The One Where I Defend Watching “Cops”

Mr. Apron and I watch “Cops”, that never-to-be-cancelled Fox program that always opens with either, “Well, my dad was a cop, and my granddaddy, too, so I always figured I’d be a cop and give back to my community,”  or “You never know what’s going to happen; each day is different.” 

Each show is different, too, but with some comforting predictability and regularity.  The perps always complain when they get rough-housed.  They always deny wrong-doing and have flimsy excuses.  The battered spouses can never decide who threw the first blow.  And they always run “cuz I wuz scerred”. 

My family makes fun of us for watching Cops.  Judging from the targeted commercials for big trucks and the “repo” show, we’re probably not their typical audience, either.  But I will defend our choice to watch the show.  It was the first of its kind, and still holds its own among a vast field of other “ride along with the pros” shows.  We’ve tried others, and they just don’t measure up.  We watched “Jail” one night – the pacing was deadly and it was just depressing images of people crying as they sobered up in cinder block cells.  The only amusing part was when they put a helmet on some chick who kept banging her head against the walls. 

Supernanny is another reality show we sometimes watch.  While it’s great and all, Jojums always offers the same advice to the parents – the naughty chair/step/bench/corner/room – because they are usually hesitant to use any structure or discipline whatsoever.  The moms bond with their daughters, the dads throw a football with the sons, and she pulls away in the London Taxi just the same. 

Animal Planet has an “animal police” program, which just plain sucks.  We couldn’t make it through one episode.  It was geared more towards the animal-loving girlie-horsie cop-as-social-worker crowd.  And I’m a girlie, animal-loving vegetarian whose sister is going to be a social worker.  I couldn’t stand it. Just arrest the dumb bitch who starved her animals, haul the horses away, and cut to the high-speed chase already.

Then you’ve got your homeowner type shows, whose “real” characters (homeowners) are so painful they have to script each line of the program. 

“Why, hello, Mrs. S.  How can we help you today?”

(Awkwardly and rehearsed) “Hi, Bob.  We bought this house (insert #) years ago, and have just about finished renovating, but we still have some radiators which need to be repainted (or insert other unfinished project).” 

(With false enthusiasm) “Great, well why don’t we get started?”

(blandly) “Sure.  Let me show you the (insert room of home)”

Then there’s the show where they set up a false dichotomy of maximally opposed choices.  Pick your genre of show – House Hunters, Trading Spouses, Wife Swap, Blind Date, Meanest Parents, etc.  And who can forget the shows where they inject the same kinds of crisis each and every episode – Top Chef, Cake Boss, Say Yes to the Dress, etc.  Yes, they’re fun if you watch them sparingly, but we have cable now, folks!  These things are on all day long!!  I’ve seen them already, I have 99 other channels, and there still isn’t anything on TV!?

But the best reason to watch Cops is for the education.  I have learned, though careful analysis, what to do, and what not to do when stopped by the police.

• Keep your hands where he/she can see them.
• Do not try to climb out of the car until you are told.  There’s no quicker way to get a gun drawn in your direction.
• Do not reach into your pockets.
• If found with a gun, do not say some black guy just gave it to you 15 minutes ago.
• A Puerto Rican named Ernie did not loan you the car.
• If you manage to throw the drugs/paraphernalia/weapons from the car, they are still considered “on your person”.  Even if they’re not on you.  For real.  If you throw it from the car, or as you’re running, they’ll find it. 
• If they find it in your car, it’s yours.  It’s not your grandma’s weed.  Even if it is, they won’t believe you.
• Large amounts of cash arouse suspicion.  Take debit when dealing drugs, or set up mobile Paypal using your iPhone. 
• If you’re hanging out in parking lots at 2am, no cop will believe you just got off work unless you’re in your uniform. 
• If you’re prone to get sweaty when confronted by authority figures, wear performance clothing – Underarmor, Sweat it Out, Cool Max – and strong deodorant.  Cops can smell fear. 
• Lines that do not work – “I ran because I was scared,” “I swear to God,” “I swear on my grandmother’s grave,” “I didn’t hear the sirens or see the lights,” “I’m being straight with you,” “I didn’t do nothing,” and, my favorite, “It’s not mine.” 
• If you’re a female, they’re more likely not to handcuff you.  Stay calm, and you stand a good chance of going home.  Unless you’re an overweight female and you’re not wearing a bra. Or you’re an underweight bimbo in stilettos.
• When they handcuff you “for your protection and ours,” chances are, you’ll get arrested, even if they tell you, “You’re not under arrest.” 
• They cannot loosen the handcuffs for your comfort. 

And, finally,

• No, repeat offenders will not learn from their mistakes, will not miraculously clean up their acts and stop boozing, stealing, abusing, streaking, slutting it up, or using.  That’s where the social workers come in. 

