Please Don't Sit on My Bed in Your Outside Clothes

by Phoebe Robinson

  Number one, they love keeping track of how long it’s been since they were last sick the way an alcoholic counts the days of their sobriety. No matter how much I remind my mom and dad that this information isn’t worth bragging about, that no chip awaits them to mark their achievement, they’ll find a way to work it into conversation.

  “Mom, I’m having trouble with my taxes. Can you download your accountant wisdom into me real quick?”

  “Well, it’s funny you mention 1099 independent contractor forms . . .”

  “I mean, I didn’t—”

  “Because it’s been 1,099 days since influenza last felled me.”

  Secondly, the parental units are incredibly giving and selfless people. A present from them is usually the item you mentioned months ago that you since forgot about, but they never did. When the family fell on hard times while I was in high school, my mom walked several miles to and from work every day because they decided that losing their car due to being behind on payments was better than pulling me out of private prep school halfway through junior year. And as many parents were having to deal with the reality of homeschooling their children while working from home during Covid-19, my dad volunteered to homeschool my charmingly precocious niece to help lessen the stress my brother and sister-in-law had due to their demanding jobs. I know that saying “Feelings aren’t facts,” but I feel like my parents are fucking amazing and there’s no convincing me that isn’t one of the purest and truest facts.

  And, finally, the third piece of information to complete this sketch of my parents is their unwavering belief that there should be a deep divide between the outside world and the holy cleanliness of their home. Growing up, there was never this bipartisan, reaching-across-the-aisle, “both sides of the argument are valid.” To them, outside is a hellscape full of unhygienic people and trifling surfaces whose sole reason for existence is to disrupt the harmony they’ve painstakingly created. Since I can remember, after each week of us coming and going from work, school, extracurricular activities, parties, dates, and study groups, my parents would do a deep clean of THE ENTIRE HOUSE, including dusting, mopping, and washing the baseboards. This is a task that, to this day, they still carry out like clockwork every seven days.

  Just to do a quick study in contrasts, after eight months of quarantining in our apartment, Baekoff and I hired cleaners to get our home back on track. Once they were finished, they told him how dusty our apartment was. Admittedly, that’s mostly my fault because he’s very neat and I’m a slob kebab, but they ain’t know that! All they knew was they spent the previous four hours wishing they were wearing eye goggles because the amount of dust kicked up made them feel like they were in that sandstorm scene from Mission: Impossible— Ghost Protocol. While they were annoyed, they weren’t stupid, so they basically waited until the wire payment and tip went through like a heist and then, with some bass in their voices, they low-key cussed us out with such pinpoint accuracy that it felt as though these three Russian queens took ESL specifically to tell my boyfriend and me that the air quality in our apartment wasn’t suitable for their precious lungs! Meanwhile, the baseboards at my parents’ crib are pulling a Mariah Carey by going “Dust mites? I don’t know her” every damn day. In summary, if my parents are the epitome of the phrase “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” then Bae and I represent “Unkemptness is next to a pile of unfresh drawers in Beelzebub’s walk-in closet.”

  Clearly, Phil and Octavia strive to keep a sanitary home, and they aren’t going to let anything get in their way. Not even their kids. And not even each other. When my brother and I were younger and we’d come indoors from playing outside, there were no greetings, nor inquiries about how playtime was. Our parents were straight up like “Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Y’all are funky. Take a shower.” Daring to sit down on the couch after coming home from school was just inviting them to ask us if we knew how many trifling people we interacted with. If you guessed that the answer was “all of them,” you are correct. And when my brother and I wanted to prove our independence by sitting on the beds in our respective bedrooms, our parents’ Spidey senses would tingle, they’d catch us in the act, and they’d make us change our clothes. As for how our parents treated each other, on numerous occasions, I’ve seen my mom rebuke a kiss from my dad because he smelled like “outside.”

  While my aversion to the outside invading my home isn’t on par with my parents’, the decree of not sitting on my bed in my outside clothes is one I’ve been living by since I moved out of their home. And I can’t tell you why. Perhaps it’s just that the lesson stuck with me, and I’m sure there are others my parents wish made the cut. Like the fact that they are very passionate about wearing house shoes. Whenever I come home to visit, my parents marvel at how I can walk barefoot from the bedroom to the kitchen to get breakfast. And I want to be like, “Am I breaking some rule of decorum, because, Mom, you’ve been wearing that same floral nightgown since I was a child, and thanks to all the years of wear and tear, it’s as sheer as Dita Von Teese’s hosiery, so I think you can handle my bare-ass feet on your floors.” So, house shoes? That concept didn’t really take. But the no-outside-clothes thing? Stuck to me like glue.

