wait, um. lemme guess! w-w-w-wait! i, ummmm….don’t….i don’t know! tell me tell me!
sorry to disappoint’cha, but that joke doesn’t have a punchline b/c that joke is my life. (and no, silly! i’m not the russian dressmaker! i’m the gay jew!!! you so crazy!)
yesterday was my appointment to get measured for my wedding dress [yes, the Big Fat Gay Wedding (which will be referred to, upon second reference from this point on, as BFGW)]. it will be made from scratch by a lovely dressmaker (recommended by a particularly faaaabulous newscaster) who hails from belarus(say: bella-ROOS) (which, i mean, isn’t really russia, right? but they’re pretty close and hell! it’s so much easier to just say “russian dressmaker” than, uh, “belaru…belaroooooosian (??) dressmaker,” yes?) and works in the armpit that is the baltimore ‘hood of pikesville (sorry if any of my readers are from pikesville, but i just can’t deal w/the place. it’s like walking out of north jersey hebrew school circa ’88 to meet my mom in the carpool line except not quite as many beemers and ‘benzes and oh yeah! we had a buick w/baaaaad squeaky breaks back then and a hand-me-down-car before that we called “the green tank.”have i mentioned hebrew school seriously scarred me? like, the girls from north caldwell(home to tony and carmela soprano’s actualhouse) wouldn’t talk to me for weeks until i had my mom buy me white keds. more on that another day. *shudder*).
but anyway, i digress. the reason why there’s no punchline is that i was scared to tell her i’m having a same-sex wedding. this is very rare for me, as i generally am pretty open (read: “mypartnerhollythis, mypartnerhollythat“) w/the gay stuff. but i am so desperate to have this perfect perfect dress (YES I’M WEARING A DRESS TO MY BFGW, NOT A TUX, PPL, A DRESS) and i can’t get myself to jeopardize it. so when she asked me in her russian (belaroooooosian?) accent, “is that where’s he’s from?” [“he” meaning my fiance, errr, holly. (um, henry??)] i really and truly didn’t know what to say. i kinda felt like the wind was knocked outta me. she asked when i was explaining that i lived in d.c. before baltimore. (i know, not the most exciting conversation, but gimme a break; i was topless, nervous and covered in measuring tape) i was like, “um, no, pennsylvania.” then she asked where “he” lives now, and i said, “we live in baltimore.” and she paused and said, “oh, so you live together.” now, i don’t claim to be an expert in the nuances of human conversation or anything, but i think she seemed surprised. and if she’s surprised that we live together (own a home together, even), well then i think i shouldn’t bring up the whole actually-i’m-not-marrying-a-man-actually-it’s-a-wo-man thing just yet. notsomuch. (but i plan to tell her once we’re underway, and i’ll bet money that i’m misjudging her.)
so the measuring went well, i think. then we (dressmaker, her assistant and i) all went to joann fabric up the road in owings mills, and she proceeded to demonstrate the importance of squeezing the material to make sure it doesn’t get easily wrinkled. (“since you’ll be getting up and sitting down and getting up,” she explained.) i felt really cool going around this otherwise lame suburban fabric store w/these two dressmakers who were going on and on about mysterious dressmaking things in a language i couldn’t understand. i also was overcome by the feeling that i was (am) in such good hands.
when i was gearing up to leave, she gave me the nicest hug and i swear i felt like breaking down into tears right there. i was like, “thank you so much for taking care of me. my mom’s up in new jersey and…” (lump in throat) and she was like, with the nicest twinkle in her eye, “don’t worry. i take care of you.”