Closing the show, opening a new chapter

Mr Apron thinks I should blog more.  He even nominated me for some distinction on 20SBs to the effect.  He’s out on the town tonight, and I have 20 minutes before I’m out to go visit with friends, so I think I”ll oblige him!

The show was a hit.  I sold tickets to anyone who would listen to me rant.  We hit record audience attendance by our closing, and on Saturday night and Sunday, we earned extra curtain calls.  I was beaming as the curtain closed, and my face hurt from smiling.  The last time it hurt from smiling was at our wedding.  It was a great feeling as we closed the show, and made me feel like I CAN do this again.  Despite all the feelings of inadequacy vis-a-vis my dancing, my singing, my ability to memorize lines, it turned out fine in the end.  The off-stage drama in no way hindered the on-stage magic, and given the amount of backstage insanity, it’s a miracle.  We suffered through unforgivable absenteeism in the women’s chorus, leads and choristers who dropped out, leaving gaps to fill; sickness among cast and crew including diabetes, a car accident, pneumonia, lost voices, and other unspeakables; mishaps with the costumes, disagreements with the facility, and bickering among the cast.  One pirate proudly told the make-up mistress that he was the “boss” when it came to deciding which and how much make-up he was going to wear.  And yet it all happened in the end. 

Now, I have a strange amount of time on my hands!  Mr. Apron and I found ourselves at home on Tuesday evening unsure what to do with ourselves.  I confessed to Mr. Apron last night I was concerned that now the show is over, I’ll sink back into my old routines (when I’ m home alone) of rotting in front of the computer, and rotting in front of the television.  As engaging as the My Aquarium app is on Facebook, and as much education as I’m gleaning from Cash Cab and Spongebob, I feel my mother’s voice in my head, saying, “Do you need a ‘project’?”  Which is code for, “You’re not doing anything productive.  Let me occupy you with mindless tasks and things I don’t have time/inclination to do myself.  And I would find myself sewing sweaters for dogs, wrapping presents for other people’s godmothers, shucking corn, taking out recycling, walking dogs, taking bags of stuff upstairs, and hauling other bags of stuff downstairs.  She anticipates my reaction to the above question now, when I visit ye olde homesteade, and has taken to asking if I”d like a “P-word”.  I still shudder.  I need to occupy myself.  If I don’t, I feel depressed about how unproductive I’m being, which makes me more melancholy.  And then I do even less.

So Mr. Apron had some ideas for me last night, as we lay falling asleep, yet unable to stop talking.  We call these times “slumber parties”, recalling the sleepovers of my youth when no one was able to actually fall asleep and my mild-mannered father would come upstairs several times throughout the night to shush us.  He suggested I take another art class at the art center nearby, or take on some more students to tutor (I’m down to one kiddo per week), or rejoin the JCC to combat the lethargy I feel when I look at sewing patterns and realize how sewing larger sizes than I care to makes me feel.  Since art classes cost $200-300, and it’s late in the semester, that one is out, but I’m digging the JCC idea.  Mr. Apron gets a discount for being an EMT, and we live SO CLOSE to the JCC it’s kind of ridiculous that we can’t haul our asses down there twice a week to feel better about ourselves.  Something to do + something to about the tightness in my pants that has crept up since August and stubbornly not. gone. away = a very good idea indeed. 

I love my husband.  He helps me find ways to feel better about myself without berating me for feeling bad about myself.  I am thankful for him all year round.  Thanks for encouraging me to blog.  I love you.

Opening Night

Well, folks, opening night has come and gone.  Mr. Apron asked me, on the ride home, if I get nervous being on stage, after so many years behind the scenes, or in the audience.  On Sunday, when we had our first run-through on the stage in the performance space, I was disoriented.  I didn’t have trouble translating the set-up we had used in our rehearsal space; I didn’t have trouble figuring my stage left from my stage right.  I was struck by the existence of the space beyond the stage.  The rehearsal space (choral pratice room) had no audience.  We used every inch of the space for dancing, mincing about, and singing.  The edge of our “stage” was a mere 2 inches from the piano.  We had no trouble coming all the way downstage.  The first time I stepped downstage on our real stage, I was apprehensive of falling off into the orchestra pit.  I spend some time upstage, and some time all the way down, teetering on the edge.  And, frankly, it was a little scary to stare out into the seat of blackness which would hopefully be full of people come opening night.  Scarier still was opening my mouth to sing, and hearing my voice be sent forth into the blackness.  I don’t particularly care for the sound of my own voice, sung or spoken, and hearing myself so exposed humbled me even further.  Thank goodness for all the choral numbers.  I don’t think I could stand having any solo parts. 

Last night, though, with my glasses off, I pranced and minced, and sang and danced, and acted and reacted.  I mention the fact that I had my glasses off, because the audience was just fuzzy enough that I would not have recognized anybody out there.  It was thus quite easy to keep up my 4th wall!  No, I didn’t feel stage fright, or nerves.  My stomach did, but I wasn’t particuarly nervous.  All the excitement at having our costumes, and make-up and props and scenery fueled our performance, our opening night.  Having friends in the audience, wherever they were seated, helps too. 

