The Minnesota Farm Woman

One of my daughter’s favorite movies as a young teen was the campy movie classic “Mommy Dearest”. I have seen it so many times that I could probably recite the dialogue without a script. I even dressed up one Halloween as Mommy Dearest (Joan Crawford) as  played by Faye Dunaway, complete with bathrobe, red lipstick, a headband in my hair and wielding a wire hanger. I was delightfully scary, even though my face was red and stinging because I had no cold cream to rub on my face and used HIS shaving cream instead, which melted in a stingy, itchy stream down my neck, which made me look even scarier.  When we moved to our present home about ten years ago, I had decided that I would no longer have wire hangers in the closets, so got rid of them all. It had nothing to do with Mommy Dearest and everything to do with the fact that I had read in a magazine that one’s closet would look neater if all the hangers matched. This was probably the same magazine that told me in a bold headline that I could lose ten pounds in ten days by eating only hard boiled eggs and pineapple on one page and giving a recipe for The World’s Best Chocolate Cake on the next. Determined to have a  neat and well-organized look to our closets,  I decided that our clothes would be hung on white plastic hangers only. (Side note to those who don’t know me personally:  I am neither neat nor well-organized, nor have I ever lost ten pounds in ten days no matter how much pineapple I ate.)  Over the years, I have weeded out a few navy blue, brown, or black plastic hangers. My collection of vintage wooden advertising hangers are put to good use in the front closet, since plastic doesn’t always hold up to a heavy winter coat. The other day, I decided to clean out the bedroom closet from top to bottom. I noticed that HIS one and only suit looked sad and saggy, and as I straightened the shoulders and brushed it off,  I noticed it was on a WIRE HANGER.  What? Then I noticed more. Seven to be exact. I have no idea how they got there, since we rarely bring home any dry cleaning.  I confess that it has kind of been driving me crazy, trying to figure it out. That reminded me of another old campy movie classic called “Gaslight”. The husband is doing things to make the wife think she is going crazy. Uh, oh. It could be HIM, or it could be me. If I start wearing red lipstick and shaving cream on my face while I throw the wire hangers out the front door, watch out!