New Jacket, Old Argument

We pull into my parents’ driveway after having traveled for twenty-four hours, across mountains, prairies, and the Precambrian Shield. And after only one butt-puckering incident seven hours behind us now, where white-out conditions in Winnipeg threatened to toss us into a ditch, we have arrived in one piece. Disheveled, sleepy-eyed, but happy to finally be at the old homestead, we trudge into the house.

“What an ugly jacket,” my Mom says as soon I open the door. “It’s horrible. It looks like a man’s coat.”

“Nice to see you too Mom,” I say and drop my suitcase on the floor.

She pauses, her gaze falters for a second. It’s been over a year since I’ve been home and we haven’t seen each other since then. Her chagrin lasts less than a second then she begins giving everyone hugs and kisses. My dad walks around the corner, we go through another round of manhandling as we kick off boots, hang coats, and kiss about a hundred times. I abandon my daughter to be smothered in affection and listen to the oohs and ahs. “Look how tall you are.” “Look how beautiful.” “You look smart. Doesn’t she look smart?” I head for my old room taking my jacket with me where I bury my face in the warm, soft leather; my nose fills with the rich smell of tanned suede before I reluctantly hang it in the closet.

The ugly, horrible, man’s coat, is the first for-real, grown-up article of clothing I’ve purchased in my life. I spent more money on it then all of my other clothes combined. Although that isn’t saying much seeing as the rest of my clothing consists of t-shirts which say, EK 10K, or Windermere Loop Triathlon, or have swim club logos, or are old work uniforms. I’ve had my jacket for almost six months and I still love to run my hands over the distressed leather, sometimes petting it like it was a lap dog.

The fact that my mom hated it on sight doesn’t surprise me in the least. Her vision of clothes for me runs towards what I like to call, Old Lady Garish. Unless it is made from polyester, has puffy sleeves, ruffles around the neck, and sports large pink and orange flowers, she will hate it. In her mind I think she sees me as being four-foot, ten inches tall, weighing seventy-five pounds, and possibly in my late eighties, or early nineties.

After ensuring that my jacket is safe I wander back out into the front room where Mom is petting my daughter like she is a small lap dog, I hear her say that she is, too skinny, and smiles. “You need to bring this child to the doctor,” Mom says. “She is all skin and bone.”

I drop into a low arm-chair and dangle my legs over the side. “She’s fine,” I say. “Besides, ahh’ve juoust taaaken her for a checkup,” I yawn.

Mom gives me a disapproving look, I’m not sure if that look means, don’t talk and yawn at the same time, or, I’m miffed because you are responsible enough to take your daughter to the doctor so I can’t treat you like you are five. Then she gives me the once over. “You’re too skinny too,” she says.

“Neither of us is too skinny,” I reply. Although the kid is pretty skinny, I think. But she’s a kid. A kid who runs around all day and then at mealtimes spends more time talking then eating.

***

The smell of baking bread and homemade stew is enticing, so when mom calls we make a beeline for the kitchen. The next fifteen minutes is pretty quiet as we devour my favourite meal. It is what my husband calls, Bob by the Lake, but in reality is called, zoldbabfozelek, or in English, green bean stew. Even the “too skinny” grand kid makes a pretty good imitation of eating.

Fifteen minutes of bliss and then it begins…

“So where did you get that hideous coat?” Mom asks. “It looks like something the cat dragged in.” And thus begins the next volley in what I like to call, The War of Trying to Get her Only Daughter to Dress Like a Dork.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” I gush. “It’s soft and warm. The sleeves fit just perfect, and if it gets really cold I still have room for a hoody underneath it.”

Mom looks irritated. I think she was expecting me to jump on that statement like a Jackfish going after a minnow. There is a long pause as she tries to figure out a way to make more disparaging remarks about my jacket without coming across as mean and bitchy. The chair squeaks under her as she shifts her weight around. “It looks old and used.”

“I know,” I say. “It took me forever to find exactly what I wanted.” I’m, so, not leaving her any wiggle room.

To hell with casualties, she looks at my dad for support. “John, tell her it’s ugly,” she says.

Dad is in the middle of a conversation with his eight year old granddaughter and lifts his head when he hears her call. “What?”

“Her jacket,” Mom explains. “It is ugly don’t you think?”

My dad looks at her and then at me with a blank expression. “I’m assuming you wore a jacket because it is cold outside,” he says.

“Yup,” I say and grin. Dad cares even less about clothes then I do. Why mom would look to him for support on this issue is beyond me.

Mom grumbles and starts clearing dishes. She shoos everyone out the door before we can help. I know she wants to be left alone so she can work out Plan B. It will probably be called, I Read An Article About How Bad Women Look In Scruffy Leather Jackets. Or Plan C – We Should Go Shopping Because I Haven’t Gotten You A Christmas Present Yet And I Was Thinking Of Buying You A New Winter Coat, And Look, Isn’t That A Red Cross Donation Bin?

But I give a wide smile because I know that her plans will be ineffectual against my Plan A – I Love My New Jacket, And I Can’t Hear You.

Photo Credit

Photo from the Microsoft Office Clipart Collection

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