Wardrobe Malfunction: A Four Step Recovery

Some families are athletic, some are musical, some are criminal…mine was sartorial. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the sorely missed B. Altman, I wouldn’t even exist. My parents met while working there. Although my father moved on to other pursuits, my mother stayed in retail fashion until she retired.  

Being part of my DNA, I understood early on the need to accessorize.    Evidenced by my kindergarten class picture which features a jauntiltied  tied silk scarf around my Sears and Roebuck dress. Clothes were always important to us. But perhaps more important, was the shopping experience. My mother, sister and I will still pick up the phone following a particularly piquant shopping victory, “I just got four cashmere sweaters at Macy’s 65% off and with a 20% off coupon!” My husband says it’s only a matter of time until they pay me to take the merchandise home.

So, with all that being said, why do I – and every red-blooded American woman -- utter the same desperate cry when opening her closet, “I have nothing to wear!” Why do we continue to shop and buy new clothes and still feel our wardrobe is horrendously inadequate whether it’s for work, a wedding or dinner with friends? 

A few years ago I actually analyzed this phenomenon and decided to start a side business to address it. Now – having no time to pursue a side anything (unless napping is a cottage industry) -- I’m giving away my knowledge and advice for free.

I wore this shirt to every party from 1979-84 

Let’s start with the problem: the Wardrobe Malfunction aka  “I have nothing to wear.”

Well, most likely you have some nice, appropriate items on hand but they are engulfed and hidden by a lot of crap including these common culprits:

• Stuff that doesn’t fit
• Pieces you bought online and feel tepid about but are too lazy to return
• Old favorites which are now out of style but you keep for sentimental reasons
• Old favorites which are too young for you now (ouch!)
• Clothes that need mending or tailoring or are beyond help

The cure is a four-step process: Inventory, Purge, Reorganize, Restock.

Please note: these steps are not for the faint of heart and should NEVER be taken alone. You need my friend Kate – or someone like her. Someone who loves you and has known you through thick and thin (I mean sizes 6-14) but won’t put up with hoodies that make you look like a 15 year-old skateboard punk, or let you keep pants produce camel toe or a tragic VPL (visible panty line), or allow you to resurrect that purple satin jacket from the 90s just because you got lucky wearing it.

Once you’ve chosen your friend then begin Step One: A fearless and thorough inventory of your wardrobe. Pull out all your clothes (and shoes if you have the time) and try them on for your full-length mirror, your friend, and God (praying helps!) Ask yourself these questions for each piece of clothing:

• Does it fit NOW *
• Is it flattering?
• Have I worn it in a year?
• Do I have someplace to wear it (now or in the foreseeable future)
• Does it still suit my lifestyle and age?

Step Two: Items that don’t meet ALL criteria (I didn’t say this would be easy) are put into the purge pile for donation or rags (I give all my clothes to Housing Works with multiple locations in NYC http://www.housingworks.org/locations/category/thrift-shops )

When purging is over take a look at what remains and be proud of your work. Take a breath, hydrate and get ready for Step Three.  Reorganize your closet and drawers with a system that works best for you whether it’s by season, type of item (sweaters vs. pants) or by purpose (work vs. casual vs. dressy). This way you can go directly to the correct section when it’s time to get dressed. Discard trashy and broken hangers, dust, clean up and make it look friendly. This is also the time to mend, clean or tailor any items that are worth saving but need help.

Once spiffily organized, we begin Step Four: We make a list of what we’re missing and become willing to restock. Most of us have a tendency to purchase the same stuff over again but neglect some staples we really need. I, myself have about a dozen sailor stripe tops but can never seem to find an appropriate cardigan. The reason is simple: I find cardigans boring, but I’m always looking to put something over a shell that’s not a jacket…what could that be? A CARDIGAN?...duh!

Just some of my striped shirts...My kingdom for a good black cardigan! 

We’ll also need to replace the staple that have reached the end of their shelf life: the worn out khakis, the snug skirts, the stained blouses and the pilly sweaters, etc.

So, in Step Four we make a list of these items and a promise to restock when we can.  If you have some cash flow at the present, then prioritize and make a budget and get out there. If not, keep the wish list handy and restock as you can. Ask for these items as when your birthday, Christmas or Mother’s Day rolls around ask for these as gifts -- or more safely – ask for gift cards to some good stores.  And that last part is important. We don’t restock with crap. Seriously, if you’re over 30 stay out of H&M and Forever 21 (sorry Lauren).

When it’s time to shop and try on potential new items, bring a friend and ask yourself those same questions you did in Step One. Disregard sale prices – let the only criteria for purchase be fit, functionality and fabulousness. Don’t settle for mediocre, the garment should make you feel – and look – alive. We live in NYC for crissakes. If the sweater doesn’t break your heart, then move on to the next store** until you find one that does.

