Fear, Loathing and Clutter in Queens

Doesn't everyone need one of these? Why is it so hard to let go of our past and clutter?

During my entire life I have surrounded myself with clutter. Garbage. Crap. I think there is some comfort in doing this. It makes you feel safe. I think all of my clutter cushioned me and sometimes even protected me from the outside world. Sometimes there were so many newspapers, papers and books around, it was difficult to get around the apartment or my room.  I did not want to go outside. But you know what? Having all that crap around did not make you want to stay home, either. You knew you should stay home and deal with all of the clutter, but with all of those mounds—none in any particular order—you became Scarlet O’Hara and said, “Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.” But then you did not want to deal with it then either. For so long, I would clip newspaper articles—thinking I may need them for a later time. Maybe for an article I may work on in the future. I did that a lot when I was a sports writer. Sometimes newspapers would pile up because I liked to keep notebooks of a day by day account of the NY Mets. Of course, I could not go through them  everyday. So they would pile up sometimes a week at a time. Clutter can attract cockroaches and yes, they were often on hand, too. Eww. Gross.

Still have way too much crap and clutter in my apartment. Way too many clothes, memorabilia, videos, books, magazines, and teaching resources. (Does anyone really need an I Dream of Jeannie bottle? Nope. But I ain’t getting rid of it). And now that I’m married, my husband has added a lot of his crap and clutter, too. Well, of course, it is not all crap and in fairness, he did get rid of a ton of personal belongings prior to moving in. He relents that besides his own dresser and a few bookcases he brought from his bachelor pad, I only gave him one half of the large-walk in closet to store his stuff.

When I first moved in here some fourteen years ago, the rental agent was like, “You are a single gal. What do you need with such a big apartment?” But when I saw the huge walk in closet and gigantic living room area, I could not pass it up.  I live in what is called a “junior four.” Eat in kitchen, average sized bedroom and a separate dining alcove adjacent to the living room. Tons of closet space, too. (Well, not anymore). Plus, it was just two blocks away from where I was living from my parents. At first, I thought, Yeah, maybe, I do not need all of this extra space. Yet it seemed so appealing. All of this is mine! Plus, it is absolutely amazing how quickly it all fills up! I swear I think the papers, books and other junk multiplies (just like cockroaches) when you are not watching!

But it was not just the clutter that made my parents’ place uninhabitable.  It was the constant yelling, screaming and bickering between my parents and me. “You goddamn sonofabitch-bastard,” was a favorite line of my mother’s. This was usually directed at my father but I could be told this if I returned from Dan’s Supreme (located next door) without one or two items from her grocery list. While my father would often tell my mother how stupid she was. (And you know what? Sometimes I silently agreed with him).

Two emotional cripples. That’s what my Aunt D always said about my parents. I love my aunt but she could be harsh, even when she doesn't mean to be.  She also sometimes says stuff that makes you wonder if she’s just another one of those typical "keeping up with the Joneses" Long Island stereotypes. I’ll never forget her lamenting when my cousin was searching with her husband to buy a new home for her family that “a million dollars does not buy much anymore.”  That may be true but not something a working-class school teacher from Queens, wanted to hear.  She and my uncle showed up at the hospital when my mom was dying. I really appreciated that. However, I did not think it was fair that she chose that time to chastise me for not keeping in contact with her. I know both of us felt that neither one of us made enough effort to "reach out and touch" the other. Aunt D's Brooklyn nasal-like accent drove my mom crazy. But a person can’t help where they’re born and raised. Yet it wasn’t just the quality and tone of the voice—it was the judgment that the voice could inflict on people, especially my parents.  She was always very critical of my folks who could not help that they had "issues."  (They were both manic depressive and hospitalized on several occasions for their "issues." Dad, originally from what used to be Czechoslovakia, is a Holocaust survivor who lost 80 members of his family including his mom and brother during World War 2. My mom, from the Bronx, battled mental illness for her entire life. Despite this, I know they loved me with all of their hearts but it was never easy being their daughter).

I don’t get the judgmental thing—no matter who it is coming from and to whom it is directed.  What the f**k makes someone think that they are better than someone else? We are all people. Sadly, some of us are not privileged (money-wise or otherwise) and may have serious issues that prevent us from properly functioning in this world. ..

On a lighter note, I've never been out to eat with my aunt when she did not send something back because it was too hot, too cold, too this or too that. One time, we went to a local diner that I often frequented. She ordered the most expensive thing on the menu (lobster). Ate the whole thing and then claimed to find something on her plate that did not belong there. So she complained to the waiter (loudly) and then refused to pay for her meal with the manager at the register. Very embarrassing.  The last time we went out to eat, she actually sent my spinach back to the kitchen because she didn't think it was warm enough. 

Our last few "get togethers" have been a lot more pleasant than the ones before.  She is extremely crafty, handy and makes the best damn stuffed cabbage in the world. She recently knitted me a multicolored scarf that I absolutely adore that she mailed from her winter condo in Florida. Plus in a very lovely gesture, she gave me an old music box that plays Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head. My mom received one just like it when I was a kid but it disappeared in recent years. (I think one of my mother’s substitute home-care attendants helped herself to it). So that was so incredibly thoughtful. I am thankful that we have reconnected, especially since I do not have a large family. But sometimes even those folks, who may care about us, say and do things that can be hurtful. And damn, it cuts even more when you have an elephant’s memory and you’re like me—just can’t let go of the past.

