What Not to Do

If you are considering nominating me for a What Not to Wear episode, stop right there. Don’t. And I mean it. Any self-improvement reality TV show is off limits. Please don’t try and organize me or make me over. It’s just not going to help. And I really am not in the mood to hear Stacy and Clinton make fun of my stretchy jeans on national TV.

I have a recurring nightmare where a TV crew pulls up in my driveway and starts filming me… or the inside of my house… or worse the inside of my refrigerator… or even worse the state of my garage (best suited for one of the hoarding shows).

What am I afraid of? There are no dead bodies in my basement. Actually, I don’t even have a basement. I do have a variety of pet rabbits and hamsters buried under a tree in my backyard.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a nice little home. It just gets crunchy at times. I’m not sure exactly what the kids and animals have tracked over my floors, but I don’t think this is what Architectural Digest endorses when they feature glossy pages of "indoor-outdoor living" house photos. I love that magazine.

Surprise reality TV is not for me. America does not need to know that I keep most of my clothes in a giant basket crammed on a shelf in my closet. (Okay, fine, now you know.) Or that it is probably unsafe to eat any of the condiments on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator. And that no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to find a nail color that doesn’t make me look like a hooker or a dead body. Perhaps I should mix them and name my own nail polish “dead hooker”. (Fashion tip: Don’t buy blue polish, unless you want to look dead. It can be quite a shock if you forget and wake up the next morning to cold feet with blue nails peeking out at you from the covers.)

I have my most paranoid moments when I pull on my battered sweat pants, throw my hair in a pony, and run to the market to buy twelve heads of broccoli for my newest diet. On those days, I give a shifty-eyed glance up and down my street for any sign of a TV van or camera crew before I dash to my car. Store employees are scanned for hidden cameras. Of course, I usually run into a well-groomed school mom –uh-hem- you know,  the PTA president sort, whose nails are perfectly manicured and not the least bit hookerish or dead bodyish looking.

For those who find me fashion-challenged, or at the very least unsophisticated - news flash: I do own mirrors. I get it. If you want to buy me new clothes, organize my silverware drawer, or redesign my house, please feel free to do so. Just don’t put all my belongings on the front lawn in specially marked piles for the neighbors to see. And please call first.