✨The Fashionista✨
Rise Ramblings #234
While watching “The Clothes Don’t Make The Turtle,” I noticed something.
I found it interesting that Raph, Mikey, and Leo were content with Raph’s outfit choice until Donnie stated that he wasn’t “in love with it, ya’ know.”
Suddenly, Raph declares “I’m a disaster!” Albeit ridiculously endearing, it was a little strange to see his sudden shift from moderately content to absolute dissatisfaction. Huh…
Then, the disaster twins decide to help him out.
Take a note of their outfit choices.
Raph tries on all of these fits and more.
Donnie’s first choice is a mild “no.” Leo’s choice is a hard “NO.” (Not surprising, lol.) But then, the overwhelming consensus lands on Raph’s fourth outfit, which ended up being Donatello’s other pick for his brother.
So, in summary, Raph tried on his personal choice for an outfit, of which they rejected. Then, ultimately, Donatello picked out an outfit for his brother, and that pick ended up being perfect. Hmm…
Then I noticed something else. In this episode, we never get a Donnie “curtain reveal” moment, to our disdain. I mean, Raph, Leo, and Mikey got to try on several different outfits in order to get their brothers' opinions before landing on that “perfect outfit, you know the one.” All of his brothers got to shine. Why not DonTron?
Then it hit me.
The try-ons were to get their brothers' opinions and approval. And, for his brothers' choices, he was a major contributor in assisting them in pulling their looks together.
What if, bear with me, Donnie didn’t need the "curtain scene" because he was so confident in his fashion sense that he didn’t need to ask his brothers for help to pick out a great look.
…or they figured out how to break Hypno’s spell before he could get a “curtain reveal.” BUT STILL-
Look at his outfit choices in this episode. Some of his wardrobe changes were off-screen, but all of them were fire.
(I added the baseball cap pic because it makes me happy. I wish we'd seen more of that fit.)
To me, he makes some really smart choices for himself, pushing the envelope of what is expected and taking chances: an open collar with no tie for a “black tie” event, a beanie and spiked wristbands for their “gansta look,” no socks with loafers (a viral fashion trend that actually began in Africa) with old man slacks in his reclined pose. *muah* Chef’s kiss!
But Don’s fashion sense doesn’t just shine in this episode.
In “Reparin’ the Baron” the boys go to Draxum’s apartment. Leo and Donnie show up in some extra nice “Sunday Dinner” twin drip.
The gold is in the details. Everything Leo is wearing, Donnie rocks its compliment: for Leo’s round collar, Donnie’s is angled, for Leo’s blue shirt, Donnie’s is white, For Leo’s light slacks, Donnie’s are dark. Blah blah blah. It’s so good!
Look at the winter fit in Snow Day.
Again, Donnie is Leo’s perfect compliment. As a pair? Fire.
Donnie has “the eye.” I can go on and on with examples, but I’ve said all of that to say this…
In the future, we see that Donatello’s technology had major pull in the resistance. He had drone ships patrolling the skies. He built and designed Leo’s arm, Casey’s chainsaw-hockey stick, and Casey's mask. The list goes on…
But, when Donatello from the past see’s Casey’s clothing from the future, he says this:
We know about the “Genius Built” brand. We’ve seen that logo on all of his tech up to this point. But, here he didn’t just say “Genius Built.” He said, “Genius Built Apparel.”
“Apparel” is not a tech brand. “Apparel” is a fashion brand. Of course, tech is incorporated into the clothing, but still.
This means that past Donatello secured this trademark with plans of creating a fashion brand, comparable to the likes of Gucci, Ralph Lauren, or any other modern clothing brand, as a subsidiary of “Genius Built,” the tech company.
And why not? The evidence has been in front of us this entire time. He has a sharp eye for style, fashion, and trends. It is easily canon that he can sew. Splinter sewed their ninja garbs in “Insane in the Mama Train,” and there is a sewing machine in the house.
They already learned Ninjutsu through basically osmosis, so learning to sew is not too far-fetched.
And here it is, right in front of us, Casey’s entire ensemble, from mask, to weapons, to clothing, was made by Donatello in the middle of the apocalypse under the brand name “Genius Built Apparel.”