I don’t know how I was able to get up and go to work this morning, but I did.  It started with the street sweeper at 6:15am, which sounded strangely like teenagers driving by in their low-riders with the stereo on and the bass turned way up.  Mr. Apron freaked and encouraged me to hustle to move my car.  No place really to put it until I left for work at 7:30am, since all surrounding streets were also being swept.  And there were still hundreds of cars parked.  It seems unreasonable that they’d expect us to have moved all our cars before working hours, especially given the fact that they were doing the whole neighborhood.  Yet they kept sweeping, many times over.  It also might have made sense to wait until 9am, simply because then most cars would be gone, and they wouldn’t have had to go back down our single block to hit the spot left open by the one car that drove away since their last pass.  I inched my way into our neighbor’s parking pad, since they’re not home.  Of course, upon trying to leave, I found the back alley blocked at one end by an ambulance, so I had to back down the alley.  I think the forces that be were trying to tell me not to go to work today.  Yet somehow I managed.  I saw my kids, I did some therapy.  I did some assessment.  I pretended to speak some Spanish.  I helped a little boy make his “snake sound” in exchange for dizzying spins around the room.  I filed some notes.  I ate some lunch. 

And finally, I can put work away, where it belongs, and focus again on the show.  This is what we’ve been working towards.  These are the moments we performing whackos live for.  These are the weekends that make us sign up for the next show, forgetting Hell week, forgetting load-in, forgetting the wardrobe malfunctions, broken parasols, diva performers, and mutiny among the ranks.  This weekend contains the adrenaline rush. 

It’s show time!

The Show

As you may know, I’m going to be in a play this weekend, with Mr. Apron.  The joke I keep telling is that I got tired of being a theatre widow when he went off to do his plays (he’s been in at least six on stage, and directed at least one other  in the time we’ve been together).  As the rehearsals ran steadily later, I would fall asleep on the couch waiting for him.  I love to see him on stage.  Selfish me, I always derive such pleasure of watching him, that he must be performing solely for my benefit.  I’ve been involved with his shows in some part before, whether offering ideas, dramaturgy, or helping out with hair, make-up and costumes.  But I haven’t been on stage since 2001, when I was in Bernard Slade’s “Same Time, Next Year” as part of a peer’s student senior thesis in college.  She went all bisexual with the show, mixing genders in each scene; you know, stretching the bounds of on-stage relationships and such.  My father came up to me after the show, and, with a twinkle in his eye, told me he accepted my being a lesbian.  I thanked him, and told it was called acting.  My boyfriend at the time almost blew a gasket when I told him I’d be on stage in lingerie and there would be a kiss or two (straight and lesbian).  Again, it was called acting.  In his paranoia (and undiagnosed schizoid tendencies), he expressed the fear I’d “feel something” when I kissed either gender actor, and leave him because of the “spark” I’d shared on stage.  Uh huh. 

And now I’m back on stage, sharing a spark with my husband.  We put in 13 hours yesterday, between the loading at the warehouse, set construction, costume debacles, sitz probe (sounds evil, doesn’t it?) with the orchestra, and cue-to-cue run through.  We got home at nearly midnight, and I’m back at work, for an insanely scheduled week. 

I have a laundry list of things to work during the show, and things to buy for the show, neither of which I have time to practice or purchase.  Our nightgowns are transparent and no one has provided full-length slips.  Mr. Apron’s trousers fall down, and his costume, which is supposed to be military, looks like a marching band reject.  Our parasols (guaranteed not to break, so we bought no extras) are breaking.  And my skirt, which was ordered for me from the rental company, who had been given information that I am 5′0″ tall, was so long that I not only have to wear it at my bust, but they had to hem 2 more inches.  I’m swimming in fabric. 

Somehow or another, we’ll figure out our blocking and footwork, the costumes will be patched together, and the curtain wil rise on the debut of my return to the stage.  As we get closer and closer, I know I’ll be torn between the impending excitement of performing a great show for people I love (and strangers, too), and the exhaustion factor that led Mr. Apron to remark, as we drove home down deserted streets last night, “You’re never doing another show with me again, are you?”

It’s certainly been a learning experience for me — my first musical, my first time learning dance steps outside of aerobics class — and it hasn’t all been positive.  I’ve been so frustrated trying to match pitches and learn lyrics, not to mention exhausted on mornings after rehearsal.  But it has taught me about myself.  Even if I’ve never done a music before, I remember the excitement of getting my costume, of learning what hairstyles we’ll need, of walking the stage, of looking out at a dark theatre and imagining an attentive audience. 

And I can’t wait.

P.S.  Blogs may be less frequent this week!

OMG

“This town doesn’t have a one hour cleaner so I had to buy a new suit, except the only store you could buy a new suit in has got the flu. Got that? The whole store got the flu.”

