There's a story I'd like to tell. But I can't. I've been asked to restrain myself. An almost impossible feat, and not for the faint of heart. Whatever that means. So I'll start in the middle of the story......and you can have fun guessing the first part until my personal restraining order is lifted by you know who.
I have braces. No, I didn't plan on them. No person in their right mind decides on braces 4 MONTHS before their son's wedding. They're a last minute addition to a sudden change in the proximity of my teeth. Along with my beautiful cast on my left arm. Also a sudden and unplanned adornment. And a major pain in the @ss. And it makes shopping for that stupid Mother of the Groom dress MUCH more challenging. As far as the braces go I think I know why teenagers in general are just plain cranky. Everything I put in my mouth ends up displayed across my front teeth.
And the timing of this new and unusual punishment couldn't have been better. My entire front desk staff is gone. One, hopefully will be able to return, is on medical leave. The other is on a different kind of "leave". So watching me flail around at the front desk, looking much like a circus seal with a bad flipper trying to will a phone to levitate to ear level by mere visual contact is extremely entertaining. I looked like Nanny McPhee, not the good one at the end of the movie but rather the OTHER one , no mole.
So I found myself in an absolute panic as the Mother of the Bride, who I LOVE ( I say that alot lest anyone doubt my devotion to my new in-laws) texted me that she had found her dress. And of course she looks fabulous in it. Most size zero women can look fabulous in a flour sack. With the right necklace of course. And she's no exception. In her defense she works hard to maintain her shape and is to be commended for it. I commend thee! I, on the other hand, calculate daily how many hours before the event I should stop eating Snickers to lose that one pound. I really think 4 is enough, anything more than that and a war might break out. Currently I have to put my Snickers in the Vitamix to liquefy it before consumption. Adventures in blender food.
And so with the dead line looming I started looking in earnest to find a real dress. And by "in earnest" I mean I actually went into a store with the intention of looking at an actual dress. Not like before where I pin all kinds of fantasy dresses on my Pinterest board in hopes that I'll have chronic diarrhea in order to achieve the chic heroin look of the models in said dresses. Diarrhea being slightly less expensive than heroin unless I'm wearing the "good" underwear. Seriously, have you priced woman's underwear lately? The next patient that complains about the cost of sealants while holding a bag from Victoria's Secret I'm going to punch right in the throat. And it doesn't offer protection from cavities. Although in some profane way it is a cavity protector. Wait for it. You're welcome. The first store I went into said they had formal dresses. I asked if they had anything that wasn't designed for pole dancing or aging beauty queens. The store clerk actually smiled and then said "honestly, no. Everything in there is designed for the raging hormonal puberty set." To which I agreed. So I bought "mom" pants instead and told them my sad story that I can't tell you. Which doesn't seem very fair, but I don't make the rules, I'm just forced to abide by them. Or something like that.
And so I went to the next shop. And spied not one but TWO dresses. I felt like I was hunting wild turkeys and hit the jackpot. . I listen to a lot of talk radio hosted by good ole boys so I feel confident using this expression. Also I found myself sneaking up on them, the dresses not the turkeys, and calling to them. Clearly this is lot like hunting. The saleslady lugged them to the dressing room and shut the door. I stood there for a second wondering if I could navigate the zippers with one arm and then went for it. I HATE breaking out in a sweat just trying on clothes. My right arm took on the shape of a tiny Chinese contortionist. ( if she was 5'9") . I kept giving that arm a pep talk " almost there, almost there" . Which just now occurs to me probably didn't sound right to the woman changing in the room next to mine. And then I guess I really made her uncomfortable when I started taking pictures with my phone which was making shutter noises with each snap.
Strange woman in dressing room next to me ( yelling to her husband) " HEY, ARE YOU TAKING PICTURES OF ME OVER THERE?"
ME ( realizing what is happening): " No that's me. No, I mean I'm taking pictures of myself to send to my daughter"
SW: " oh....." She then leaves rather abruptly. No doubt to report me to the store security.
I keep peaking out the dressing room door for another Mom-Person to zip me up and take my photo as Flipper the one armed wonder keeps taking shots of the ceiling. I track one down and she helps me out.
Then I have to wait for the sales clerk to pass my door again to get OUT of the dress.
After spending that much time alone in the dressing room with the 2 dresses we all bonded and I didn't feel it was fair to leave one behind after all we'd been through together. Plus there's the damning photos. So they're both hanging in my closet. Unless I eat more Snicker Bars.
I'm keeping the receipts.