And that was just in the bad future. Resources were limited, they didn’t have access to much of anything in that broken world as they were survivors of a devastating Krang invasion. Yet, he created all of this.
However, now that they’ve changed the future, his future as a fashion designer is limitless. Think of what Donatello could produce with unlimited resources, unlimited technology, and unlimited creative freedom.
Tech genius. Clothing designer. Fashionista. Future Genius Built Apparel Owner and CEO. I’m sorry, but I have to call it...
Donatello Hamato of the present, of the bad future, and of the good future is a fashion icon, the likes of which the world has never seen.
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Update:
I've decided to make this concept into a mini-comic series!
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Recently I found a list I made several months ago of Big Mama words that she uses in canon, so I thought I'd share it. (Note: this is not complete and the notes on meaning/use are limited by what I guessed from context.)
Biddily-boo: auction, bidding
Bimbally bugs: no particularly new meaning, her way of saying bugs
Contrapulation: complex object, contraption
Crackadoo: mess, disturbance
Dimbally door: no particularly new meaning, her way of saying door
Fantumptuous: very good, fabulous, amazing
Fizzy-winkle: mess, chaos
Fuggy-doodles: thieves
Hollydoo: apparently a sort of limb
Malutacious monsters: positive apparently
Meddle-doos: meddlers, irritants
Oh, giggily-pin: exclamation
Scramulent: good, pleasing (occasionally used sarcastically)
Scrumbulent: good, pleasing
Silly-billy: silly
Skanktonious: stinky, repulsive
Tissle-tassle: problem, possibly a little issue that gets bigger
Thrashy-diddle: fight
And I organized them alphabetically because it was fun. If anyone has more, feel free to add!
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When I was young I was dating this absolute cocknob right as I graduated high school. More on that later.
As a present ostensibly to me (but mostly my folks) I was whisked away after graduation to spend two weeks in Europe with my parents. The plan was to see London, Paris, and Heidelberg.
I was moody and a teenager and was largely disgruntled by this fabulous adventure. I went along with sullen foot dragging and black looks. I commandeered my reprehensible boyfriends enormous black hoodie and wore it on the trip. At the start of our jaunt into London I mentioned offhandedly to my mom that it was burning when I peed.
“You’re just dehydrated, and your period is about to start.”
She was right on both counts. I upped my water content, and had my period (which may have contributed to my overall ill humors.)
So we found ourselves in a tiny hotel in Paris, a week into our jaunt, when I repeated, “Man, it just really burns when I pee.”
“What?!” my mom demanded.
“I told you like a week ago that it was burning.”
“Augh! Now we have to go to the hospital!” she proclaimed.
“What?! Why?”
“Because,” she snapped, “You have a bladder infection.”
More bickering ensued, and my temperament was not improved by knowing I’d told her I was having an issue a week ago and been ignored.
My dad heard about the itinerary shift with resignation and we trooped down the narrow stairs as a family to ask the concierge where the nearest hospital was.
The absolutely lovely man at the desk was immediately so concerned when we asked for directions. “Is everything okay?” he asked with very genuine sympathy and I muttered that everything was fine, we just needed a quick visit.
Lucky for us the hospital was only a few blocks away. We walked there and the building was massive, home to what appeared to be several separate wings but no obvious main entrance.
We wandered inside and it was like a weird dream. There was no one around. Huge echoing corridors met us as we peered in vain for a front desk or possibly signs. We searched with increasing frustration for anyone to talk to and somehow found ourselves in some tiny back offices.
A woman sat at her desk and looked bewildered to see three lost Americans approaching her. She greeted us and as a family we all simultaneously realized the massive flaw in our current course.
You see, dear reader, we did not speak French. My dad and I both spoke German. I inquired politely if she also spoke German and she shook her head looking increasingly cornered. We asked if she spoke English.
“Leetle…?” she replied.
“My daughter has a bladder infection! Blad-der?” My mother declared this at a high volume as if volume alone could bridge the communication gap, while simultaneously miming over my stomach, circling where she presumed my pelvis was under the gigantic black sweatshirt.