–Vinny Gambini

I went to pick up our watches and the cuckoo clock today from the jeweler/horologist, and there was a sign on the door: “We have the flu.  Closed till November 11th.”  And if I were Vinny Gambini, I’d also say, “What?  The whole store has the flu?!” except that I know they do. 

Our jewelry store is run by OMG, as we call him, Old Man Gerlach, and his son, Robert.  We first found them back in 2005, when we were shopping for engagement and wedding rings.  We actually found my engagement ring at an antiques mall way down Route 1 towards Delaware, but it needed to be sized, as it was a little loose.  So we looked at the box it had come in, which bore the name of the jeweler who rented that case at the mall, and took it to Mr. Gerlach.  He was able to make the 1928 filigree ring fit my daintier finger, at no charge, it being his ring, and we walked away very satisfied customers.  Later, as we scoured the jewelery stores in Rhode Island, visiting my parents over Christmas time, we emerged very discouraged.  No one had in stock a ring that not only complemented the style of my vintage ring, but was also curved so as to fit around the bulbous diamond and filigree portion of my ring.  One store grudgingly said they’d order one from another engagement/wedding band set and that we could hope it would fit.  They weren’t going to go out of their way for a plain, unadorned white gold band.  Again, we left disappointed.  On a whim, we decided to go back to Gerlach’s, since they had a large selection of estate jewelry, and might have a ring we could at least try on.  When Mr. Gerlach heard we didn’t want diamonds or any such bling on the band itself, he retreated to a back room and brought out an entire tray of “plain” bands.  As I lamented how none were bent the way I needed, he rallied.  ”I’ll just bend it for you.”  And he did.  He bent an elegant band engraved with orange blossoms (a traditional Victorian wedding symbol) right around my engagement ring.  What’s more, Mr. Apron chose his own band then and there.  We had given up on the idea of their matching each other, since I needed something so specific, but the young Mr. Gerlach came to the rescue.  He painstakingly carved a matching motif onto Mr. Apron’s band.  On simple wedding bands, the flowers don’t look, well, floral; rather, the facets of the gold from the deep engraving catch the light and have a jeweled quality that has led more than one middle-aged nurse on Mr. Apron’s ambulance runs (He worked as an EMT for 17 months in 2005 through 2007) to grab his slender hand for a closer look.  People like mine, too, but I guess it’s more striking on a man. 

Our relationship with Messieurs Gerlach did not cease after our wedding.  We have returned many times for clock and watch repairs, some purchases (chains and balast for pocket watches), necklace adjustments, and batteries.  Mr. Apron bought me a beautiful tri-color gold lapel watch recently that makes me wish I wore more lapels, and less child snot. 

My mother gave us, ostensibly for our wedding, but in actuality for our housewarming, yet still 6 months late, and 2.5 years in the making, a cuckoo clock.  Mr. Apron has written already about his complex relationship with the cuckoo clock.  My mother apparently spent 2 years getting it fixed.  Rather, the clock guy did.  And though we received it in August, and listened in joy to its melodious chimes each hour since then, it has stopped working.  Already.  My family’s gifts are often like this — things missing a part, requiring some work, coupons you can only redeem at one store in the Tri-state area between 8:43am and 1:14pm, or clothing yet to be hemmed.  A pattern for a dog coat, a picture already falling out of its frame, shoes needing laces (ah, but they were on sale).  Gifts requiring work.  And the clock has gone the way of these gifts.  The hour and minute weights were still functioning, as was the “cuckoo” and the pendulum.  But the sing-song happy chime which sounded on the hour and caused a little drummer boy to come out and serenade us jammed.  The weight did not descend in the proper way, so we packed it off to Gerlach.

OMG flipped it over and announced cuckoo clocks usually had a lifespan of 5 years.  Ours was probably 30 years old and had spent the last 2 years of its post-morbid state in some dude’s repair shop.  Some dude, who wasn’t up front enough with my mother to tell her it was not worth fixing, for the 2 months it would work.  But we left it anyway, along with 2 watches that needed batteries and a third watch that decided when wound, only to run for an hour or so. 

I raced home from work today, dodging morons who are behind the wheel instead of on their buses and trolleys because of the transit strike, let the dog out of the kitchen, walked the dog, fed the dog, shut the dog back in the kitchen, dodged more morons trying to kill me on the way to Gerlach’s, and arrived.  I thought I was too late when I saw neither the Volvo wagon nor the Lexus SUV (Yes, I know what cars my jewelers drive.  So what?) parked by the shop.  And I was greeted by the sign stating they were closed due to flu. 

So, yes, Vinny, an entire store can be closed due to the flu.  Especially a family jewelry store in a quiet suburb of Philly.  I hope OMG and his son will bounce back soon.  It’s all well and good to joke about, as Mr. Apron calls it, “Piggy Sickie”, but when it’s close to home, it’s a little scary. 

