bridesmaid dresses
After a variety of threats from Nezsa and her mother, I agreed to have my hair done by the chick who does hers. Which was fine. I felt vaguely like I was at work, since no one spoke English, but I also see this is a really *good* reason to be self-absorbed, conceited, and unsociable--I really don't care what people are saying.
Okay, that's a lie, I still do listen. But I care in a vague, did-you-just-call-me-a-puta-way. Which I'm sure she didn't.
Or you know, could be paranoid here. This would not surprise me.
Anyway, my hair is redder, and they started highlight work in a very interesting shade of blonde. I'm getting the rest done sometime before sister's wedding next month.
Also, I tried on my bridesmaid's dress.
This really deserves its own entry, but what the hell, I'm here and the dress is here and that thing was designed by a sadist who loved pastels.
Here's how it happened.
They had a strange variety of sizes. I picked up an eight and a twelve, since I figured if neither fit, I'd know by process of elimination the ten would be it. Herein lies the problem.
The thing has no *zipper*.
Now, perhaps someone, oh, the designer, thought we were planning to be sewed into these things. A wrestling match ensued between me and the dress that probably sent whoever watches those videotapes into hysterics. It's actully fairly pretty, dark purple sheathe of iron--er, satin--with gauzy lavender layers over. Three to be exact.
Did I mention there is no zipper? This is an important plot point. Keep up.
Anyway, it took some digging to figure out how to pull it over my head. Once there, I was kind of trapped, arms in the air, staring vaguely into yards of purple with a random outer layer covering my head completely, and I'd be damned if I was calling for help looking like that, despite the fact I was losing usable oxygen. Somehow, and this is one of those mysteries of physics, the fact I have not much in the way of breasts did not actually stop the dress from getting caught *right there*. I also could not pull it back off unassisted, since my arms, as stated, were trapped high over my head. I swear I read a bdsm fic with this plot once.
But moving on.
With some shimmying and crying and around the time I realized that if I passed out from oxygen deprivation someone would see me like this, I got the thing off my face and my arms free enough to pull it down. Once on, the sucker fit *perfectly*. I did the usual calesthentics to prove it, but unfortunately, this was the one. I thought longingly of people who get their bridesmaids hideous dresses with zippers, then went to show the family.
Frankly, I do not have the shoulders to do spagetti straps. There's a vague sense of former wrestler going on there, but my mother almost burst into tears and my sister was assured that even though the dresses *looked* okay, those in it would not look better than she did. Grrr.
But wait, there's more. I had to get out of it.
This time when getting stuck, I had to call to sister, who cheerfully unwrapped me and enjoyed herself immensely watching me buy mine and Youngest Sister's dress, size four, the smallest they had. Youngest Sister is built kind of like a cross between a bean and a refugee camp survivor, so it's going to be taken up a *lot*.
But yes. That's what I'm wearing to this wedding. I am going to *cut* it off when this is over and enjoy it a *lot*.
Now I want to get married. I mean, yes, dress, cakes, wonderful kitchen appliance gifts, but the big reason is that I found this little beaded floor-length number that has no zipper, boned bodice, and will require advanced yoga techniques to get into. Really advanced.
She's wearing that one.
Places to Go
Cavelorn talks the psychology of horror. I'd like to thank whoever originally led me to that for the wonderful Ring memories this prompted, because I cannot imagine anything more fun than not sleeping tonight, waiting to be killed by a fingernailless little girl climbing out of my television all wet from the well.
I did like, however, the emphasis she put on the way they *look* at you. And on indirectness in horror. It's pretty easy to gross me out, but it's a special place that scares me badly without blood, guts, or anything really extraordinary in sight. I'm trying to think of examples that she doesn't use and can't think of a one.
But you know, happy Ring memories. Whoo hoo. Let me just unplug the tv now. And throw it out the window.
Okay, that's a lie, I still do listen. But I care in a vague, did-you-just-call-me-a-puta-way. Which I'm sure she didn't.
Or you know, could be paranoid here. This would not surprise me.
Anyway, my hair is redder, and they started highlight work in a very interesting shade of blonde. I'm getting the rest done sometime before sister's wedding next month.
Also, I tried on my bridesmaid's dress.
This really deserves its own entry, but what the hell, I'm here and the dress is here and that thing was designed by a sadist who loved pastels.
Here's how it happened.
They had a strange variety of sizes. I picked up an eight and a twelve, since I figured if neither fit, I'd know by process of elimination the ten would be it. Herein lies the problem.
The thing has no *zipper*.
Now, perhaps someone, oh, the designer, thought we were planning to be sewed into these things. A wrestling match ensued between me and the dress that probably sent whoever watches those videotapes into hysterics. It's actully fairly pretty, dark purple sheathe of iron--er, satin--with gauzy lavender layers over. Three to be exact.
Did I mention there is no zipper? This is an important plot point. Keep up.
Anyway, it took some digging to figure out how to pull it over my head. Once there, I was kind of trapped, arms in the air, staring vaguely into yards of purple with a random outer layer covering my head completely, and I'd be damned if I was calling for help looking like that, despite the fact I was losing usable oxygen. Somehow, and this is one of those mysteries of physics, the fact I have not much in the way of breasts did not actually stop the dress from getting caught *right there*. I also could not pull it back off unassisted, since my arms, as stated, were trapped high over my head. I swear I read a bdsm fic with this plot once.
But moving on.
With some shimmying and crying and around the time I realized that if I passed out from oxygen deprivation someone would see me like this, I got the thing off my face and my arms free enough to pull it down. Once on, the sucker fit *perfectly*. I did the usual calesthentics to prove it, but unfortunately, this was the one. I thought longingly of people who get their bridesmaids hideous dresses with zippers, then went to show the family.
Frankly, I do not have the shoulders to do spagetti straps. There's a vague sense of former wrestler going on there, but my mother almost burst into tears and my sister was assured that even though the dresses *looked* okay, those in it would not look better than she did. Grrr.
But wait, there's more. I had to get out of it.
This time when getting stuck, I had to call to sister, who cheerfully unwrapped me and enjoyed herself immensely watching me buy mine and Youngest Sister's dress, size four, the smallest they had. Youngest Sister is built kind of like a cross between a bean and a refugee camp survivor, so it's going to be taken up a *lot*.
But yes. That's what I'm wearing to this wedding. I am going to *cut* it off when this is over and enjoy it a *lot*.
Now I want to get married. I mean, yes, dress, cakes, wonderful kitchen appliance gifts, but the big reason is that I found this little beaded floor-length number that has no zipper, boned bodice, and will require advanced yoga techniques to get into. Really advanced.
She's wearing that one.
Places to Go
Cavelorn talks the psychology of horror. I'd like to thank whoever originally led me to that for the wonderful Ring memories this prompted, because I cannot imagine anything more fun than not sleeping tonight, waiting to be killed by a fingernailless little girl climbing out of my television all wet from the well.
I did like, however, the emphasis she put on the way they *look* at you. And on indirectness in horror. It's pretty easy to gross me out, but it's a special place that scares me badly without blood, guts, or anything really extraordinary in sight. I'm trying to think of examples that she doesn't use and can't think of a one.
But you know, happy Ring memories. Whoo hoo. Let me just unplug the tv now. And throw it out the window.