  Even in college, which was difficult to enforce because the average dorm room’s furniture consisted of a desk, a chair, and a bed that typically served as a communal seating area. I’m sure in my friends’ eyes, I was the equivalent of Nurse Ratched, but whenever I considered loosening up, I couldn’t get the image of them sitting on the New York City subway and then coming to crash on my Target brand Room Essentials bedding. But, still, every once in a while, a friend would wear me down, so I would offer up a corner at the foot of my bed, which I thought was generous. Looking back on it, forcing grown-ass folks to sit with 90 percent of their butt cheeks hanging off the edge of a bed as I starfished on my comforter was rude as hell. But! Not as rude as the one time a crush of mine came over to watch a movie with me, made a beeline for my bed, and sat squarely on one of my pillows. Oh, hell no. Y’all, pillow sitters are quite the bold type. #OnlyOnFreeform. Like, I’m talking “former president of the United States Bill Clinton, a well-read and highly intelligent man who wanted to do anything but cop to his affair with Monica Lewinsky, so he stalled his impeachment hearing by asking for clarity on the meaning of the word ‘is’ ” kind of bold. Because when you are POTUS, attended Georgetown University and Oxford University, and lived long enough to be an AARP member, to feign an inconceivable amount of ignorance and think everyone around you will fall for it is a level of confidence I want to aspire toward. And I believe that is the nerve my crush had to think it was okay to put his denim behind on my pillow. Did I say anything to him about it? Naw, I liked him too much. But did I tell every single friend about this unsanitary nightmare? Abso-fucking-lutely.

  All these years later, multiple friends from college have reminded me about how strict I was about outside clothes. BEING TYPE A IS FUN AND NOT AT ALL EXHAUSTING FOR MYSELF OR THE PEOPLE AROUND ME! But also, my personality must’ve been straight trash if this whole “no sitting on my bed in your outside clothes” made it into the Phoebe Robinson highlight reel all these years later. So you know what this means: A fair percentage of the eulogies at my funeral are gonna be doo-doo because I was boring as hell for a very long time. Of course, I could make up for lost time, make a bunch of new friends, rack up some fresh experiences such as skydiving and getting a tattoo. But honestly, I’m just gonna waste money on legal and notary fees so a lawyer can draft a will that won’t contain any info about what I’m bequeathing to whom, but will just be the following declaration they must read aloud: IF PHOEBE TOLD YOU THAT YOU COULDN’T SIT ON HER BED, YOU CAN’T SAY SHIT AT THE FUNERAL. JUST WEAR BLACK, EAT A SAD-ASS THREE-BEAN CASSEROLE, AND NAIL THE MOTHERFUCKING KEY CHANGE WHEN YOU SING PUFF DADDY’S “I’LL BE MISSING YOU” AT KARAOKE IN HER HONOR.

  The point is, as much as I try and fight it (and I’m not
trying that hard, trust), not allowing anyone to sit on my bed in their outside clothes is a rule I live by, and is a defining part of my personality, it seems. And I think everyone is like that. We all have guiding principles that govern our lives in big ways and small that don’t always make sense to other people. Those guiding principles can become set in stone out of habit, or because something just resonates with you on a deep spiritual level and you don’t feel complete without it. Whatever the case may be, it means something to you, so you hold on to it. And potential petri dish concerns aside, this outside-clothes business is something that, no matter where I am when I express this mandate, makes me feel connected to my parents and all their lovable quirks. And like they’re in the room with me. Most important, as you age, you’re more cognizant of your parents aging as well, and that may cause you to look fondly on all the lessons, tips, and oddities they passed down to you over the years. And I know for a fact that my parents love doing that with me and my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. Whether it’s a note, an email, or a quick word, they want to leave us with every bit of knowledge. I like that. Even when I don’t want to hear it. Because at least I know they care.