Get well soon, Messieurs Gerlach.  We miss you.  And don’t get my cuckoo bird or the drummer boy sick from the flu.

 

Because Jesus doesn’t drive a tow truck

Because I finally have a cell phone camera, I snapped up this piece of Irony, part deux, on my drive home from work:

You may not be able to fully read the bumper stick on the right.  It says “JESUS never fails”.  The one on the right (and, actually, also right beneath the Jesus sticker) is the iconic AAA rectangle.  Because you may trust in Jesus never to fail, but Jesus didn’t build your Lexus, and he sure doesn’t drive a tow truck or carry jumper cables and a spare gallon of gas.  That, my friends would be a useful Jesus.

Birthday Irony

A friend of ours teaches 8th grade English and has professed to have a hard time defining “irony” for her class.  When she gave a definition, supported by strong (so she perceives) examples, they still failed to latch onto it.  So now, whenever I come across my own example, I think of facing her class and saying, “that  is irony”.  Hmpf.

As a result of birthday, Hanukkah and other “wisted” item debaucles, I have tried to be more specific in requesting gifts for occasions.  My mother usually asks if there’s something I have in mind, which is a great opportunity to ask for a GPS or a new set of mixing bowls.  It works best with things I don’t care so much about.  Or things I’d think they wouldn’t be able to fuck up.  When I have something exact in mind, I of course, try to describe it using key details, brand names, giving links to website when available.  That is how I ended up with Honda-brand floor mats designed and fit (ha ha) exactly to my car as a birthday gift.  My car, being “used” (for all of 4,000 miles) did not come with floor mats, and the dollar store variety left me with doubts about the relationship between a floor mat and my accelerator.  Seeing as how many thousands of Toyotas were just recalled with such an issue, I asked for, and received, the right floor mats.  Because my husband gets it and knows what I want.

He’s awesome, by the way.

Many Hanukkahs ago, before I knew the mantra of “If you want something done right, do it yourself” I let myself get very disappointed over a gifted sweater.  I had wanted very badly a turtleneck sweater, which was in fashion in 1999, I think.  I asked that it be cotton, and a turtleneck.  That is all.  I don’t even like turtlenecks, but all these sweaters were coming out in flattering shapes with ribbing and cables, so I asked for one, letting the color decision be totally irrelevant.  I knew they were in EVERY store that year.

I opened a Ralph Lauren Chaps (yes, men’s label) crew neck sweater.  Oh, but it was cotton.  She had listened to one aspect of my request.  How do you lie about liking that one in front of your mother?  “Thank you, but it’s men’s size Large and I will never wear it.  Oh, and it’s nothing like what I wanted.”

Another time, the same year (I struck out quite a bit before I wisened up), I asked for the proverbial, everyone-on-campus-had-it peacoat.  Color, again, was not important, but I wanted basic, boring, easy-to-find.  And was given what looked like a men’s brown tweed blazer, not even warm enough to serve as a winter coat. 

This year, my uncle (Mom’s brother) was pestering her to find out what I wanted for my birthday, so she decided to give him one of those specific, can’t-mess-it-up missions.  I had this summer, when Mom was at the outlets, asked if she could get me a new pair of 3-strap Birkenstocks, as my current pair are, in the usual fashion, wearing completely through the soles.  They were out, it being the end of the season, but she entrusted this mission to Uncle Leo.  3 strap Birkenstocks, color unimportant, price no object (since he lives for ebay and outlet shopping).  What do you think of when you hear “3-strap Birkenstock”?  As opposed to “2-strap Birkenstock”?  What would be so important about that third strap that I would specifically ask for it?  Wouldn’t you think it would serve some additional purpose other than the 2 straps already on it such that I would prefer it?   Here’s my schematic of the 3-strap Birkenstock; and here is my Uncle’s/mother’s schematic representation of a 3-strap Birkenstock.  So, as you can see, I received not one, but two pairs of the latter, in both brown leather, and black suede.  They may not stay on my feet, but they sure are pretty.

However, the story does not stop here, because we still haven’t gotten around to irony in birthday presents.  So far, we’ve only explored expected results given my blind foolishness and my family’s ill-fated, yet predictable, attempts to fulfill my wishlist.

Today I signed for another package from my uncle, a random box that arrived with little warning or purpose.  I opened it to reveal…

Wait.  I forgot to tell you what I told my mom I wanted for my birthday this year (aside from Birkenstocks).  I wanted a modern wearable-to-work rain coat.  My rain gear currently consists of a “rain cape” circa 1972, a surplus air force rain jacket, and a royal blue double-breasted raincoat with huge white buttons and lined with red fleece.  But nothing I can feel secure going out for a nice evening out, or to wear to work and be taken seriously.  Unless they took Zorro seriously when he swooped in for a business meeting in his cape.  I don’t have the matching mask, though.  So I asked for a trench coat, something which I think is an easy style to find in impermeable fashions these days.  Mom’s package hasn’t arrived yet with the rest of my birthday presents (only the aforementioned birthday suit came on time), but you’ll never guess what Uncle Leo’s box contained.

