Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium
*Sigh*
Dear readers you know that I believe to my core that Mr. P is perfection on earth. Yes he most certainly is. It's just that the earth is not perfect and, hence, neither is Mr. P. For instance Mr. P will openly admit, and I will readily agree, that I married him in spite of his wardrobe. Yes I did. Gosh, was he ever the sartorial disaster when we first met. Mr. P had improved (slightly) by our wedding day and since then he has improved (greatly) but, unfortunately, over the years he has not made the strides I once believed him most capable of making.
*Sigh*
This past Christmas was Mr. P's birthday. And it was a milestone year. Not a milestone other people, nations, or cultures observe but a milestone Mr. P and I observe. You see, to keep Mr. P in the driver's seat with his wardrobe and, more importantly, keep me his contented driver's side passenger, he agreed at our betrothal to receive certain items of clothing or personal effects on certain birthdays. For instance, his first birthday as a married couple was his "Pipe Birthday".
Mr. P smokes a pipe. Yes he does. But being Mr. P, the pipes he smoked before we met were awful. This is because Mr. P was once a commie. And it was during his Red college days when Mr. P decided to take up the aristocratic sport of pipe smoking. This decision caused him to be torn in two because how can you be a commie, and, smoke a pipe? Okay, okay, how can you be a commie, and, smoke a tobacco pipe? Happily. Mr. P is naturally brighter than the ordinary college commie, and he came up with a solution. He went to the tobacconist and asked to be shown the line of "Working Men Pipes". Among those working men pipes he spied one that was sure to warm the cold, collective hearts of his fellow comrades; a Soviet gulag-issued one fashioned from cinder blocks. Thankfully, I did not met Mr. P during his Red college days. I met him when he was, due to his intelligence, hard work, discipline, and good old-fashioned sweat, a rather promising new member of the bourgeoisie. The undeniable proof Mr. P had slipped (unnoticed by him) in to the bourgeoisie was in his pipe rack. Along side of his trusty Soviet gulag-issued cinder block and the British Social Security issued plastique pipes he had picked up from a Greenwich Village tobacconist during his New York Poet-At-Large days were two very recent additions; the drug-store issued corn cob, and the classic clay. The classic clay, he informed me, he had even taken to ordering by the dozen from the tobacconist at Williamsburg as it was very fragile (unlike his Soviet cinder block). I had never met a man who smoked either the classic clay or the drug store corn cob. I had heard the fish tales that such men existed and like all fish tales, never put much stock in them. And, lo and behold, such man who did such a thing was nibbling on my hook. So, after playing with him a bit, I decided to reel him in. Mr. P didn't seem to mind. And he also didn't seem to mind (much) after he had sealed his fate by slipping the engagement ring on my finger to follow my instructions of placing his collection of finer Working Men Pipes in the dustbin. For the rest of our engagement and until his first birthday as bourgeoisie man and wife, Mr. P contentedly puffed away on his classic clay or corn cob. Then, as enthusiastic brides tend to be, I was confident that I could love Mr. P even more if he smoked a pipe that was as pleasing to the eyes as the aroma was to the nose. So before his birthday off to the tobacconist I went. After having a good chinwag about what-was-what with that most estimable purveyor of all things manly, and taking into consideration Mr. P occasionally flirted with delusions of grandeur by fancying himself still a firm member of the proletariat, I eschewed the really fine English pipes with sterling silver embellishments and went for two perfectly gorgeous lesser pipes (but still hallmarked) from Italy and Ireland. When the birthday boy opened his gifts, he was taken aback to be the owner of such fine pipes. But being my husband and not Lot's wife, after Mr. P consumed his first bowl, he never looked back.
Since the "Pipe Birthday", on the milestone years agreed upon at the time of our betrothal (young ladies, never forget a man in the heat of his Asking Moment will agree to just about anything to help you to say yes, so demand wisely.), Mr. P has enjoyed the "Bath Towel, Soaps, and Scents Birthday", the "Bristle (Badger&Boar) Birthday" the "Midnight Blue Birthday", the "Grey Flannels Birthday", the "Bowtie Birthday", and even the almighty "Slipper Birthday". All of these birthdays, of course, were building up to the crescendo. Or this past birthday, the long awaited and much anticipated (by me not him you dimwits) the"Velvet Smoking Jacket Birthday".
And then, about three months before the Peperiums made it to the "Velvet Smoking Jacket Birthday" which was to be the evening, after a 20 year wait, I was finally going to see Mr. P splendidly shaved, scented, attired and seated in his wing chair before the fire, smoking one of his gorgeous, hallmarked pipes and in between his puffs and sips of something poured according to his tastes, and nibbles on toasts adorned with Scottish smoked salmon, Mr. P was to be reading aloud something romantic from the poet Wodehouse while I, also splendidly bathed, scented, and attired according to Mr. P's tastes sat across from him in my chair sipping on something and enjoying oysters on the half shell, the stock market went and dropped its bottom. On our wedding anniversary no less. How cold. Then, after the stock market went the way of ladies pantelettes of pre-1917 Russia have gone, the Big 3, who had decades ago decided to take up the manufacturing of Utopians instead of automobiles, went the way all Utopians eventually do; belly up. These 2 momentous developments have had their ripple effects. And one of them, like Mr. P had once desired during his Red college days, is that the Peperiums are now firm members of the proletariat. Hence, no "Velvet Smoking Jacket Birthday" for me, excuse me, for Mr. P.
*Sigh*
But thankfully, losing Mr. P's Velvet Smoking Jacket as well as the shirt on his back has brought us to our collective senses. Mr. P's pipe smoking days had been greatly reduced since he had become a father. Being the responsible type he had taken a goodish sized insurance policy to keep his offspring and ball and chain going should he snuff it in an untimely fashion. The insurance company frowned upon his pipe smoking and so to make them smile, he told them he'd cool it. And he did. Since we could not have the Velvet Smoking Jacket birthday, I asked Mr. P if we could at least have his pipe back. He said yes. So he packed up the kids in the car and took them off to the tobacconist to begin the tradition of letting them pick out the tobacco he would smoke. That used to be my treat but I really do not want ninnies for children. So, to prevent having ninnies, I've handed my treat over to the children so they can learn how truly wonderful the scent of tobacco is by going to the tobacconist with their father and taking great deep breaths of all the different tobaccos in all of their large glass jars. Before they departed Mr. P told me he was contemplating purchasing himself a new mid-grade pipe since the ones I had given him were almost 20 years old. But, he did not come home with a new pipe because the tobacconist informed Mr. P the pipes I gave him are better than anything he could buy today. So, once again we have further proof that it always pays to purchase quality no matter what Karl Marx says.
Oh, and there is one thing I must mention in regard to smoking jackets for a certain, small but tall, and well-defined section of our readership : During the Victorian days smoking jackets were considered perfectly suitable items of clothing for curates. Indeed, smoking jackets were so suitable and made a curate look so suitable looking that gifts of hand-embroidered matching smoking caps to curates from either married or unmarried ladies did not raise eyebrows in the least. And this was during the Victorian days. So, as my maternal grandmother always used to say, "Put that in your pipe and smoke it!"
*Sigh*
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