Confessions of a closet junkie

I just bought some Closet Genies (As Seen on TV!)
They’re guaranteed to solve my cluttered closet woes by giving me triple, that’s triple the amount of space for my clothes.
Wow, that’s what I need. Right now my clothes are smashed in my closet like Vienna Sausages in a can (except not as neat and without the icky jelly).
I’ve tried every device out there to organize my closet – hanging sweater holders that wilted under the weight of all my sweaters, hangers meant to hold six pairs of pants but I’ve adapted to 12, shoe racks in the back of my closet doors meant to hold one pair in each cubby but I’ve shoved two or three pairs in each, cube drawers that fit in the bottom of the closet to hold pantyhose and belts but aren’t accessible because I have to move 20 pairs of shoes to open them, you name it.
Despite purchasing beaucoup organizational devices, my closets never end up looking like the photos in the magazine articles about how to organize your closet.
The clothes are so crammed together that I can never find what I want. I keep wearing the same clothes over and over again because they’re the most accessible.
But I was convinced the Closet Genie would change my life. You just had to glance at the before and after photos on the back of the package to see how much more space the Closet Genie instantly would provide.
OK, I admit I was skeptical and, if they hadn’t cost only $1 at the Dollar Store, I wouldn’t have invested in them. How can a hanger with six holes in it triple your closet space?
It can’t. It just makes the garments hang lower, creating even more problems locating that blouse you wanted to wear with the skirt you couldn’t find. I give up.
My husband watched my struggle to organize the impossibly cluttered with a knowing smile. Glancing at the photos on the back of the Closet Genie, he announced that he had the solution to my dilemma – get rid of two-thirds of my clothes and shoes.
“The reason everything fits nice and neatly in the Closet Genie closet is because they aren’t trying to cram nearly the amount of clothes in that you are,” he concluded.
He pointed out that the closets I covet in the magazine articles have a mere six pairs of shoes, not 55 pairs. And why in the world does any human being require 17 pairs of blue jeans? he wondered aloud.
He’s right, of course. But how does one begin the painful process of getting rid of once-coveted clothes and shoes? While out of date now, they may come back in style next season. And even if I don’t have a skirt that matches that blouse now, I may come across one and wish I’d kept it.
Weeding out shoes is even more painful. I’m a shoe addict, and I adore them all, even the ones that pinch my toes or leave blisters on my heels. Discarding a perfectly good pair of shoes is like throwing out the leftovers after Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone knows the leftovers are the best.
“I saw a Discovery Channel show about people like you,” announced my son. “They’re called hoarders. They can’t get rid of anything. Eventually, they’re homes become infested with rats and their friends stop coming around and it basically ruins their lives.”
“I’m not a hoarder,” I insisted, picturing lonely old women in homes overflowing with newspapers and cats. “Call me a clothes hound, a shoe addict, a fashion maven, but don’t call me a hoarder.”
“Well, when was the last time you wore this?” he asked rhetorically because the price tag was still on the dress he was holding out.
OK, I’ve got a problem and I’m going to make a conscious effort to rid my closet of all the shoes and clothes I haven’t worn in the past year. My loss will be Goodwill’s gain. Now, if I can just avoid the temptation of visiting clothing stores and replenishing my supply…

