By Cowtown Pattie of Texas Trifles

The skeleton living in my closet is a cross-dresser. A skinny transvestite who thinks he is Versace. Giani Versace. I tell him "Giani" should be spelled with two n's, but he says he's too thin for the extra wasted consonant.

Every morning when I pull the chain to the overhead bare bulb in my closet, Giani groans and tries to hide his eyes in an old but elegant wool muffler with a moth hole that I bought in an estate sale.

He says the previous owner had better taste than me - the label in the side seam says "NeimanMarcus". Giani keeps it draped over his head so everyone can see it. (Like there's ever any vistors to my closet.)

I know he's checked all the labels on the blouses, pants, sweaters and jackets and found them lacking to his discerning eye. That is if he had eyes. I sometimes imagine those empty sockets of bone have amber gold eyes like a lynx.

There isn't much in my wardrobe for Giani to borrow nowadays; once I was a size 9 and forever had to strip him to bare bone so I could wear my favorite Sergio Valenti pair of jeans. Once I accidentally snapped short an index finger that he had stuck through a belt loop during such an argument.

It didn't hurt, he only protested with a whiney voice in his stupid fake Italian accent, "I'm-a beggin' your paw-doan!”

He can be such a vamp, but at least he is good-natured and doesn't try to blackmail me. Much. I laugh and tickle his ribs and tell him he has no pockets for his ill-gotten gains.

But he hates my fat clothes, especially plus sizes that come from Cato's or Macy's. "Get skinny and buy some decent rags! You could shop at The Loft or Nordstroms!" His lamentations are not unreasonable, but certainly tiresome.

Once I bought a traveler's set of slacks and jacket from Chico's - in black. You know that stretchy fabric that defies wrinkles even stuffed long hours in a suitcase? Giani kept pulling the suit off the hanger; it was constantly puddled in my closet floor among my shoes.

Shoes. Oh, lord, I won't even go there.

When we sell our house and move, I wonder if I could manage to pack Giani up in a box to Goodwill? Surely someone would love having his European fashion sense for their very own.

Or, maybe I could donate him to a medical school. He would hate that, hanging from a sterile stainless steel pole with nothing but white sheets in sight for draping. White isn't his color, you know. Too much like camouflage.

Sigh. Giani is too much a part of me. But, maybe you could invite him for a sleep-over with your skeleton? Did I mention he was skinny and doesn't take up much closet space?

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