I love my mother for reasons that are simply too long to list, and while I am sometimes saddened by the sudden shift her stroke caused in both our lives, that feeling doesn't last very long because I realize I'm experiencing something that I almost certainly never would have done. I absolutely, genuinely love spending time with her. Not just because she spoils me incessantly by making my breakfast and dinner, packing my lunch and ironing things that would otherwise appear to be made of linen, but because she is relentlessly kind and honest and funny (even funnier now that the stroke and aging have removed that I-could-say-it-but-I-won't filter from her tongue). She's also a bit sassy.
I never really saw too much of myself in her growing up because she was so adept at deflecting any attention from herself, but these past five years have revealed, among so many other things, her resilience, strength and resourcefulness to me in ways that have helped me to see those same qualities in myself. I'll always be grateful for this, because just as knowing from whence you came enables you to know where you're going, I also think that knowing from whom you've come fully allows you to inhabit who you are.
Lately I've been making an effort to glean as many domestic skills from her as possible. I'm doing this because I'm 30 and should know how to iron a button-down shirt properly, but mostly because I've realized that at the moment not having a career per se means I'm going to at least need some domestic awesomeness in my arsenal if the highly improbable inevitability of love ever actually occurs. I don't want to be dogged out Michael Baisden-style because I can't throw down in the kitchen.
Now this is something that shouldn't have to be prefaced, but I'm prefacing it anyway because I'll almost always choose to overly describe something in an effort to be clear. (I know. It seems counter-productive, but I sorta like Alanis-like ironies.) Without any condescension or timidity (because I used to be rather ashamed to admit it as a kid) I can say with absolute certainty that my mom is the best housekeeper ever. Ever. It's not something on which our society places much importance, and my bed-making, mending and until fairly recently cooking, um, "skills" are a hefty testament to this observation, but the woman is good at making one's home sweet. My sister and I talk about it all the time and I think we've both only recently arrived at the place where we're not only proud that she's our mother but that she cared enough to take pride in her work. It did, after all, enable her to clothe, feed and shelter us.
It also has made us absolute sticklers for things like folding, cleaning as we go in the kitchen, vacuuming patterns in the carpet, cushion fluffing and making sandwiches that are tasty but ultimately look tasty, too. Also, I am spoiled. I can make my bed every morning, but I don't because when it's time to tuck it in, it doesn't even feel like a bed unless my mama made it. It's crisp, immaculate and snug - like she's tucking me in every night without actually coming into my room to make me feel like I'm still five.
Which I clearly am still five, but whatever.
In addition to learning how to eyeball it in the kitchen and fold a fitted sheet well I've decided that I must learn to sew. Currently I can re-attach buttons to garments and reinforce seams that my thighs have decimated, but I want to be able to make something. (Already years of paper pushing and e-mailing have led me to hunger for work that is tangible. I can't imagine how neurotic I'll be in another two years.) Anyway, so we're in the fabric store and I look at what was advertised as a simple skirt pattern and think, "Sweet. This'll be so easy. It's like 2 parallelograms. I'll buy some fancy, sassy fabric, thread and voila. Skirt."
Mags says, "I don't have my glasses. Turn the pattern over and read what we need." I have no idea WTF was printed on the back of that thing, but I'd have better luck at becoming fluent reading hieroglyphics.
Fast-forward to my apartment. Weeks ago I got all Bob Villa on the walls (i.e. manic schizo-hammerer drill meister-ish) and installed - stop laughing - curtain rods. Mags isn't a fan of nekkidness in general, but she most certainly doesn't stand for it as it pertains to home decor, so we talked curtains. I happen to suffer from the I-have-disproportionately-expensive-taste affliction and was pining for West Elm/Anthropologie window dressin's, but Mags talked me out of it.
"Shiiiiiiyish. Uh-hundred dollahs on curtains?!" [Insert hand gestures that say "I've had enough!"] "I know this is your place and everything, but if you expect to have something to eat every night you better act like you've got some sense. Lord have mercy," she says sighing. Then she carries on as if I'm no longer there. "Chile tryin' to buy curtains that cost enough to make her homeless."
I spend days and weeks mulling over my "vision" comprised of radiant bright-hued color schemes, giant canvas paintings, gold accents, funky-colored furniture from Etsy or ideas generally inspired by Morocco. She rolls her eyes and says "Harem."
Finally, my Aunt Mary leads us to this Jomar joint where some fabric is a dollar a yard. "These are certainly better prices than that Turkish Trina lady you were talking about," Mags huffs as I stand overwhelmed by the warehouse shelving. We buy some fabric. I wanted white because I want it to be clean and bright and fresh, but I want a heavier white or off-white fabric because the sunlight is bringing out the startled, irate vampire in me every morning. We get something off-white. I have no idea what kind of fabric this is, it's not really curtain-y, but I have passed the point of caring because there are too many options and I just cop out when that happens.
Mags insists she'll just make the curtains for me "in the meantime" because if she knows nothing else she knows her baby girl has a hard time making decisions of any and every sort. I gush about how resourceful and pioneer-woman she is; she rolls her eyes at me and calmly points out that I could easily do this myself. I see flashes of skirt hieroglyphics leading me to once again question my decision to choose the alto saxophone over home economics with Mrs. High-Hair Hembree.
Back at home, I leave it to her to figure out how yards of fabric should become breezily hanging beings in my boudoir. She hangs them tentatively so I can get a feel for the look and of course, suddenly I'm not so sure about my decision. I need color. We add panels of color. It's different, but so am I so they stay. Now they need to be cut to the length I want and hemmed.
"Oooooh," I giddily think to myself. "I've always wanted to learn how to hem things because hemming is important since I'm so short."
I express interest in learning to hem these curtains, which Mags happily supports. I half expect her to wave me away as the clumsy but determined perfectionist that I am, but she just laughs and says okay. I watch her prepare the machine and have flashbacks to watching Edward Scissorhands whittle away at shrubbery. She is commentating as spools of thread spin and whir and I hear words like "bobbing" and think of eating an apple with peanut butter. I have no idea how to thread anything other than a hand-held needle. I'm glad she knows how this contraption works. I watch her hem the first curtain and it just looks so easy and fun.
Then it's my turn. You should know that since the sewing machine has a pedal, I view it like it's a lawnmower, car or video game. (Sidebar: I love driving different things, and occasionally toy with the idea of getting my CDL license and a Peterbilt rig with a nice, cozy bunking area, but I digress.) Naturally I tried to sew like I drive - pedal to the metal - and let. Me. Tell. You.
If the police had to give those seams a Breathalyzer test ...
Lord, have mercy.
I had a good time though, and am confident that I hold a record for the fastest hemming of 3 curtains to date, but man. The other 3 sides of the curtains look stellar because she did them, but the bottoms? Y'all, they're hangin' like a one-legged drunk at the corner sto'.
Recently a friend recommended that I read Do What You Are to discover my perfect career via the secrets of my personality type. It therefore comes as no surprise to anyone that "tailor" was not on the list.