Michael responds! "A well-made, but one-dimensional hit piece."

To the misled minions of MPB (Misleading Propagandist Blathering):

As guest blogger, I decided to use as today's title an eerily appropriate phrase from a review of the recent blockbuster,  The Social Network.  

Still reeling from yesterday's inaccurate portrayal of my corduroy jacket purchase, not to mention the slanderous representation of my persona as well as of my domestic relationship with your regular host, I have decided to use this rare opportunity to address you all as a means of setting the record straight.

I have been granted this opportunity only because, in order to keep up the pretense of being too ill with what appears to me as the most inconsequential flu bug ever to do his fair share of the dog-walking, Peter has been forced to pretend that his symptoms are also too severe to blog.  (Oh, please.  That little academy-award winner is right at this moment luxuriating under the duvet, lips smeared with MY Burt's Bees lip balm, fake-sniffling every couple of minutes, while I type my fingers to the bone so that you, dear readers, will not have to go a day without your RDA of MPB.  But at least you will now know the truth, so I can't complain.  Much.)

What specious barb shall I address myself to first?  That I eschew home-sewn couture?  That I dress like a slut?  That it was my fault that I found myself shopping at the local American Apparel store?  Let's just take these questions in the order they just occurred to me.

Lie #1: Michael doesn't appreciate the clothes Peter has sewn for him.  

This is just laughable.  Peter's pieces have largely supplanted their commercially produced counterparts in those categories in which they fall.  Dress shirts?  On occasions on which I wish to look my best and fanciest -- nights at the opera, first lessons with new students, dinners at elegant restaurants (I added this last example in the hope that Peter will one day take me out to such an establishment) -- I alternate between the two gorgeous dress shirts Peter's sewn for me.  (The Liberty of London fabric one and the green and white striped number, for those of you in the know.)  Sportswear?  If you look at our vacation photos you will note that in them I am wearing nothing else (on top) than my plaid cotton shirts and the two tank tops Peter made for me.  I continue this pattern back home as well.  

In truth, I love the idea that nobody else has a garment like mine.  I love the perfect fit that custom-tailoring allows.  And I feel really special knowing someone has spent time manufacturing something just for me.  

I am patiently awaiting home-sewn replacements for my jeans, my suits, and my one-piece ribbed cotton step-in dance club outfits.  (Some fuddy-duddies think 45-year-olds should avoid the latter; I won't name any names.)

Lie #2: Michael likes to dress like a slut.  

OK, this is not exactly a lie.  But one has to consider the context.  I would not wear a Speedo to Martha Stewart's latest garden party [Martha breathes a sigh of relief].  But Peter and I live in Chelsea, where tank tops are considered de rigeur at brunch.  In January.   It is expected here that 1) you keep up your work-out regimen to maximize your assets and 2) that you dress to display said assets to their advantage.  Peter, as you can see from many of the slutty, I mean, artistic photos on this blog, has committed to maintaining his Chelsea physique, but he contrarily refuses to show it off in public.  

I, on the other hand, in deference to the conventions of my community, seek out the clingy, the low-cut, the short-short, and the peek-a-boo whenever these options are available.  And they always are, in the stores in Chelsea.  I'd hoped that having my own personal tailor would permit me to set  daring new standards of over-exposure in our neighborhood, but Sister Peter the Demure has put her sensibly shod foot down over and over, cramping my style in the process.

In all honesty, occasionally I appreciate Peter's sense of propriety, which I hope will prevent me from becoming the next generation's Mamie Van Doren.  (Especially since there is a good chance that Mamie herself will still be flaunting her assets for the next generation as well.)

Lie #3: Michael wanted to shop at American Apparel last month.  Peter attempted to side-step this issue yesterday, but today we WILL "get into that."

The story began last month, when, as many of you know, my poor, elderly mother expressed that all she wanted in commemoration of her 70th birthday was a photograph of all her children and their partners.  In formal and casual outfits.  In 7 different photographic settings.  And the casual shirts had to be of light, solid colors (but not white) and with button-down collars.  Just a simple wish from a simple old woman.

Knowing my mom's attention to detail and her insistence on our following her orders, I mean, suggestions, I started preparing my wardrobe for the shoot weeks in advance, making sure each piece satisfied the matriarchal stipulations.  Peter, coming from a far more laid-back family, kept assuring me that he had everything he needed, but I knew for a fact that he did not have a button-collar shirt.  "Oh, I'll just sew some buttons onto the collar of one of my shirts."

Yeah, just like he'll sew that $100 pile of wool fabric I bought into a suit.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

As the shoot date drew nearer, I began to break out in stress-hives.  My mother's happiness (and thus everyone's) was at stake.  Finally, after seeing Peter day after day nonchalantly waving his hands around and speaking vaguely of workable shirts in the back of his closet, I decided to take matters into my own hands, before I exploded with anxiety.

I knew that this move would infuriate Peter, who doesn't cotton to having sartorial decisions made for him, so I had to operate in secret.  First, I checked out the Salvation Army, knowing how Peter admires thrift, but they were all out of solid-light-colored, button-down collar dress shirts in his size, so I had to visit the stores in the neighborhood.  I started with the Gap and Banana Republic because of their generous return policies.  (I was pretty certain Peter would not want to wear ever again any shirt I'd presumed to pick out for him, so I figured we could just leave the tags on during the shoot and return the shirt afterwards.  I know, I'm not proud of my deceit, but I was desperate not to disappoint my mom.)  Sadly, the only button-collar shirts I found at either store were plaid -- unacceptable!

Since we were now up to the day before the shoot, I had one more option -- American Apparel.  They were my last choice, because their return policy stipulates exchanges or store credit only.  I would not gain any thrift points for this decision, but remember, I was desperate.  To my relief, they had dress shirts that would fit the requirements in sizes and colors suitable to my partner.  (As the spouse of a sewist, I recognized the poor construction and cheap fabric of this garment, to my credit, but hey, it had to look good only once and only in a photo.)  

Long story short, Peter wore the lilac shirt (looking pretty cute in it, in my opinion) the one time, the tags tucked surreptitiously inside while the camera clicked away.  The next day, I returned it to the store, earning a store credit that I was now forced -- forced, I tell you! -- to spend.  On myself.

Luckily, the clerk had just put out on display an assortment of newly arrived fall jackets.  (This is one category in which I've long had no workable options.)  They had one in a size just snug enough to show off my gym bod and in one of my best colors, a deep sort of liver-y shade.  (It looks better than it sounds.)  I felt elated to have come away from this debacle with a wearable, adorable garment that filled a longstanding void in my wardrobe.

And then to be castigated for over-spending, for buying RTW, for deigning to mock my partner by choosing a garment made of a fabric so close to the one he'd recently bought for a suit for himself!  Well, whose apathy forced me to run to purchase store-bought garments in the first place?

And speaking of RTW, let me end by extolling their principle virtue: they are READY to wear.  One cannot wear a promise, or a pattern, or even a pile of expensive wool fabric (have I mentioned this fabric?).  But one can pull on a ready-to-wear garment for a photo shoot or for any other occasion, knowing that, even if the construction in inferior, even if the fit is imperfect, at least one is not naked in public.  

That would be too slutty, even for me.