Plant your own seeds

The big gray rabbit was in a quandary.
There was something inside our pool cage he was determined to have, probably my prized sunflowers that had just begun to bloom.
But, darn it all, he just couldn't find a way inside the big cage that held the sought-after prize, no matter how many times he jumped around the cage looking for entry.
My husband and I watched the bunny's boldness with amusement.
I could relate to his frustration.
Ever since I was laid off from my job as a reporter with The Tampa Tribune last year, I've been feeling a bit like I'm on the outside of something I desire. I could be enjoying my prize if someone would just unlock the door and let me in.
Namely, I want to be reporting again, full time. I want to feel as if I'm contributing to the household finances and being a useful, productive member of society, doing what I love most.
According to the PaperCuts newspaper layoffs tracker, more than 20,000 reporters are in the same boat I'm in. Actually, those numbers are last year's stats. It's probably more now.
And, as newspapers continue to cut back, those numbers most likely will increase. I'm in a boat that's ready to capsize.
But no one could have thoroughly warned me about the feelings of embarrassment, shame, anger, depression, fear and guilt I'd feel in the aftermath of my layoff. Just as no one can prepare you for the death of a loved one, you can't imagine the array of emotions that engulf you when you lose your job.
No matter how many times you tell yourself you were simply the victim of the economy, you know inside that it was your fault -- it was something you did or did not do that made you the target of the layoff and not the person at the desk next to you.
I've gone over and over it in my mind, despite the fact that I know it's in the past and I can't change it. It's time to move on.
That's easier said than done when you can't move on, when you can't find a job. The guilt multiplies and that sunflower in the pool cage just sits there, swaying in the wind, teasing you day after day.
You remain in contact with your friends at the newspaper even though it hurts to know they have a job and you don't. It hurts to look at a newspaper and see stories you once covered.
People tell you to write a book but the inspiration and humor that once gave your stories spark is no longer there. All you can think about is the fact that you're a loser, a reporter no one wants.
What I've discovered as I've applied for jobs only to be rejected over and over again is that this is the time when you have to believe in yourself more than ever. You can't afford to get discouraged.
I found that the more I didn't write, the more depressed I became. So I began freelancing for anyone who would publish my work, even if it only brought in a few bucks.
I started two blogs, one a personal blog, expressing my thoughts and opinions, a blog that was more cathartic than creative. The other blog is about my interests beyond journalism. It helps fulfill that creative need.
And I did start that book. It probably never will see the light of day but it hones my creative writing skills and keeps my mind off my woes and focused on my love of the written word.
I realized I couldn't afford to be that rabbit, hoping to make my way inside to munch on someone else's sunflower. I had to plant my own sunflower seeds and hope they grow into something just as fulfilling. If, along the way, someone opens a door and offers me a fully grown sunflower, so much the better.

Rejections lead to self-doubts

I’ve lost count of the number of resumes I’ve sent out. Hundreds?
I’ve gotten three interviews. No job offers.
And I’m wondering if it’s not simply a symptom of the economy, if there’s something wrong with me.
You can only be rejected so many times before you begin to have doubts about your own abilities. Despite assurances from family members and friends that I was a talented reporter and editor, a hard worker, a dedicated employee who gave 110 percent to my job, I can’t help but feel inadequate about my abilities at this point.
I cry. A lot.
I keep reviewing my layoff. What prompted my employer to choose me over another, less-experienced reporter? Was it my personality? My age? Was there a perception that I wasn’t as committed as I should have been? Was it simply a matter of finances that had nothing to do with my performance? I’ll always wonder and never know for sure.
Just as I’ll never know why countless employers keep rejecting me in favor of another applicant. Was it my personality? My age? Was there a perception that I wasn’t as committed as I should have been? Was it simply a matter of finances that had nothing to do with my performance?
I think that’s the crux of my angst – the uncertainty, which leads to insecurity. And that insecurity, in turn, leads to a lack of self-confidence that most assuredly creeps into my voice as I shakily answer the interviewer’s questions about my qualifications.
No wonder I can’t get a job. Who wants to hire someone who sounds unsure about whether they can handle the duties of the job?
Then, there’s the stigma.
Face it, no matter how many times you tell a potential employer that your layoff had nothing to do with your job performance, there’s always that doubt. If you were such a great reporter, such an invaluable employee, there is no way they would have let you go. They would have done everything in their power to keep you.
Never mind the fact that you worked for your employer for 23 years and received glowing reviews every year, was consistently promoted and given increasing responsibility. You must have done something terribly wrong to deserve this fate.
It’s difficult enough to find a job in these dire economic times. It’s nearly impossible to find a job in newspapers, which have taken a double hit because of the rising popularity of Internet news combined with the loss of advertising revenue.
But I’ll keep trying because reporting is all I’ve ever done and all I’ve ever wanted to do. Eventually, someone’s going to recognize that I’ve still got some award-winning stories in me.