A gorgeous lambskin trenchcoat in ochre with an asymmetrical closure and stand-up collar.  Perhaps not a “raincoat” in strictest sense, but a beautiful garment.  How did he know?  I’m so glad I didn’t ask him for it, or I might have gotten this instead.

And that, my friends, is the definition of irony.

The Birthday Suit, part 2

As soon as I unwrapped 2009’s birthday suit, I recalled the one from year’s past that was stumping me last week when I wrote the Birthday Suit post. 

I recalled it, because, as I opened this year’s, I had a flashback.  I had a flashback because it was made of the exact same fabric.  We’re not talking wool crepe, or red chenille, or even a similar plaid.  Exact same.  Teal print with chairs emblazoned on it.  Arm chairs and Eames chairs, chaises and footstools, high chairs and wing chairs.  And I don’t think she remembered the repeat.  She just thought it was so clever!

Again.

I’ll have to dig up a picture of this beauty.  It’s a dress — pattern is pretty nice, actually — with a notched neckline.  My ample bust just fits in the bodice, pushing the notched part out, so the corners turn down, exposing cleavage.  And there’s a jacket.  It’s bolero/cropped length, with puffed elbow sleeves pleated to a buttoned cuff.  The tailoring was very nice; Mom always tries harder for gifts.  She finished the inside seams and put in a zipper beautifully.  I told her as much; it was the only honest(ly nice) thing I could think to say as I picked up the phone to tell her I had opened it. 

Ironically, we were watching Project Runway during the opening of the birthday suit.  We waited till a commercial break, then tore into the gift and groaned.  Oh, the print.  It can’t be so bad.  And it wouldn’t be, except for the fact that the entire dress and jacket combo (a “suit,” mom calls it) was made out of this fabric.  I could tolerate the skirt being that fabric, or the jacket, or the bodice, or the totebag (yes, it came in a matching totebag), but not all of it.  It looks like a clown costume or pajamas.  As we dejectedly turned back to Project Runway, I thought of what Tim Gunn would say:

“Oh, I don’t know.  That fabric is coming on a bit strong.”

“Well, if you’re determined to use that print, make it work.”

“Hmm, you’ve got a long way to go if you want to make it to Bryant Park.  Work, work, work!”

And then there’s Heidi:

“In fashion one day you are in, and the next, you are out.  I don’ t think this was ever in.  You are out.”

Since it did fit, I threw a green sweater over the top, buttoned it all the way up so it only looked like a chair-print skirt, and wore it to work on Friday.  Because I am a good and dutiful daughter.  Because I am grateful and I am trying to see the potential in this outfit.  Because it is the right thing to do.

On Birthday Suits

Now that I’m feeling better, I’m able to look forward to my birthday this week!  My birthday is October 9th.  Though it put me in the younger end of all my classes, I have always enjoyed most aspects of having an October birthday.  As I walked Finley today, we felt the warm sun counteracting the crispiness of the fall air.  We crunched through the first leaves to fall.  Mums and late roses are still in bloom, being gradually replaced by harvest-related items.  The supermarkets are full of root vegetables in those classic autumnal colors.  Pomegranates are in.  Clementines are coming.  And I can finally make pumpkin bread again without the strange looks that accompany the presentation of my favorite quick bread in March. 

It’s finally cool enough to snuggle under blankets at night, yet still warm enough not to need a jacket during the warm parts of the day.  Corduroy is coming, flannel is coming, wool is coming.  My jacket collection will soon be aired, and the novelty of coats means I’m not yet tired of bundling up.  I relish it after a hot summer of running between air-conditioned oases and suffering in endless heat all day long.  Fall is finally here.

Which always means my birthday, in this part of the world.  The only part about my birthday that’s not easy is that, moving around a lot when I was a child, I had never quite made new friends by that point in the school year, and my birthday celebrations were a little lackluster.  New schools and October birthdays were hard.  Ninth grade, freshman year of college, grad school even.  Now, thank goodness, Mr. Apron and I are free to enjoy our own celebration of my birthday.  If I’m lucky, my sister is able to join us, and my mother has come out in years past, too. 

This year, my sister has “fall break” (aka Columbus Day = 3-day weekend, if you can call that a “break”) to coincide with my birthday weekend, so she’ll be joining the festivities.  Mr. Apron has been making secret plans and sharing them with my sister over e-mail, buying secret gifts and squirreling them away, and generally being very sly.  I love it.  He does all the planning, and I just get excited.  One year, he whisked me off to Hartford, Connecticut and we got engaged on the porch of Mark Twain’s house.  Another year he bundled me off on an early morning hike.  Another time he kidnapped me to Brooklyn where we went to an indie flea market.  He knows what I like and takes great pleasure in carrying out these secret missions. 