  Well, dear reader, even though we’ve yet to meet, I care about you. I want you to live a deliciously rich, highly specific, and wonderfully weird life. And I would like to help. You know those people who don’t have kids, so they want to impart wisdom to any- and everyone they meet, especially other people’s children; meanwhile, the parents are making faces that say, “Please do not listen to this person that I’m unfortunately related to by blood”? Well, I’m going to be that auntie for y’all whether you want that or not. And the first thing I’m imploring you to do if you haven’t already (and especially because of the coronavirus of it all) is to never again sit on your own beds in your outside clothes. I brought this up on social media and people were telling on themselves, revealing their trifling ways, and trying to find loopholes like they’re a rich celebrity who wants to get out of paying taxes:

  I’m sorry. What are “outside clothes”? Are they not just clothes?! I can sleep in the same clothes I wore that day, wake up the next morning, and wear them out again. (I love social media for showing us all the different ways people live.) I don’t. This is no way to live and I ain’t need to see it. Wish I was like Guy Pearce in Memento because I would intentionally forget to tattoo this fuckery on my body, so I could one day forget it. But I can’t, so I’m left to be haunted by the thought of someone GOING OUTSIDE, BEING AROUND THIS DIRTY-ASS WORLD, AND THEN COMING HOME AND GETTING INTO BED.

  So wait . . . say I get up in the morning and decide I want to pop out and get a coffee. I’m supposed to change into full “outside clothes” to go across the street for my coffee and then back into my pajamas when I get home? And then later when I need to run to the store or take out the garbage, I’m supposed to change into new outside clothes and then back into my pajamas when I come inside again? WHAT KIND OF MADNESS IS THIS??? I get up in the morning and get dressed for the day, no matter how many times I go outside during the day. My pajamas only go on when it’s time to sleep. Oh, boy. This. Is. Rough. And no, we’re not “hanging tough.” #MomJoke #NewKidsOnTheBlockForever. For real though, I’m at a loss for words. If you’re going outside multiple times a day, just have an “outside clothes” outfit by your front door that you change in and out of and then put it in the laundry bin at the end of the night. Why are we acting like that’s not an option? Why are we behaving as though changing in and out of PJs is akin to doing high school trig?

  Okay, yes, but: Let’s say BonBon comes over to hang out with you, and he casually sits on your bed wearing his outside clothes. WHAT DO YOU DO?! Call him a Lyft to take him to JFK Airport and kick his ass out. I am too old to be playing games with someone damn near twice my age. And he too grown not to know that if he wanna sit on my bed, he needs to bring a day bag and change clothes in the guest bathroom once he gets to my home.

  I’ve never heard of outside clothes! I just wear my same clothes everywhere. What the fuck? You never heard of them?! Bitch, did or didn’t Mr. Rogers, as soon as he stepped inside his home, take off his red cardigan and shoes? Quit acting brand-new. You know what? We need to start redlining heauxes and if you don’t have outside clothes, around-the-house clothes, and in-bed clothes: YOU. CAN’T. VOTE.

  As you can see, many people out in the world (and maybe even you) need my gahtdamn help, so I’m assembling some of my most precious knowledge, opinions, and hot takes that I’ve accumulated throughout my life and sharing them with you. You can let me know in thirty years or so which of these have stuck with you:

  PHOEBE-ISM #1: RICH PEOPLE AIN’T ALLOWED TO POST NOTHING KITCHEN-RELATED ONLINE NO MO’

  This might sound strange, but I secretly enjoy being humbled. Maybe it’s just the masochist in me, but I believe that once my bruised ego has healed, I can see that the offense was to keep me in check. I’ll give you an example. I have a personal assistant named Zoe who is smart, literally looks like a model, and is eleven years younger than me, so yes, I feel as old as fuck around her and, of course, my director of operations aka Mai, whom I already told you about. They’re lovely human beings without whom I would not be able to keep my multiple businesses running. They’re also the yin to my yang because I’m an entertainer who is fine with taking up space with my loud presence and they are . . . how do I put this? “The Sound of Silence” is their nash anth. They’re quite comfortable leaving me hanging after I tell a joke. So, usually, during our hour-long videoconferences, they just stare blankly back at me after 80 percent of my jokes. The 20 percent that do elicit laughter typically end abruptly as if there’s a conductor just off-screen signaling the end of a concerto. At first, I was like, “Da fuq?” but now, when they don’t laugh at a joke, it reminds me to feel grateful I’m not surrounded by sycophants, and instead, I work harder until I truly give these shy queens something to laugh about. They keep me humble, which is a good thing. Another moment that keeps my feet squarely planted on the ground? When a rich friend or celebrity gives the world a sneak peek at how they’re living.