A letter to my son's class

The names spark no recognition. The faces are those of strangers.
As I peruse the list of Facebook members from my graduating high school class, I’m dismayed at how few I recall.
I now have trouble summoning up the last names of some of my closest high school friends. I lost track of them when I packed my bags and headed for the University of Missouri-Columbia in pursuit of my future. There was no room in my bags for my past. They were too filled with dreams and expectations.
Now, more than 30 years later, I would give anything to open an old suitcase, reach in and share some long-forgotten memories with an old high school friend.
Who was that girl that I skipped school with to go shopping for prom shoes on the day I was inducted into the National Honor Society? To my horror, my parents were present when my name was announced in the auditorium but I was nowhere to be found.
What was the name of the guy I had a crush on in junior high school who complimented me on the mint-green pants suit my mother made for me? I was on Cloud Nine for days.
Who was that boy I used to debate in journalism class. He was a conservative card-carrying member of the National Rifle Association and I was a dyed-in-the-wool pacifist.
Granted, there are people who seem to make and keep connections throughout their lives. Sadly, up until now, I didn’t realize what a treasure friendship was. I didn’t realize that you have to tend to a friendship much the same way you tend a garden. You sow the seeds, cultivate the plants and harvest the fruits of your labor.
But it doesn’t end there. To maintain that garden, or friendship, you begin all over again.
In many ways this eighth-grade class at St. Stephen Catholic School has shared experiences that has brought it closer together than the average class.
You’ve inaugurated a new school and helped prepare a new teacher for a leadership role as an assistant principal and an assistant principal for a leadership role as principal.
You’ve comforted classmates through the deaths of parents as well as grandparents, aunts and other loved ones, and you shared the grief of a beloved music teacher upon the death of his wife.
Afterward, you helped your parents launch a campaign to find a cure for the disease that took the lives of those you loved.
You’ve endured all the psychological trauma of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, and come out of it relatively unscathed.
You’ve sadly bid farewell to classmates who moved away or went on to other schools while welcoming new classmates into your close-knit circle.
You shared the spiritual thrill of receiving your first Eucharist together after overcoming the fear of your first reconciliation. And then you were confirmed together as God’s children.
You’ve learned the angst of childhood rivalry on the school playground as your personalities began to develop and too many of you wanted to be leaders, too few followers.
Then you discovered the relief that comes when you realize you can compromise and still be assertive.
You’ve shared the national spotlight with the Tampa Bay Lightning hockey club when the team, under the management of a classmate’s father, won the Stanley Cup.
You’ve experienced pure childhood joy, as well as some stomach upsets, trying out every thrill ride together at the Spring Jubilee while your parents squeezed lemons, sold tickets and fried clams in the food tent.
We’ve watched you mature physically, mentally and spiritually, and I don’t think there is a parent among us who doesn’t feel as if you all are our children. I know I’ve fallen in love with you all.
As I look around at this eighth-grade class and all that you’ve been through together – the victories, the losses, the laughter and the tears – I pray that you’ll hold on to these memories and friendships as tightly as you can. Savor every moment. I promise you won’t regret it 30 years from now.

