the dress: a never ending story

i’m going to do a wedding series, you guys. if that sounds boring and awful and why would i do such a thing? to you then i suggest you checkout now. in fact, why don’t you just save everyone the trouble and stop being such an asshole. gah! this is part one of the dress saga. i can’t decide if there will be two parts or three…. omg, i know you’re so excited!

i wanted a dress with sleeves. i wanted one with sleeves because i wanted it. and, more importantly, i didn’t want to go into one of those bridal boutiques that are staffed with angry, judgmental, hawk like women who cause me to vomit in fear at the mere mention of setting foot inside. plus, they don’t stock sleeves. plus, it’s scary. plus, i had to go inside one for my brother’s wedding because i was a bride’s maid and i’m still recovering. plus, it’s my day goddammit, and if i wanted to spend $5,000 on a dress, i at least want a dozen fawning gay men to pick it out for me and there are no gay wedding boutiques in the area. fucking chains and their refusal to staff their shops with the appropriate people.

so i did the next best thing and had it made. or so i thought. my mother had asked her friends and had been directed to a seamstress who had done “several plays.” now, i know that i probably should have been alarmed at this statement but, i was at the very beginning stages of planning and i was trying to be open to possibilities. i mean, they do elaborate plays with fancy dresses, right? i’m sure there had been some wedding dresses as well. she’d also been in business for 20 years, so i figured that was a good recommendation.

when we arrived for “the fitting,” i was excited. i had a whole portfolio: sketches, three pictures of example dresses, and a written description. i was ready. we walked in the door, there was a row of tables with sewing machines lined up against one wall, an older lady with her hair in perfectly arranged rows of curls, just like my grandmother used to wear her hair, was working on a wedding dress, adding beads, i think, a large policeman in a tiny chair and an older asian lady working on a pair of policeman pants. my mother said hello to curly and then waved while saying hello to the seamstress who’s name was pat. then my mom said why we were there and that she had called previously to see if she might be able to do my wedding dress within our time period. she also, for good measure, mentioned that she knew one of pat’s most trusted and adored customers, her friend jean. the seamstress, without looking up from her policeman pants said, “you come back later!”

as my mom’s face fell, curly said, “where do you all live?” in a sickly sweet voice, laced with malice. my mother replied that we lived about 20 minutes away and if she knew when pat might be available later. “20 minutes,” we were told, “do we have any errands to run?” i doubted, whether in 20 minutes, we would exactly be a top priority, but as it was early on in our seamstress-amateur dress wearer relationship, i figured we could go get coffee and forgive the abrupt dismissal. i also had a sneaking suspicion that my mother hadn’t really “made an appointment,” if you know what i mean and i mean my mom’s notorious for “thinking things will work out” and “being late to everything” and “knowing really great coffee places” and “buying my coffee.” therefore, i was game.

we arrived, once again, at the shop. i knew my initial impression was that i didn’t like curly but i couldn’t exactly put my finger on why. i knew something bad would happen, i just didn’t know when. she was a snake in the grass and not in a sexy way, in a i-will-stab-you-in-the-back-and-you-won’t-know-who-it-was-until-she-flips-you-over-with-her-steel-toed-boot-to-watch-you-die sort of way. my guard was up. once we ascertained that, in fact, pat would take on my dress, we began the measuring portion of the torture. pat measured here and there and here and then there while curly was writing down the measurements and then began making comments, “wait, where did you just measure? are you sure that one was right? that one seems waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too small! why don’t you measure again.” as i lay, dying on the floor from my stab wound, i took solace in the fact that i had been correct in my judgments of curly. she was a snake and a jerk and i hoped she would be constipated for a month.

due to loss of blood, i don’t remember much of the rest of the appointment but we left with the understanding that pat would look through her books and order the base of dress, whatever that meant. it seemed like it would work and pat seemed confident that she would be able to make me the dress i wanted. [pregnant pause] nothing fell into place. as it turned out, pat just kept making excuses and sending us away and finally telling us to go to, *cough, hack, gag, dry heave, watery eyes* that place that shall remain nameless, the voldemort of bridal boutiques, to get a dress that she could “fix.” after overturning the checkers game i was playing, hurling several large ice cubes at the tiles in the shower and yelling at the top of my voice, i moved on…. and good riddance. *petooey!*

ahhhh, i feel better. i have my blue shoes after all and we all know how awesome my blue shoes are and how much we all love them. i could wear anything with the blue shoes and it would be fabulous. in fact, i have several dresses that could be spruced up by blue shoes. i could wear this one! or this one! or this one! it must be whitish, you say? well, i’m a new, modern bride. rules and traditions be damned! oh, the pictures? you mean they can’t just take pictures of my feet? sigh, fine. i guess i want pictures. for the children. WHY WON’T ANYONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN????

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