If you follow these steps you will love every item in your closet and they will fit you. And  I promise you will never say, “I have nothing to wear!” again.

More tips on a happy shopping experience to come!

*Unless you’re in the middle of a successful weight loss plan you must toss all clothes that are too snug. And if you are in the middle of a successful weight loss plan, wait to do this process until you’ve reached your goal. The same goes for those of you who lost weight unintentionally and need to gain it back.

** I strongly caution against online shopping for this exercise because of the importance of trying things on first

Middleclass Death

(not to be confused with the death of the middleclass)

I didn’t realize until now that death is a class issue as much housing, taxes or dinner reservations in Manhattan. And until late last year I didn’t realize how fortunate I am to be able to afford the experience of middle class death.

November 13, 2011 was a quiet Sunday. I had just come back from Whole Foods and was puttering around the house in my sweats when I got the call I had been dreading every since my father was diagnosed with incurable bladder cancer. His wife phoned to say that the hospice nurse estimated that he only had a day or so left to live. I had watched this scene in movies but now this was real life and it was my life. I shifted to some kind of autopilot, ran to the computer, booked a flight to Palm Springs for 3pm, showered, threw some random items in a carry-on, kissed my husband and dog, and grabbed a cab to Newark Airport. Eighteen hours later I was holding my father’s hand as he took his last breath. Forty-eight hours later I was on a flight back home to seek much-needed comfort in the arms of my own family.

My father had asked to be cremated, and his wife and friends planned a small, spiritual “celebration of life” (judgment of that title withheld…well, at least not expressed on this page) in Maine where they had lived until last year. So, three weeks later my husband Steve, our dog and I -- along with my sister and her two kids -- drove up to Kennebunk, Maine and stayed in the local Comfort Inn (very accommodating for pets but a lousy continental breakfast) to attend my father’s lovely and tasteful memorial service. As my sister drove us home, we cheered ourselves by playing Bruce Springsteen on the ipod and singing at the top of our lungs.

But this nostalgic comfort came to an abrupt end somewhere in the middle of Connecticut when my husband got “the call.” His mother had been admitted to the hospital ten days before with a nasty infection that she contracted in a nursing facility a month earlier (figures.) She was deemed "on the mend" just the day before (hence his decision to accompany me) but now her blood pressure was dropping rapidly. My sister drove at the speed of light – or as fast as her Altima would take us. But we were too late. We burst into her hospital room and saw such a peaceful look on her beautiful 90-year old face that we knew she was gone.

At once, Steve and I were thrust deep into a new level of middleclass adulthood as some “great men” have power thrust upon them. We were faced with decisions about flowers, prayer cards (an entity I needed defined), burial clothes and coffins. We made endless calls, texts and emails to everyone his mother ever met and most of our friends too. And we pulled off a lovely, appropriate middleclass funeral in Astoria, Queens. Something I had looked down my new-age, modernist nose at for years. Of course, ironically, this bastion of middleclass tradition of prayers, goodbyes and endless lines of well-wishing friends brought me more comfort than I could have imagined.

It also brought a hefty bill: $11,000.  My sister’s jaw dropped when I told her the sum and she asked, “what would someone do if they couldn’t afford to pay.” Good question, I thought. And I gave it a lot of thought.  I added the funeral bill to the cost of several flights out to Palm Springs, the trip to Maine, dresses needed for all occasions, dog-sitting and a myriad other death-related costs and all of a sudden I didn’t feel so resentful but wonderfully grateful that I was able to afford these things. I could be with my dad without hesitation, I could honor my mother-in-law appropriately and not have to worry about the money.

Then came the paperwork: the endless bills from the hospitals, Con Ed, credit cards and the like; searching through years of disorganized files for bank statements, 401 (k) documentation and life insurance policies. And slowly our gratitude turned to anxiety and fatigue ,and we began to wish that we – like the 1%ers -- had “people” to handle these things. We pined for a staff of lawyers, accountants, trust managers and personal assistants to do this painstaking work so we could just sit around and feel sorry for ourselves for being down two beloved parents at Christmastime.

And there it is,  Middleclass Death: forcing you to grow up when you least expect it and adopt  the trappings of tradition, then demanding your time and energy when you feel you are depleted. But, in the end, enabling you to take stock of what you have, and reminding you of what is truly important and what eventually will pass – as everything does.

Lovingly dedicated to two extraordinary middleclass parents:

Richard A. Azeez and Dorothy Archer Dahut.