…Then there’s the fear factor.  I have been so afraid of just about everyone and everything since I was little. Mostly so afraid of what other people thought of me and so afraid of being judged badly. It always became a self fulfilling prophecy. Just wanting to fit in and be accepted—often by people who were not worth a damn. I have been told people sense fear and weakness—especially mine. I guess I have always been fearful and probably very weak, too.  I am afraid of getting sick, feeling extreme physical pain and of dying. My husband says once I get past that, I can lead a much happier life. So afraid of airplanes and have been since I was little. It is not the 9-11 thing. Not afraid of terrorists, really. Just afraid of the damn thing exploding and having a heart attack in the final moments.

Maybe part of it is just not being able to enjoy moments. Forgetting the past, not worrying about the future and just trying to enjoy the present. Trying but it is so hard. Even the day I got married, I panicked. Got a call from the radiologist’s office as we were walking from City Hall to lunch at the South Street Seaport that they needed to take more pictures of my boobs. I was already panicking that I had cancer. Poor me, I thought. I was finally getting married at age 43 and wouldn’t even get the chance to enjoy anything including time with my brand new husband. But it turned out to be nothing. Thankfully.  But there’s always next time. Afraid of getting ovarian cancer which they can do nothing for. Or pancreatic cancer. It’s got to suck to get some horrible illness where you waste away. As much as I am devastated at the loss of my beloved Monkee Davy Jones, I think it’s great that he did not suffer. He just dropped dead while he was doing what he loved most—spending time with his horses. That’s got to be the way to go.

Supposed to hang on to hope. Always did. Always believed stuff would get better. There was always tomorrow. But now tomorrow means getting older. Sometimes I long to be a kid again and be taken care of. Only thing is, I never was properly cared for. My shrink used to call me the pampered yet deprived princess. I was deprived of coping mechanisms and not shown responsibility and how to be strong and even how to clean, cook and take care of things. Don’t want to blame my parents because that is just wrong. Could have done that on my own. Often I would just retreat into my Brady Bunch, Partridge Family and later into the Eyewitness News world. I would just ignore the fighting, the bickering and imagine life as a Brady or reporting the news sitting next to Ernie Anastos in the anchor chair. That got me through a lot of name calling in school—especially being teased about my hair. That damn shit that sits on the top of my head.

Thankfully, there is still some left—even though it has been thin for a while. But it has been a source of misery forever. Bald until I was three. In fact for my second birthday, my mother pasted a velvet bow to my head. It then grew and was actually not too bad for several years. Very thick and frizzy. That was before the day of hair products. Probably just needed some gel and deep conditioning. No More Tangles just didn’t cut it. Then came the worst and deepest cut of all. When I was in fourth grade, Vic from the hair salon next to the fire station cut my entire braid off and made my hair so short, I looked like a little boy. Of course, I did not know how to take care of it. So it just became a fuzzy afro and that is how it went for the next four or five years. Not sure why he cut it so short. I think my mother’s arm hurt from brushing it everyday. That was an ordeal. But in retrospect, my hair was long and bushy. I looked like Carole King or a hippie which really wasn’t terrible and like I said, products could have cured that. But boy, was I teased with that “do” for the next several years.  I joke I looked like a member of the Jackson 5 sometimes which for a ten year old Jewish kid from Queens is just not okay.

Nowadays, it’s blonde and somewhat relaxed from a variety of products and chemicals. Definitely overprocessed. Luckily, I haven’t gotten brain cancer yet from the formaldehyde you can find in some of those straightening products--- especially some keratin treatments. My beauticians swore that whatever they’ve used was safe. But you never know.

I wear the proverbial heart on my sleeve all the time. (My husband says I need to work on that. I have gotten better at holding back saying what I’m feeling. But he says it’s all in my body language and often mine says, “F**k you!” I need to work on that). It’s just that I hate phonies--so did my mom. She had a phony-o-meter & could spot one a mile away and had absolutely no tolerance for fake- insincere people. Neither do I and that sometimes that makes it difficult for me to function in this world. As you know, there is so much b.s. and many people really only care about themselves and are just nice to those who can help them or those they feel they can get something from. (Don't worry. I know there are so many good folks there, too and I am thankful for having some good friends and people in my life).

Gotta believe in the church of me. That’s what I keep telling myself. ‘Cause in the end, that is all that’s left or what matters. I am the only one who can make me happy. Like John Lennon said, “No one can save you but you.” Also, his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said, “happy.” I know it’s a choice. For the longest time, I sat on the couch and chose to be miserable.  But trying to get my butt up. Maybe someday I’ll actually make it out of the old ‘hood. Lived in the same part of Queens for my entire life. Trapped myself. Sometimes, we get used to our own misery. In my case, I think it just remains the fear of letting to of a past and trying to stay connected to stuff that never really made me happy in the first place.  But change can be scary but I know, oh, so necessary.

I believe in the church of John Lennon and me! Listen to the color of your dreams!

I guess it all goes back to that old Make Your Own Kind of Music motto. If ever there was a song written about me and for me, this is it. God bless Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. What a gift they have been to this world with all of their wonderful songs. But this one. OMG! Nobody can tell you there’s only one song worth singing. But that is how it is. We are all expected to be the same. As a woman, we are supposed to want 2 kids and the perfect house in the suburbs and acquire a s--tload of money. We are all supposed to behave, act and look a certain way.  They may try and sell you. The damn media. We all got to be skinny and perfect. Cause it hangs them up to see someone like you. Yup. Society can’t handle different. Yet if it were not for those of us who are different, all of the great music, art and inventions would never have come to be. Those of us who are different have a special mirror and window into stuff that other people just can’t see.  Plus we get ostracized for being different. People know we are sensitive and not so strong. Sorry but sensitivity can leave us weak and vulnerable.  And we become prey to the rest of the world.