Another tradition that goes with my birthday is the annual Birthday Suit.  Of course, my first birthday suit is the one I was born in, but each year my mother sews me a “public” birthday suit.  When I was younger, I took great delight in dressing up on the day of my birthday and wearing my new outfit  to school.  It helped carry that special birthday feeling all day long, through fractions and the scientific method and gym class.  Unfortunately, in recent years, the Birthday Suit has become less of a sure thing.  My mother has had 2 spectacular busts in recent years, and I try not to put too much stock in this year’s. 

Last year wasn’t so awful, truly, but it was quite a production.  Mom procured a refrigerator box, out of which she cut a life-size Me, and then dressed Me in my Birthday Suit.  I think there were pants that didn’t quite fit (always with receipts from TJ Maxx), but the top.  Oh, the top.  She thinks I’m still a size 4 with the same breasts I had in 9th grade.  This was a wrap-top in a yellow fabric replete with cars, palm trees, and general “surfer beach bum” theme.  Would I pick it out on my own?  Probably not.  But would I wear it in her presence to be polite?  If I could close it.  Wrap tops are tricky for us well-endowed ladies, due to excess cleavage.  This one didn’t even close around my buxomness.  Oh, I’ll alter it, I assured her as she beamed at the cleverness of the presentation.  It’s sitting in a box on the top shelf of my crafting area marked “UFOs”: UnFinished Objects, where it shall remain until the guilt mounts.  Or something.  That was 2008. 

In 2007, trying to stack the deck, I requested a specific pattern — a popular Asian-inspired style of dress — and she supplied the colorful rayon print.  That was a resounding success.  People ask me about it every time I wear it, and I wear it often.

The Birthday Suit of 2006 was a moderate success — a bias-cut skirt made of pink Cabbage Patch Kids fabric.  It’s very cute, even in a size 4, though the colors in the ‘Kids yarn hair have been a bit difficult to match to a top.  I have worn it several times. 

It was 2005’s Birthday Suit which I recoil in terror from.  This is the Birthday Suit I dread will come back to haunt me every year as I open the box.  I was a preschool assistant teacher from 2003 until 2006, when I went back to school to get my Master’s in Speech Pathology.  I think as long as people hear the word “teacher” they start thinking of tacky apple-themed gifts.  Whiel others had given me notecards, buttons, and desk accessories, I had thus far eschewed the ubiquitous tote bag, and I had hoped my mother was immune.  Alas; fall is also the time for apple-, school bus-, and chalkboard-theme fabrics.  I received overalls covered in those bastions of teacher themed objects: a white background with chalkboards, apples, ABCs, rulers, and school buses.  And if elasticized pants are a sin to wear in the under 65 crowd, then overalls with EZ-access zippers are, too.  I could not pretend to like those, or even to make plans for alteration into a toilet seat cover or drawer liners.  While I have held onto many items of clothing for sentimental reasons (including last year’s wrap-top, my winter coat from age 3, and the first pair of pants I ever modified into bell bottoms), I could not even pretend to attach anything but tackiness-induced trauma to those overalls. 

Maybe they’re in some Salvation Army store, being snapped up and appreciated by a teacher who likes that sort of thing.  I wish her all the best.

Mom has been excitedly talking on the phone with me the last week, teasing me with non-hints about this year’s Birthday Suit.  I can bet it’s going to be colorful.  All I know from her “hints” is that it has animals on it.  Now I’m dreading leopard and zebra prints or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  She mailed it today.  It will likely arrive Wednesday.  As a dutiful daughter, I will give myself some hope for a repeat of 2007’s dress, or the one from 2003, which if I remember correctly, was patchwork wrap pants.  Those I only had to hem myself. 

I love the tradition.  I love the fact that my mother has crafted a new outfit for me to feel special in each year since I was born, when she “crafted” me.  I love that she’s able to show her love that handmade way, instead of with a trip to the mall.  I enjoy and look forward to the tradition each year, even as I fear the product of her imagination.  Sometimes she knows me, she gets me, she nails the outfit.  Other times she’s so far off, it’s like the gifts of Barbie clothes my aunt used to send me for Hanukkah, to the house where no Barbie doll had ever lived. 

I guess it’s a metaphor for our relationship.  As I continue to grow up, she still knows the foundation of Me, the ideas I have and colors I like and values that I hold.  She may not have kept up with some of my interests and abilities, but at least she knows not to make me a Barbie jumper.  I hope.

Knowing too much

On Labor Day, we went to visit my sister-in-law and her new baby, who was extracted (elective, non-medically-necessary elective C-section, remember?) last Thursday, September 3rd, around 1pm.  He’s very cute and looks way too much like my father-in-law, or at least his facial expressions do.  I see my Bianca’s nose, but no traces of the baby’s father in his features.  Looks like Bianca was able to achieve the immaculate conception and birth.  She really is superhuman.  Was discharged a day early (48 hours post C-section), but chose to stay on an extra day, just because.  Was sitting up watching the Eagles game her first night.  The way it was related to us, I expected nothing short of her playing in the Eagles game.  It would be apropo to her Eagles tramp stamp. 

