Writing About Yourself and Your Dirty Laundry
Courtesy of the Library of Congress images
LAST NIGHT I WENT INTO BATTLE fully armed. I felt most comfortable gearing up because I was eating alone. Suiting up in front of the family invites both ridicule as well as speculation. Solo, I can slide into the full-length apron, tuck the napkin into the collar of my shirt, slide as close to the table as one can and, not having anyone with whom to make conversation, keep my head perfectly straight, thereby cutting down on the possible angles. You see, I am a spotter. In fact, my talents at getting spots on clothes are Olympian in breadth.
Sometimes I strategize better and will wear pre-spotted clothes to the table, particularly when I am tired and it’s just too much work to think and plan and be precise. Sometimes I just change before meals, sliding on something black. But when alone, I’ll suit up. I admit it. Goodness knows, I’ve heard worse.
I have a friend who tells a story of watching his son bite into a meatball hero and actually seeing one of the meatballs launch out the bread’s pointy end, land on the kid’s shoulder, and travel the length of the arm of the shirt. We cheered at the telling of this tale, that is, those of us who consider this a competitive sport. It’s times like these that my husband doesn’t cheer, though, and I always do try to look a little chastened when I make eye contact with him during these stories. Apparently the boy’s family kept the shirt and bring it out as a sort of tunic of honor when the story needs retelling.
Ah, family. I would adore that kind of home field support, though I do not expect it. Instead, I confess to each spotty experience, only this morning stopping my husband on his way out the door to work to tell him about last night when I was home alone with my turkey meatloaf and tomato sauce.
Recounting it, even I was impressed: Arms straight in front of me, reading material set up, the shin-length apron covering the khaki pants, as well as the pink Brooks Brothers shirt, the large cloth napkin looped over my throat like a madwoman’s ascot, the degree of difficulty of landing a spot was high, indeed. And for extra measure, I had taken off the clothes directly after dinner and tossed them in the washer, just in case these aging eyes of mine had missed a spot. Ha, I thought. That’ll show ‘em. I’m clean.
And then, this morning, scanning the shirt as it hung in the shower rod, I saw it. There, in the armpit. Really? Is that a spot of red? I grabbed my glasses. It is. An undeniable spot of red sauce. Wow. Impressive.
And my husband just shook his head, looking just the eensiest bit superior, though completely and utterly amused. That is, until I spied a piece of egg yolk on his lapel.
Marion, you’re in good company. When I was interviewing the charming Sirio Maccioni, owner of the famed Le Cirque restaurant in NYC, he tucked a massive napkin into his collar and slurped his soup and pasta. He tossed me a what-can-you-do look.
Writing about dirty laundry, literally and figuratively, isn’t easy. Suiting up is the only way to get through it.
M. –
My mom had an uncanny knack of wearing stuffed mushrooms. The de rigeuer cocktail nibble in the nineties, it didn’t matter who made them … she loved them all. Instead of inhaling them whole, she daintily took a bite and each and every one dribbled onto her expansive chest. Until finally, it happened one too many times. Minutes into my brother’s wedding reception, she was attacked by a mushroom for the last time. She made my dad promise to save her from herself and never ever allow her to partake again. As far as I know he kept his promise.
I love my chef’s aprons – wear yours with pride and the hell with the detractors.
Take care – S.
Omg. Love it! My husband is in the same boat as you…a total spotter. I’ll share this with him tonight. He’ll get a kick out of it.
HP
Ha! Great tale, Marion. Being a keeper of horses, I often walk around unknowingly with alfalfa in my hair.
Marion, Olympian in breadth, you say? I challenge you to a duel, or whatever spotting would be called between two spotters. Yes, I admit it. I too am a spotter.
Just this morning, having donned clean capris and a sunny yellow T-shirt, I sat down to breakfast with my husband, who uncannily never even draws close to the skills of true spotters. I had taken several bites of several with not one drop of milk spotting my shirt.
Then my husband, the man I love with every fiber of my being, dropped a vitamin. When something drops to the floor, especially vitamins, all hands on deck is the battle cry. You see, we have a cat, Maggie, precious little tuxedo, who loves our vitamins. Not only the aroma she sniffs from them, but also the gel caps in her mouth.
So, when Bob’s vitamin hit the floor, I went into drop to the floor mode while holding a spoonful of cereal and milk in my hand. Where do you think it landed? Would it have the good sense to join the vitamin on the floor? Heck, no! It chose my clean sunny yellow T. Foiled once more. Back to the apron and the napkin for me.
P.S.: My husband had so much fun listening to me read your story. :)
My grand children have a name for my frequent spills. They call it “ledging” because my spills all seem to land on my ample bosom. “Mimi,” they say, “you just ledged again.”
Gorgeous.