Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins

Published October 28th, 2004

High above Transylvania…Road in Woodbury…lightening splits the night sky; thunder rumbles and a maniacal laugh spills over the mountain. There, up on the hill, a single light glows from Castle Atkinstein. Hard at work in his basement laboratory the good doctor mulls over his latest project.

The idea was born in Lisa’s rehab facility where, after walking in on her clutter-filled room, several of the nurses and aides confided, "they’re all like that." The implication was undeniable; as we get older do we become magnets for stuff? Dr. Atkins muses over the possibilities, not wanting to acknowledge that his weekly trips to the local flea markets, and the steady accumulation of stuff in his once-empty basement and attic rooms might be symptoms of something in the offing.

Ever the scientist, the doctor breaks down the problem; if we are magnets for stuff, all we have to do is reverse the polarity. Harking back to the shows of his youth, like the Six Million Dollar Man and the Bionic Woman, he remembers the key, "We have the technology," Hey, he thinks, "I’ve got an Erector Set." We can rebuild her; we’ll reverse her magnetic field, and where junk used to stick it will now be repelled.

And so, with the whirr of electricity…and the hum of a vacuum…the experiment is run. Days, weeks and months pass until finally the grand reveal.

The creation—Lisa home from rehab--is wheeled in. A button is pressed, her chair rises, and a foot lands on the recently uncovered lime-green carpet. She steps down, her head turns, her eyes focus, she points, and she screams, "There’s something on the floor. Pick it up!"

The good doctor watches, a tear in his eye, as he marvels at the transformation, and mutters…"She’s alive! She’s alive!"

Lisa reads the above and comments: Are all psychiatrists insane? Or just you? And so pushy. It’s my turn to write.

Who would have believed it? But it’s finally happened; I’ve turned into a "Stepford Wife!" Don’t blame me—it’s his fault…

There was a time; I have to admit, when an immaculate apartment wasn’t a priority in my action-filled life. In addition, I didn’t believe in throwing anything out—just in case I’d need it some day…you never know.

Thus, slightly used, but "still perfectly good" manila envelopes kept company with decades-old Cat Fancy Magazines, hastily jotted cooking recipes--destined to be filed some day, but that day never came--hundreds of issues of Country Life containing my columns and articles, rubber bands collected for the newspaper girl, not to forget thousands of bottle caps to be bent and linked together to create an evening dress [This idea was given to me by Pop Top Terp, a character I once interviewed many moons ago in Greenwich Village, who would go around dressed in nothing but bottle caps]. I could go on, but you get the picture. Let’s just say my place was not exactly the way Martha Stewart—pre-incarceration--would have approved of.

Then came my "event", as the doctor referred to it, which landed me in the hospital followed by ten weeks at Bethel Rehabilitation center, where therapists did their best to get me on my feet again--literally.

When I was finally discharged and allowed to return home, I had the surprise of my life; was I in the right place? My apartment had undergone a drastic metamorphosis during the months I’d been away. Wherever I looked, there were changes, the details of which would take too long to describe. Maybe Charlie can take some photographs and show you.

All I can say is a lot of love and many hours of hard labor have gone into making this house a home and I shall never be able to repay my wonderful friends who created this miracle. I still can’t get over the transformation, as I daily discover new little surprises.

The most amazing part is that without all the old clutter—that I didn’t want to let go off—my spirit shines through. The first thing that everyone who’s come to visit me says is, "it’s YOU!" I really like my place and enjoy being home.

There’s a funny twist to the whole story; ever since my apartment has been turned into a Shangri la where visitors can enjoy a cup of tea without having to first remove a stack of newspapers and manuscripts to sit down—prior to this only the Avon lady or the plumber were allowed inside—I have made a complete turnabout.

I’m determined to keep everything as nice and neat as it is at present and not to let papers and catalogues that come in the mail accumulate. It’s not easy to shed old habits, but I’m trying. And I have to watch myself to not become a pain in the neck while doing so.

For instance, I noticed the other day that one of my visitors was eating her sandwich and not holding it over the plate. I had to hold back from telling her to be careful, all the while watching her like a hawk lest she drop crumbs on the couch or the carpet.

I constantly use my grabber, picking up bits of fluff or even trying to sweep the kitchen floor while sitting in my wheelchair. And, God forbid, should anyone spill a drop on the counter I instantly have them wipe it up.

I don’t know how this happened, but somehow, I’ve turned into a neat freak, and no one is safe. Not even Charlie.

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