While I am not acutely self-conscious, I generally try to present my best side, most of the time. My mother's first career in the fifties was as a beautician, a concept that has as much resonance today as the three-martini lunch. I surmise that those were different times. And she was beautiful. When she left our house she was flawlessly dressed, with her styled hair and fresh application of lipstick. She and my father were also very conservative, in the middle class Catholic sense. For me and my sisters that played out as strict curfews, long hemlines when minis reigned and an immaculate mien. While naturally I rebelled, my picque with their directives only extended as far as they tried to control my social lifestyle. For some reason much of the rest of it stuck, and today as I type this on my Ipad I am making an appearance in court as a member of one of the most buttoned down professions, in a black wool crepe suit.
I experienced a magnificent rush of love for my husband soon after the start of our courtship despite his scuffed, inexpensive shoes with broken shoelaces and his dingy shirts and frayed cuffs. He demonstrated his love for me by cleaning up, and still does--most of the time. Fifteen years after our hookup I still experience a significant culture clash with the in-law nonchalance. I've described at length how the house resembles Miss Havisham's. My mother-in-law is a sight to behold as well.
Yesterday at dinner we were recounting what a drag it was to come home after a perfectly lovely afternoon to another animal control officer on the door step investigating yet one more animal abuse complaint about Stinky. My mother-in-law chimed in. "People stop me on the street and ask me if I have enough to eat," she craggled with an air of disbelief. "Do you think" said I, "it's because of that big hole in your shirt and because you don't comb your hair?" Oy vez.
I experienced a magnificent rush of love for my husband soon after the start of our courtship despite his scuffed, inexpensive shoes with broken shoelaces and his dingy shirts and frayed cuffs. He demonstrated his love for me by cleaning up, and still does--most of the time. Fifteen years after our hookup I still experience a significant culture clash with the in-law nonchalance. I've described at length how the house resembles Miss Havisham's. My mother-in-law is a sight to behold as well.
Yesterday at dinner we were recounting what a drag it was to come home after a perfectly lovely afternoon to another animal control officer on the door step investigating yet one more animal abuse complaint about Stinky. My mother-in-law chimed in. "People stop me on the street and ask me if I have enough to eat," she craggled with an air of disbelief. "Do you think" said I, "it's because of that big hole in your shirt and because you don't comb your hair?" Oy vez.
