After a long and furiously lovely week of workshopping a musical that renewed my love for the word, I had a day off to relax, and try to fight my body's desire to break down completely in a mess of allergy-slash-cold.
Netflix was partner in this battle. Although I hadn't stitched in well over ten days, Ruggy left the house on Sunday with the order that I would chill and take it easy. This was a struggle. My petite stash called to me with its siren song, Gorgeous George gleamed purple, reflecting the light of the soft fall day outside the window...
I turned on the TV.
(I hate to turn on the TV.)
I scrolled through Netflix.
(I HATE to scroll through Netflix.)
And then...after endless categories created to lure you into mindless bouts of bingewatching, I landed on Iris, barked WELL YEAH to the empty apartment, and settled in. About three quarters of the way through, the parade of color and texture was undeniable. I got up to cut out a bodice or two. The film ended, and Netflix slyly suggested Advanced Style. I shrugged my shoulders and I left it on, thinking I'd keep stitching with background noise. Two minutes in, I realized this required my full attention, even more than the Liberty tana lawn on my table. (Yeah.) I ordered some fajitas and sat my ass in front of the boob tube.
If I ever see Ari Seth Cohen on the street, I'm going to hug him, and ask if I can walk with him for a few blocks. Well, no, first I'm going to tell him that we shared the same best friend growing up. Then I'll continue with the inappropriate physical contact. What a beautiful film! I felt like I spent the evening with my Nan, or with the fashionable gal my Nan was, but could not be. Don't get me wrong, she had style, but she had too much generosity of spirit to embrace that style fully for herself. And too many years of making ends meet to be comfortable with spending a dime on herself.
She was a huge enabler of style for me, though. Almost every weekend, my Mom would drop us off at the mall, or we'd take the bus sometimes, and arm in arm we'd hit the stores, her applauding my choices and using her Social Security check to fill up bags for me, accompanied by a slice of S'barro pizza midway through. And chocolate cake to finish, of course.
If you've read the yammering around here, you've heard this story before. But what struck me last night was a deep regret, that I didn't know how to sew when she was with us. I think she would have delighted in it, in a way that a best friend would have, in a way that someone whose every Saturday was spent, literally arm in arm, in a New Jersey Mall would have: You can make those things for yourself now? IN ANY COLOR YOU CAN DREAM OF?
I would have made her such things. I would have had to assure her that the cost wasn't much, I would have had to assure her that the time was so well spent, as in hindsight all our time together was, I would have had to tempt her into taking those things, but I would have draped her in color.