dating Sites.

Still, I left that part blank.

Ignoring the distracting Botox ads, I move on to Photos. I don’t have any, other than the one taken five years ago that’s on my website. That’s because I don’t know how to put them on the site. It’s certainly not like scrapbooking, where you just tape them to the page.

Next I go to my Wall. This is where some of my 53 Friends have written me notes. William asks, “What’s new and exciting?” (Nothing.) Danna wants to know, “How was the clam chowder?” (Good.) Carole says, “What is this site all about?” (No clue.) I haven’t written back on their Walls because I have too many other Wall-notes to read from the rest of my 53 Friends.

The interesting thing about this FacePlace is that I can sneak into my Friends’ sites and read what’s on their Walls. Like Cherie’s Wall (she has 119 Friends!) She’s doing exciting things like “attending the Obama inaugurations on CNN” and partying with her 119 Friends. She invited me to join the Tango Diva group.

I don’t know what that is.

Ignoring the Wrinkle Cream ad, I move on MaryElizabeth’s site. She has 816 Friends! She has famous Friends like Jeffrey Deaver and Linda Fairstein and Lisa Scottoline. I decide to steal some of her Friends so I can have more—which is apparently perfectly legal.

I click on Mario because his name sounds familiar. Will he accept me? Ignore me? Out and out reject me? I don’t like rejection. Even by people I don’t know and will never see in my life.

I look at their pictures to see if they seem Friend-ly. I avoid the ones who look like flowers or their pets. Then I look at the picture I put on my Profile page to see how potentially new Friends are judging me. I look ridiculous. Now I have to have a new picture made. Maybe get some of that Botox and Wrinkle Cream first.

There are still more links to explore, like the one called “What are you doing right now?” (Nothing.) There’s also a box that says I have “1 Friend Suggestion,” “1 Event Invitation,” “3 Nicest People Requests,” “2 Smile Requests,” “1 Blue Cove Request,” and “4 Little Green Patch Requests.”

Huh?

I realized I’ve just spent an entire day adding Friends, writing on people’s Walls, and reading their Walls. No worries. My goal is to have more Friends than any of my Friends have.

I just don’t know what I’m going to do with them all.