The woman’s expression turned extremely skeptical and she slowly repeated “Bladder…” She scrutinized me for a moment then said, “You go…. This?” And pointed to something purple on her desk.
“The purple signs?” my dad asked.
She nodded and we set off. I was stewing with resentment at my mom for having ignored my first complaint when we were in a country that spoke English. And also generalized hostility about being on the trip and the object of miming. Now here we were in a French hospital, lost and unable to communicate. I also was under no illusions that someone who didn’t know the word for purple would have any clue what bladder meant.
And slowly I realized what had actually happened as I peered at the purple signs. My mother circling my stomach with her hands, gesturing to my middle. The woman’s skeptical face.
“Hey mom,” I chirped, syrupy and smug. “I don’t speak French. But I do know that it’s a Latin based language. And wouldn’t you know, but that purple sign looks an awful lot like it says ‘maternity’ to me.”
“Shut up!” she snapped.
A few minutes later we stood surrounded by the moans of pregnant people and the cries of fresh new lungs wailing at their first taste of cold air.
I smiled sweetly at my disgruntled mother.
Luck was with us however. A nearby father noticed us and came over to ask if we needed help. With perfect English he gave us clear directions.
As we finally approached the right area for walk in services it was clear how we’d missed it the first time. A large swathe of the front of the building was covered in tarps. A huge wall sized window was broken, and construction was taking place, but at least it had a bustle of people and a clear line. We sat down in the queue of chairs.
While we sat some police officers came in. They walked up to a man ahead of us in line and with few words exchanged they handcuffed and led him politely away.
I was genuinely so out of reality. Every new thing that happened was like a bizarre dream from the empty hallways to the maternity ward and now this tarp strewn waiting room in which people could just be calmly arrested.
It was a shock to me then when we reached the front and the nurse spoke with perfectly unaccented English to assess me. Not only did she know bladder but a whole slew of other medical words I couldn’t guess at. I peed on a stick and we waited.
When we got the results she told me it was good because they could give me antibiotics today for my now confirmed infection, but bad because I’d need the doctor to sign off. I nodded and my mom and I were escorted to yet another small room to wait.
When the doctor arrived I felt suddenly gangly and awkward. I’m not tall but I towered over this tiny French woman who radiated calm composure. She seemed to be around my grandmothers age. She looked up at my blushing face and said, “Bladder infection?” Her English had a much stronger accent than the nurse but with the same medical competence.
I nodded.
She nodded too and we sat in a still contemplative moment on my UTI.
“Do you have… boyfriend?”
My face was on fire, every cell of me wanting to flee from this tiny perfect old woman. I nodded.
She nodded too. We sat still in the knowledge that I had a boyfriend and a UTI.
“Do you and your boyfriend do… it?” Her delicate accent stretched it into “eet.”
I don’t know if she didn’t know the word for sex or if she thought saying “it” was kinder but I wanted to melt into the floor and cease to exist to escape my increasing mortification and her meaningful pause. I nodded.
“Okay,” she said kindly. “When you and your boyfriend do… it… you must make pee pee.”
I writhed slightly under the psychic damage of this elegant medical professional saying “pee pee” and I nodded more emphatically hoping she’d desist this torture.
She continued. “If you and your boyfriend do… it… five times? You make five pee pees. If you do it ten times, you make ten pee pees.”
My face had never been hotter, all the blood in my body had volcanoed to my head, pounding in my ears and valiantly attempting to give me an aneurism to end my suffering. There is no mortification as acute to a teenager as an adult talking about sex and here was this medical professional telling me about… it.
Meanwhile, my mother. Who should have been regretting her poor parenting and reflecting on her neglect in failing impart this vital part piece of sex ed to her kid. Alas, she was laughing herself sick the corner. She added to my embarrassment by quietly repeating “pee pee” and “it” under her breath as she wheezed and chortled.
The doctor patted my hand kindly and handed me the antibiotics. I got to spend the rest of my trip in Europe avoiding direct sunlight and listening to my mother parrot “Do you do… eet?”
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