So she and the perfect birth came home Sunday, and we visited Monday.  They’d pulled the bed downstairs into the living room because she’s not supposed to do stairs, but she has to go downstairs (2nd and 3rd floor apartment) to unlock/open the door anyway.  So much for discharge precautions.  We weren’t sure how it was going to be to see her as a mother.  We’d heard the baby’s father had done all the diapering so far, and that the reason we’d been called to come over at that time was to keep her company when the baby’s father had to run out to take his son to his mother.  To keep her company because she was afraid to be alone with the baby.  Well, thankfully that wasn’t entirely true.  She held him one-armed, cradled into a tuck like, appropriately, a football, and managed to change his diaper twice while we were there, muttering, “This wasn’t what I signed up for” and “How ’bout we just wait for your daddy?”  So she didn’t seem afraid of him exactly.  Just inconvenienced.  As she changed his diaper and bundled him back up, she remarked how perhaps Daddy was a better diaper-er, but she was the expert swaddler.  She did look like she knew what she was doing, rolling and tucking him this way and that, but my other SIL and I noticed something.  She swaddled him only up to his armpits, leaving his arms free to flail.  And flail he did.  I kept mum, but my other SIL asked, coyly, if there was a reason he wasn’t completely covered.

“Oh, he likes to have his arms free.”

Ah, the attribution of interests, desires, and preferences in a 4-day-old infant.  I held my tongue.  He flails his arms because they are free, not because he “likes” them that way.  In the womb, he was all tightly cozily curled up, and that same posture (mimicked by swaddling), can help him to “regulate” his sense of body feeling, to be warm and comfortable in your freezingly air-conditioned apartment.  He likes to have his arms free?  He doesn’t even know he has arms yet.  He’s months away from reaching for things, and purposefully sticking his hand/thumb/foot/mother’s earring in his mouth.  Yet I said nothing, because a) she wouldn’t buy it, b) I can’t explain it very well, and c) our relationship is rocky enough since Bianca didn’t receive her invitation to our wedding the exact same day as her sister, and therefore deduced we didn’t want her at our wedding.  (Truth?  Again,  I refrain from comment)

It can be hard to be the one who has taken classes on child development and understands things like reflexes.  It’s hard to be the one who works with young children.  It’s hard to watch parents ascribe movements or gestures to a child’s innate sense of self, or athletic inclinations.  Bianca is already sure her child is going to be  a “bruiser” who will protect his older “intellectual” half-brother. 

“He wants to be fed,” as he opens his mouth when someone brushes his cheek.  “No,” I don’t say, “that’s a rooting reflex that would help him find the breast if you had chosen to give him the best possible nutrition and immunity defenses by breast-feeding.”

“He  likes to pull off his hat,”  as his flailing arms reach his head and nudge the hat off his crown.  “No,” I don’t say, “he doesn’t know he has arms yet and is not making intentional movements.”

“He’ll be a bruiser.”  Huh?

He’ll be this, he’ll do that.  All we can do as parents is to introduce our children to things we think are valuable (in Bianca’s case, the Eagles, and bullying, apparently), and hope they find rewarding and interesting activities to pursue.  I know she’ll be horribly disappointed when he turns out like her brother, my husband: long, lanky, and theatre-loving.  But that’s the way of the world, karmically.  My FIL tried every sport under the sun for Mr. Apron, from football to tennis, to golf, to soccer, to Nascar.  In spite of all this, he loves theatre.  He loves Monty Python.  He used his golf clubs (as you may have read yesterday) to take out adolescent angst on his dresser.  We can’t force our interests on our spawn, especially not on our infant offspring. 

I know no one sits around in the hospital room talking excitedly about when little Johnny will roll over on his own, or the first time Felix will pee in the toilet and not in Mommy’s face or in his Pamper, or even the first steps little Eunique will take.  All these exciting landmarks, by and large, do not differentiate our children from the masses.  Sure, we all hope they’ll develop normally (well, exceptionally, and ahead of schedule, actually), eventually be potty-trained, and learn to talk, but what seems to excite people more is talking about their future careers (architect because he plays with blocks, engineer because she enjoys disassembling her toys, hair dresser because she gave Barbie a mohawk) and which varsity sport they’ll play in high school.  I accept that, even as I stared at the baby snoozing in my lap.  He is a little half-swaddled bundle of potential, one in whom Bianca has invested her hopes and dreams (“All I want is for him to be a star running back”). 

I only hope we’ll get to spend some time with him to show him the Dark Side of performing arts.  At least we can provide some balance in his life, even as he “watches” the Eagles game this weekend.  His visual acuity, Bianca?  He can only see about 8-15 inches.  But will I say anything?  Only on this blog.