Something Blue

I went in for my third wedding dress fitting today. I believe this marks about the eleventy-tenth time I've been in the bridal salon; it's starting to feel like my second office. The salon itself is one of those little ritzy affairs in the heart of River Oaks, the kind of place where the dresses cost as much as a year's rent and the ladies give you withering looks for failing to come in full makeup (mascara and lip gloss do not count as makeup, dear). They are also unafraid to tell you that you (a) need to lose weight (b) no, more than that, darling, if you want to fit into a dress that doesn't come from the heavy girls' section at David's Bridal (c) you're standing all wrong and (d) STAY STILL. It's like having clones of my mother on all sides, which is more stressful to me than having to sing a solo at Carnegie Hall or juggle priceless Faberge eggs for the Pope. I get tight-chested just thinking about it, so, needless to say, I was not looking forward to this morning's appointment.

My wedding dress is extremely heavy and hot. Luckily, I'm having a November wedding, or else I don't think I'd be able to stand up there without fainting from heatstroke. I would never have thought that something strapless could make me feel like I'm wearing a fur coat inside a sauna. But although it weighs about 25 pounds and has certain sweat-lodge qualities, it's still extraordinary. It looks like a confection; I certainly never pictured myself wearing something so exquisite. It's made of ivory silk and has a hand-beaded bodice of pearls and Swarovski crystals. The dress is tight on top, cinching my waist into a tiny ring like a whalebone girdle, and it flares out in an A-line from the hips. The train is long and slightly bustled; the skirt has scattered French pick-ups over miles of petticoats. I look like...a princess.

I never played dress-up when I was a little girl and certainly never pretended to or wanted to be a princess. So, obviously, I did not pick out this dress. That's right -- I didn't pick out my own wedding dress. My mother and aunt went with me as I began dress-hunting about six months ago. They, along with the bridal salon owner, picked out my dress for me because I simply couldn't choose from the dozens of Stepford dresses with which I was presented even though I feel that I made many valiant efforts to choose one. It's beautiful and I do like it and -- I suppose, most importantly -- I look great in it, but I still feel like someone's mannequin every time I put it on. I'm poked and prodded and shoved and corseted until the dress takes it shape over my body.

So far, I can't envision wearing it for an entire afternoon/evening without toppling over my petticoats or crashing into someone holding a glass of red wine. I'm equally nervous about walking down the isle in it, dragging yards of fabric carefully behind me as I go to meet my groom. And I don't know who among my bridal party will have the sheer patience to fasten all of the tiny pearl buttons down the back or figure out the complex bustle after the ceremony has ended.

As I was waiting for the seamstress to collect her pins today, I rustled around the room trying to adjust to the weight and ampleness of the dress. I was moving pretty well, not jogging or anything, but doing a passing imitation of Grace Kelly when my mother and the salon owner walked in and saw me. They both threw a wobbly and demanded that I not move another muscle until the fitting was over. I stood there, stock still, for the remainder of the time and tried to figure out what to do with my hands. They were like little sparrows, not wanting to stay put, trying to nest on different parts of the dress -- my hips, my waist, the small of my back -- while my mother batted them back down to my sides, annoyed.

The worst part, for me, about the fittings is the way that I'm reduced to an object -- a realistic mannequin for the seamstress, a cypher for my mother -- and treated like a small child if and when I speak up.

I will be so exceedingly happy when this is all over, when the pictures have been taken and the food eaten and the music danced to, and I can just be married. People keep asking me these days, "Are you excited about the wedding?" and the surprising truth is that, as much as I may complain, I am. But I'm simply much more excited about what comes next.

Gifted

This is my family:

- My grandmother and grandfather both have Master's degrees in English.

- My cousin is a performer with the Cirque de Soleil.

- My aunt is an opera singer.

- My uncle is a Pulitzer-prize winning poet and author.

- My other uncle is a marathoner and triathelete.

- My mother is a chef.

- My other aunt has her Doctorate in history, is a college professor and author.

- Yet another aunt is a museum curator.

- My great-grandfather was an engineer; he designed the Hoover Dam, among many other structures.

- Another cousin is a successful restauranteur.

- Another cousin has seven Master's degrees and works for NASA (yes, seven).

***

I am... What? A human resources analyst? A sometimes blogger? A failed graduate student who has resigned herself to working in corporate America? A piece of plain white bread soaked in 2% milk? Not living up to the expectations set by my family or myself?

***

I am... Not looking forward to our next family reunion. That's what I am.


Sorry for the lack of more explicit details, but...I don't know most of you. Tough titties.

The Church

While cooped up in the hospital this weekend with my grandfather (stories abound, but my patience to write them does not), he had more than his share of visitors. Being an elder in his church and a more-than-dutiful tither, one of those visitors was the preacher at said church. This preacher, we'll call him Dave, and his wife visited briefly with my grandfather and grandmother before turning their extremely unwanted attention to me and my mother. I mean, the point of a hospital visit is to express your care and concern for the hospitalized individual, right? Not to overstay your welcome by at least thirty minutes while interrogating his family members. Right? Apparently, not so much.

I should mention that I was raised in a very strict and very...nostalgic denomination of Christianty. They truly do believe that they are God's chosen people, even above all other Protestant denominations. Baptists? Presbyterians? Methodists? All going to hell. And don't even get them started on the Catholics or the Jews. And when I say strict and nostalgic, I mean "God, I wish that we lived back in Victorian times so that our women couldn't work or speak unless spoken to and so that the only book people were allowed to read was the Bible. That would be great. Oh, and I wish that we had more leeway to openly persecute people that disagree with us. God, that'd be great, too." That said, however, it's incredibly important that we keep up the guise of being good Church members in the presence of my grandparents. To do or imply otherwise would crush their little souls immensely. Also, they'd probably leave us out of the will.