  The kitchen British Baekoff and I have is the first grown-up kitchen I’ve ever had in my adult life. Instead of a ragtag group of plates, bowls, and saucers, we own a complete matching dish set. Coasters so that our coffee table no longer has condensation rings that make it look like a distant cousin to Michael Phelps’s back after a cupping session. We even have an Instant Pot, dishwasher, and a SodaStream. Although these may seem like run-of-the-mill staples that I should’ve possessed before I entered my midthirties, owning them makes me feel like Padma Lakshmi minus the bank account and looks.

  Then one day, I Marco Polo’d* with a close American friend who now splits her time between London and Greece with her rich husband. On the day she Polo’d, she was in the middle of Greek holiday prep at their vacation home by the ocean. I know her life sounds perfect, but just like all of ours, it isn’t. She’s been through it. Anyway, since I’ve never been to her vacation home in Greece, she wanted to give me a video tour. In NYC, an apartment video tour consists of just holding up your iPhone and going, “There. That’s it.” Not the case for her. They have a butler’s pantry. A second kitchen. The dishes the average person daydreams about cooking but then settles for ordering from Seamless for dinner? She actually makes them! As she was going through the tour, she zoomed in on the bone broth she was making because she had a hankering for it. Usually, when a person has a hankering for something, it’s a bag of chips or a burger, ya know, a desire that can be satiated in thirty minutes or less. Bone broth takes like nine hours to make. That is the Kama Sutra of hankerings.

  As much as I tease, I know deep down that she means no harm. A world that includes multiple homes and making bone broth simply because she’s in the mood for it is her normal and she’ll be the first to deliver an incredulous look to me mid-convo that connotes, “Yes, I know this is sl
ightly ridiculous, but this is my life now, so let’s laugh about it.” So I don’t mind when she dips in and out of #UnrelatableContent because her self-awareness is on point. The same cannot be said for the average celebrity or an influencer, especially during the first wave of coronavirus-related quarantine. It seemed as if every day, a different famous person was posting sixteen-, eighteen-, twenty-ingredient-long recipes that they swore us plebs could replicate. Look, I get it; the old adage goes “Sharing is caring,” but sometimes the sharing felt as if we were using our 5G to be a witness to a show called Look How Much I’m Thriving that none of us asked for.

  One time during the ’tine, this celeb, who shall go unnamed because I do love this person a lot, was walking us through a dinner we can all make at home. They started listing ingredients like water and I was like, “Ooo, relatable,” and got suckered in. Yes, I’m a simple bitch. Anyway, as this person was listing ingredients, they started sharing their tip about where they get their spices and began with, “Williams Sonoma has—.” Nope! I’m out. If the company sounds like a law firm, I’m not purchasing my seasoning from there. Generic store-brand parsley flakes taste just as good (they probably don’t, but just go with me).

  Even though I was out, I couldn’t turn away from this cooking tutorial because my gut instinct told me it was going to get absurd. And ’surd it did become because this celeb mentioned chipolatas. If you don’t know, cuz I didn’t, a chipolata is a small spicy sausage used chiefly as a garnish or hors d’oeuvre. Wayament, we out here using sausages as a garnish?!?! Oh, so you rich rich. When you’re that rich, shouldn’t you spend your evenings moonlighting as a vigilante à la Bruce Wayne? Before I could ponder that question, this heaux was like, “And next, you’ll want to add in some fresh prawns.” LOL. Who had fresh prawns on deck in those times or any other? Possessing fresh prawns on a regular-ass Tuesday because there’s a chance you may need them is definitely not what the governors meant when they asked us to go to the grocery store and stock up on provisions. Like, as I was fighting to get the last of the Angel Soft two-ply, I saw a chick running past me whilst carrying a carton of eggs like she was on Team Jamaica in the 4 × 100 relay race at the Summer Olympics. And here was this celeb basically acting out what would be their last meal before their castle was stormed during a coup. WE ARE NOT LIVING THE SAME LIFE.