All my love,
D’Ann White

Furry friend makes wait tolerable

I have this recurring dream.
Sure, the scenery and people vary some but the theme is always the same.
I’m in the Tampa Tribune newsroom trying to do the only thing I know how to do – write stories based on information I’ve gathered and interviews I’ve conducted.
I’m in ecstasy, knowing that I’m using the gift God gave me just as He planned.
But, inevitably, someone approaches me, usually a trusted friend who I expected to always support me. And this person blows my cover.
“You’re not supposed to be here. You were laid off.”
I wake up sweating and sobbing with the knowledge that my nightmare is real. I’ll never again sit in an office with my fellow reporters and feel the joy of producing copy that will appear in the next day’s newspaper.
I’ve lived through a number of hardships in my lifetime – watching my little brother waste away and die from a cruel disease; a brutal rape at knifepoint by a serial rapist on the campus of the University of Missouri-Columbia; the accidental shooting of my boyfriend by an alcoholic Vietnam vet with post-traumatic stress disorder; acting as the primary caretaker for my sister-in-law as she died a slow, lingering death from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma; the death of my beloved father.
But none of those tragedies had the lingering effect on me as the heartbreak of losing my job. To me, my job was not only part of my identity, it was my purpose. Childhood friends recall me carrying around a reporter’s notebook in grade school, interviewing my classmates. I wanted to be a reporter for as long as I can remember.
The desperate economy combined with the demise of newspapers made finding a new job virtually impossible. Well-meaning friends tried to tell me I needed to find a new career; I needed to reinvent myself. But that’s easier said than done when journalism is all you’ve ever known and done, all I’ve ever wanted to do.
I began applying for any jobs that had the words “reporter,” “editor” or “writer” in the job description. A year later, I’ve applied for 124 jobs and have gotten exactly two face-to-face interviews. My prospects seem gloomy, and I’m rapidly losing hope.
But there’s been one bright spot during these frustrating months.
I became a new mother.
I fell in love with her when I saw her adoption photo and I knew she had to be a part of our family despite the fact that I’d just been laid off and money was tight.
Just 6 months old, she had curly red hair nearly the color of mine and big, coffee-colored eyes that matched my husband’s.
She was the perfect baby, never mind the fact that the curly red hair covered her entire body and she walked on four legs and showed her pleasure by wagging her tail.
I’d always wanted a poodle, and she was available for adoption for the cost of a vet visit and shots.
In the 10 months that she’d been ours, little Mini, short for Mignon, which means “petite” in French, has been my saving grace.
She’s better than Prozac. Just seeing her greet me with her funny little dance is enough to cast me from my doldrums. When the depression hits, she seems to know, curling her little body into mine as I softly cry.
The tears rarely last long. Her antics usually leave me laughing as she grabs her toothbrush and begins brushing her own teeth or teases her older brother, Oliver, the Yorkshire terrier, by stealing away whatever toy with which he happens to be playing.
I can’t help but wonder if this 5-pound puff was heaven-sent specifically to get me through this difficult period of my life.
I know God must have a plan for me. Surely, it’s not my destiny to sit idle when I have so much to give. But it’s nice to know I don’t have to wait all by myself.

Music bridges the generation gap

“Oh, Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?”
My then-12-year-old son, sister and mom belted out the familiar words to the Janis Joplin tune on the way to my niece’s wedding rehearsal dinner in St. Louis, recalling how it’d once been one of my dad’s favorite songs.
My dad had died the year before, just after Thanksgiving, following a long, lingering bout with cancer. He finally said, “No more.”
No more surgeries. No more hospitals. No more being cared for like a helpless infant. No more pain. He was ready to die.
It was a hard decision for him. He knew my mom didn’t want to let go. She needed him around and she wanted him to fight. But all the fight had been taken out of him. He was tired and I believe he was eager to be with my brother who had died at the age of 14 of complications related to lupus.
Although he’d been raised Catholic, my dad wasn’t a religious man in later life. But he was a good man, a loving man, a man who cared about people. And I’m sure, though he didn’t speak of it, that his belief was strong. I’ve no doubt he earned his place in heaven for his good works and repentance.
So, nearly a year after his death, we piled into the Caddy he once owned to attend the rehearsal dinner. Although she’d given away Dad’s clothes, Mom didn’t have the heart to get rid of Dad’s beloved Cadillac so she’d been driving both her own car and his to keep the engine in working order.
The radio came on when she turned the ignition key and a Rolling Stones tune blasted from the Cadillac’s superior surround-sound speaker system.
“What are you doing listening to the Rolling Stones?” I asked my mom over Mick Jagger’s lyrics to “Beast of Burden.”
“Oh, this is your father’s radio station,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I just never bothered to change it.”
“Dad listened to rock music?” I asked.
“Sure,” replied my mom. “He loved rock music. “Especially that Sting guy.”
I was momentarily taken aback, remembering the man who had ordered us to turn down our “confounded stereo” when we were playing Led Zepplin or Jethro Tull too loud back in the ‘70s. His car was tuned into a station where Led Zepplin tunes were considered tame.
My sister reminded me that Dad wasn’t entirely “un-hip” when we were growing up. After all, he did like to sing Janis Joplin’s Mercedes Benz song.
That led to the impromptu serenade by three generations. My son was familiar with it because it was a song I’d used as a lullaby to lull him to sleep when he was a baby.
Now that son not only knows all the words to the song but can play it on the guitar.
As I was listening to him play the familiar tune as well as others that I grew up with, I couldn’t help but marvel at the way music has bridged the generations.
It’s hard to believe there was a time when the world feared the rock revolution would tear the generations apart, that the Beatles would cause some kind of permanent rift between father and son.
Now “Hey, Jude” and “Eleanor Rigby” are mainstream music in elevators.
What other social changes do we needlessly fear?