Anyway, Preacher Dave is introduced to my mother, about whom he's apparently heard very bad things. He looks at her as if she's got goat entrails hanging out of her mouth from this morning's Satanic ritual. My mother glares back at him, already on the defensive.

Preacher Dave: So, Jo. Your mother tells me that you attend a church in Houston. Which one?
Mother (who hasn't set foot inside a church in seven years): Um...West Houston.
Preacher Dave: West Houston Church of Christ?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: Oh, what road are they on? I just can't seem to remember...
Mother: Um...West Road.
Preacher Dave: West Road?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: Funny, I thought they had moved from that location.
Mother: Nope, not that I'm aware of.
Preacher Dave: I'm pretty sure they moved.
Mother: No. You're mistaken. You must be thinking of another church.
Preacher Dave: Oh, well, anyway...I thought that you'd be attending Memorial Drive Church of Christ since it's right down the street from your house (side note: how do preachers remember this type of crap about their parishoners? who remembers things like, "Ah, yes..their daughter lives right off Memorial Drive...")
Mother: Well, that church just wasn't right for us.
Preacher Dave: That's a shame to hear. One my best friends preaches there.
Mother: Oh, well, I mean...it just didn't cater to our demographic, I guess you could say.
Preacher Dave: And West Houston does?
Mother: Yes, quite well.
Preacher Dave: I'm trying to remember who preaches there...can you help me with his name?
Mother: It's Brother Atwell.
Preacher Dave: Are you sure about that?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: I'm pretty sure that Brother Atwell is preaching in Fort Worth now.
Mother: Nope, he's still there at West Houston.
Preacher Dave: No, the last time I heard, he was preaching in Fort Worth.
Mother: Well, you must have heard wrong.

Preacher Dave is now openly suspicious of my mother's attendance at any church at all, much less West Houston. And my mother has had enough of her interrogation and turns her back on him, leaving me exposed. He turns to me and begins anew.

Preacher Dave: So, Katie. I hear that you're getting married in November.
Me: That's correct, sir.
Preacher Dave: Is your husband-to-be a member of the Church?
Me: No, sir.
Preacher Dave: Why not?
Me: He's from England and wasn't raised in our faith.
Preacher Dave: Well, that's no excuse. Have you been taking him to church?
Me: No, sir.
Preacher Dave: Why not?
Me: Because I feel that's his decision to make on his own.
Preacher Dave: So, you're marrying outside of the faith, then?
Me: It looks that way, sir.

Preacher Dave looks at my grandmother with an expression of indignity and grief. My grandmother just shakes her head.

Preacher Dave: So, will your husband-to-be be supporting you?
Me: I'm sorry?
Preacher Dave: Supporting you, financially.
Me: Um, no. I have a job.
Preacher Dave (as if I've just shown him a dead rat): Oh, really? You have a "career"?
Me: Yes, sir. For almost six years now.
Preacher Dave (sneering, now): Well, that's very interesting.
Me: Okay...

By this point, I believe that Preacher Dave has had enough of my heathen ways (and my mother's). He proposes a quick prayer and we all join hands. His quick prayer turns into a miniature sermon, complete with Bible verses and damnations of people who do not adhere to the One True Faith. My mother and I stop bowing our heads halfway through and instead start to make silly faces at each other. My grandmother is softly crying. And my grandfather is asleep.

Not If You Were The Last Ride On Earth

Richard was involved in a motor vehicle accident today (hee! sounding all official and whatnot). He's okay, so let's cut to the meat of the story here.

He's tooling down Gessner, minding his own business, when this old woman blasts through an intersection (Gessner and Rip Van Winkle, the coolest street name ever) and T-bones his car. He's sent spinning into a Dukes of Hazzard-style 360 but manages to get the car to stop before it hits anyone else. His car is a sad, twisted mess. Although quite shaken and with a severly mangled car, he pulls off onto a side street and the old woman eventually follows suit.

Once out of traffic, they exchange information, the old woman apologizes for hitting him ("I guess I didn't see you there..." "Well, recklessly speeding and being about 85 years old will do that to your line of sight somtimes.") and before she drives back to whatever senior center she came from, she asks him what I think is the best question after an auto accident of all time:

"Would you like a ride somewhere?"

Richard's response: "Yeah, you know, given the stellar driving you've just displayed for me thus far, I think I'll decline that offer."

Jesus H. Christ, there are a lot of crazy idiots out there. 85 years old or not, that is one stupid fucking question.

We Have Another WINNAR!

My parents are in New York right now on a shopping excursion. This spells trouble in ways too legion to enumerate here. Let's just get to the quote of the week:

Me: What did you do this morning?
Ralph (my dad): Oh, your mother dragged me to some store...
Me: What was it called?
Ralph: Herpes.
Me: ...what?
Ralph: Herpes.
Me: There's a store called Herpes? And you went to it?
Mother (shouting in the background): HERMES, DUMBASS.
Ralph: Oh, "her-meees."
Me: I think you mean "er-mez."
Ralph: Whatever. You're both assholes.

Well, pronunciation issues aside, he's got a point. Also, do you see now where I get this from?