The Real Price of a New York Kitchen Renovation

(Hint: it's not in dollars)

If you have a passing acquaintance with your kitchen – meaning if you use your oven to bake salmon and not to store off-season handbags – then you’ve probably fantasized of a kitchen renovation.  Shiny new appliances, sturdy, roomy, clean cupboards, maybe more counterspace…these are the things of dreams. Ironically, I found out their implementation is a nightmare.

My own particular summer in hell included two months of living with a construction staging area in my living room, a food prep and dining area in my bedroom and debris everywhere. It starred a relapsed drug addicted contractor who lied about his skill set (we discovered this after the pipes broke, a cabinet face fell off, and a strange hissing sound began in the wall), lived on our couch for six weeks, and eventually lifted all the cash from my wallet while I slept.

I know I’m not the first to tell a horror story about a contractor or a renovation gone awry. But there are specific, easy – and not so easy – things you can do to avoid some of my pitfalls, and I consider it my duty to tell you them. So here goes:

Investigate Your Contractor:

Ask friends, friends of friends and neighbors for recommendations on contractors they’ve used. Read those last two words closely – THEY’VE USED -- not the new dude your friend is dating, or a nice guy they knew from high school. Contractors are notorious Jekyll and Hyde characters: they seem sweet and normal in social settings but turn crafty, lazy, greedy and mendacious on the job. So do your due dilligenc: check other references; ask to see photos of their work, licenses etc. Angie’s List is also a great resource and not very expensive to join. If I ever feel insane enough to reno again…that’s where I’m going first.

Set House Rules:

Large sweaty men with tools can be intimidating, but remember, it’s your apartment and you’re paying so you make the rules. Our rules included a daily wrap up of what had been accomplished and what was left to be done, a nightly reorganization of any building materials, a thorough weekly clean up of debris, and no food products in the reno garbage. You pay for the hauling of construction materials so why pay extra for stuff that can go in your apartment’s regular trash? And why stink up your staging area/living room with the stench of burger wrappers from Tuesday?

Be prepared…totally prepared:

Why does a four week project turn into a two-month week project? Because when you need a special electrical plate it may take your happy workers three hours to go to Home Depot to find it -- whether or not they stop to cop drugs. So before you swing the mighty hammer that launches your demolition, go through every step of the work and inventory what you need. If that fails and you happen to be around, go get it yourself – likely it will take less time.

Finally, trust your gut and nothing else:

When my contractor began missing important appointments, broke tiles, drilled holes in the wrong place and seemed generally “out of it,” we could’ve nipped upcoming future disasters in the bud, but we didn’t. My husband and I have known our share of drug addicts and liars so why did we believe him when he blamed others for his mistakes and depression meds for his fogginess…why didn’t we trust our instincts? Because we wanted to believe that we were in good hands and that everything would work out fine. We feared confronting a person in our employ and our social circle. And, we dreaded the prospect of stopping work midstream and searching for a new contractor. So instead we shelled out more money for “materials” that were undoubtedly spent on pills, got shoddy work that had to be redone, and eventually got ripped off and abandoned. Like it says on the subway: if you see something, say something!

In the end I must say that I love my new kitchen (below) – imperfect as it may be – and that I actually did a lot of things right.

And, if you want to know what those were let me know and I can post those as well.

Karen A.'s New Kitchen includes:

Viking Stove and Microwave, Liebherr refrigerator, Ikea cabinets, CaesarStone countertops, backsplash from Swann Tile, GE Profile dishwasher... and a small part of my soul.

The Last of a Dying Breed

I am the last of the Mohicans. Well, not the last…and not a Mohican either. But, I’ll tell you this, I am fast becoming an alien in my own land. Who am I? I am middle class and live Manhattan.

Have you seen me? I am the one with an actual shopping list moving efficiently through the aisles of Whole Foods. I am not lingering by the fancy cheeses holding the hand of my new lover. No, I am on a mission to provide food for my family and to do so at a relatively low cost.

I am unloading the trunk of a Zip car with my purchases from Ikea. I am spending time by the Hudson with my dog on a Sunday afternoon dressed in velour sweatpants and a great fleece zip up from Old Navy (when they actually made good stuff) --  not in J. Brand Jeans and a motorcycle jacket.

I don’t live paycheck to paycheck and I’m not in debt. I can afford to eat out at most restaurants. I can afford to buy new furniture now and then.  I have annuities and investments but I worry about my retirement and it’s more than 15 years off.

I don’t remember the last time I was in a limo. I don’t share a 1 bedroom apartment with 2 friends. I am middleclass.

If you are out there, if you are like me, I hope we can find each other and share what keeps us going, what keeps us living as a diminishing species in a harsh environment. The tips, the bargains, the respites from entitled 25-year olds barfing at your doorstep and recapture the magic of living in the greatest city in the world.

Hello? Is it me you’re looking for?