The play about America’s racial tensions in the 1930s seethed then exploded with unspent rage. The whole audience was riveted. Except me.
 
I was so distracted by the costumes that the only feeling I could muster was irritation. The men wore Docker-brand slacks and Clark lace-ups. New. Not even scuffled up to look old. It was like a 2016 commercial for Sears or JC Penney’s.  
And it made me wonder if theater management didn’t care enough about the subject and the play to refine the details. The story is the details, people.   

Dad could disassemble a TV or build a chest of drawers or upholster a sofa or make chicken cacciatore. He only drank on a Sundays. Half a Dixie cup of scotch. And everything he did, he did with intention. Methodically. Quietly. He was Zen before Zen swept the Pacific, scaled the Rockies and drifted across the Great Plains to pollinate Wisconsin.
 
But if we left a project unfinished or a tool out of place or questioned his theology, Zen morphed into zealotry. His fury and disappointment became a wretched silence; he simply stopped talking. Sometimes for days.
 
Eventually, one the boys would pry him out of his swampy malaise with a question about how a thermometer works or how to make dandelion wine or why warm salt water cured a sore throat or how he could use a pen to finish crossword puzzles. Even the fathers of our friends called him for answers. He knew it all without being a know-it-all.
 
He was Google before Google.

Blame Catholic School
 
I change roles enough in one day – mother daughter CEO board member yogi writer. So, I like to dress once and be done. That’s a lot to ask of fashion. So I abide by one rule. 
 
If I can’t ride my bike in it, I don’t buy it. And I own only one pair of slacks. So I choose skirts like a good Catholic girl. And footless tights, ankle boots, lycra-blend skirts, and tunics. And nice underwear. In case of an accidental breeze.   

Jicama’s Lessons
 
Last night, I devoured cold white spears of jicama at my favorite empanada restaurant, drenched in warm, spicy cheese sauce. In its natural state, jicama looks like a pregnant turnip, an oddly spherical South American root vegetable.  
 
Luckily, I didn’t know what it looked like so the beefy, young man in the vegetable department showed me today. And then he divulged his secret to choosing them. He said, the perfect ones with smooth skin and no cuts taste more like a water chestnut. Refreshing and a little bland. But the imperfect ones yield a deeper, richer flavor, sort of like a perfectly aged pear.
 
I chose the imperfect one and smiled to think he found a few wrinkles and scars sweeter.

Cheating on black
 
I knew I was a full-fledged philanderer when I purchased a pair of navy blue sling-backs – the toes patent leather, the body embossed like crocodile skin. Straps, buckles and zippers distinguish my typical footwear. Not color.  
 
I’ve certainly dallied with navy. A flirty polka dot micro-pleated skirt paired with a solemn tweed jacket was a favorite. But in the dark of dressing for work, I defaulted to black’s efficiency. I always meant to buy navy shoes but some handsome blackish vamp always seduced me.  
 
So now I’m clearly committed to this affair. At least for the season. But for the record, I’m still married to black.