|glasses, BonLook / blouse, vintage / blazer, vintage / bag, vintage / belt, vintage / jeans, Levi's / boots, Clark's|
It was 40 degrees yesterday, so like a proper Chicagoan I celebrated by wearing a seasonally inappropriate sheer shirt while Christmas shopping at Market Supply Co. Mike's unmatched selection of vintage menswear helped solve my yearly, "What the fuck do I get my brothers" quandary, and I also managed to find a couple goodies for myself. I mean, it's the season for giving, and I don't know who needs a black cocktail dress and sparkly earrings more than me. So, Merry Christmas, me!
Speaking of Christmas, I'm excited to head back to Indiana to help my mom prepare our family's festivities. The poor woman slipped on some ice and broke both bones in her wrist, which required surgery to put back together. Before you start to feel too sorry for her, you should know that she didn't believe me when I broke my wrist when I was 12, as nice bedside manner is not a trait you'll find in my family unless someone else has personally experienced your pain and can vouch for you. I was playing basketball (by myself, in my own driveway), when I tripped (over my own fucking foot) and felt my arm snap when I hit the pavement. I ran inside, confused why I couldn't move my hand and suddenly felt like I needed to barf. "Mom, I hurt my arm," I said, holding up my damaged wing. She looked at me skeptically and told me to go back outside and play. Looking back, I can't blame her for dismissing me. In years prior I used to study her old nursing books and would tell my teachers I had the symptoms of various afflictions and diseases so I could get out of class. People stopped humoring me when I tried to convince my second grade teacher I had testicular cancer and needed to go to the nurse, but if there was something I felt I needed to skip school for I was always ready to come down with something that was most definitely pneumonia, maybe Gordon Syndrome (aka clubfoot), or, most likely, rabies.
A day or two later, my grandmother came to visit, and noticed that I was either getting worse at basketball than I already was, or that my arm was indeed broken. She took me to the ER, where they made my entire year by confirming that I had an actual injury, slapped an ugly white cast on my arm, and gave me the phone so I could call my mom and gloat. She sounded sorry until I tried to leverage two days off school in return for not telling the hospital's social worker about her blatant neglect of my serious medical condition. Did I forget to mention I was also interested in law?
My mother's accident was the first time she had ever broken a bone, and after she drove herself to the hospital she called me and said, "I'm sorry! It really does hurt!" While I wanted to remind her that at least she didn't have to wait until her grandmother came to visit to go to the emergency room, I took the high road and gave her the compassion and sympathy I didn't get those 16 years ago.
"You'd do anything to get out of fixing Christmas dinner, wouldn't you?"