Jack Sprat’s Wardrobe

I have a thing about hemming my pants, I don’t like to do it. It’s not that I do not want pants that fall perfectly, I do, I just cannot rationalize the cost, even if it is usually around ten dollars.

If I am spending around hundred dollars for a pair of slacks and eight percent sales tax, why must I spend an additional ten percent to have the pants shortened to fit me, never mind the time it takes to go to the tailor, anticipate what shoes I intend to wear with the pants, and model said pants? And if I buy inexpensive pants like my Old Navy Khakis, why would I spend thirty percent more than the cost of the pants to have them hemmed? Besides, I don’t mind having my pants a little long, especially if I can tuck them into a boot.

When I visit my sister in South America or my costume designer friend I’m happy to have my clothes mended to fit me properly. I think it is the cost.

A Little Exaggeration

We all know lying is wrong, but we still sneak in mistruths every day.

I share white lies with telemarketers: the owner of the home is out, salespeople: I’ll be back to try on that expensive gown after nap time, my children: No sweetheart, the candy lining the shelves at the drugstore that you can grab easily is just for display, even my husband” I have a headache.

At 31 I don’t feel the need to stretch the truth about my age but I can understand why others might. People have told me that they assumed I was older because of my maturity, something I accept as a compliment. My favorite is when store owners mistake me for my children’s nanny, but they may just be trying to drum up extra business.

Don’t Join This Club

Seven months pregnant and sitting shiva, I was convinced that I had a monopoly on my suffering. More than my siblings as my mom and I lived nearby and I accompanied her to all of her doctor’s appointments. More than her boyfriend because he did not know her as long. More than any other girl who lost her mother because my mommy was special. I had loved her so much and depended on her so dearly and spoke to her so frequently, as if that would be enough to stave off cancer.

I recently read If You Knew Suzy: A Mother, A Daughter, A Reporter’s Notebook by Katherine Rosman and was amazed by the parallels down to the awful conclusion.

Having lost my mother has become such an identifying part of my identity. Perhaps because it is still sixteen months later the wound is still raw. Perhaps because it really is a big deal. I no longer feel the need to tell everyone I meet that I recently lost my mom but I do reveal it with frequency. If I had lost a limb, my left hand or even my thumb, the world would know to handle me with care. But barring that, I disclose my handicap.

Spoiler: Married with Children

To fight the oppressive heat of the afternoon, I donned a silk blue dress with a cinch waist for an alumni lunch at a private dining club nestled in a secluded nook of the city.

On the walk across town, a man approached me.
“I’ve been following you for a block.” He was entranced by my look, he said looking me up to my gold lame headband and down to my braided leather ballet-type sneaker. He wanted to know if I was “in fashion” or “music”. He asked me about the hot clubs, one I’ve read about more than I’ve heard and as a result consistently forget how to pronounce it.

“I’ve been to Tenjune,” I lie. “a while ago,” trying to remember if Tenjune is still considered hot.

He tells me of a party for Usher last week and asks for my card.

Motivating for the Museum

Today is a scorcher, relatively speaking. After a long winter with crazy snowstorms and rainstorms, a sunny 83 degrees feels like summer.

With my husband gone, I pat myself on the back for getting the kids to the park with the requisite blueberry muffin for my daughter and large coffee for me by 8:30. (side note: if my expensive and packed corner coffee joint that I frequent regularly is out of plain cream cheese and offers me the vegetable option, do not charge me the surcharge.) Now my son is napping, my daughter is watching Elmo on the iPhone (the television is not working) and I’m contemplating taking the kids to a museum.

I had been on a decent kick of bringing the two to the Guggenheim, the Museum of Natural History and the MoMa. Now that Monet’s water lily exhibit is supposed to end shortly at the MoMa I had psyched myself to bring the two on the subway to the show. It is so beautiful outside and the thought of strapping one child to my body while pushing the other in the stroller to go on the subway then walk a few blocks to get to the museum which may be crowded and then repeat to go home is not appealing.

Taking the kids to the museum is a lot like exercising, difficult to motivate, enjoyable during the event and satisfying once the mission is accomplished.

On the hot day, I’m wondering if the kids would have just as much fun playing outside chasing balls in the neighborhood.

When the husband’s away…

Woman sunbathing

My husband left this morning for a quick business trip abroad. I said the requisite I’ll miss you’s and even shared a deep kiss good-bye. But the fact is, I kind of like when he is gone for a brief period.

I have the bed to myself. I do not have to hear him snore or accuse me in the middle of the night of grinding my teeth or hogging the blanket.

Couples Crush

On my morning trip to the nearly empty park today, a cute couple with an 18-month old daughter joined us. He was rocker cool with a leather jacket and sideburns. His wife had gorgeous long blonde hair and an infectious smile revealing her straight white teeth. *I’m of the belief that, like manners, you only notice teeth when they are bad, or exceptionally good. Her teeth were exceptional.

Considering I’ve seen paparazzi standing outside the playground gates to shoot Hugh Jackman playing with his daughter, I thought this family could be music royalty without the groupies.