So, I received a call last week from my good friend Paul over at Demetrios (http://demetriosbride.com/) telling me that my dress had come in.  When I think back on the call, it plays through my mind like a happy Disney number, something out of Beauty & the Beast where the baker & the librarian & the village people (not those village people) dance hand-in-hand as birds chirp in delight.

Technically, it was just a call to schedule the first fitting.  But Paul can make just about anything magical.

I arrived at the Demetrios fitting location wearing 12 gallons of water.  We were having the equivalent of a Tsunami here in NYC & after walking ten blocks with some ineffective cloth and metal claiming to be an umbrella, I was in no shape to don the gown of my dreams.  After drying off as best I could, I went in the fitting room with Emily, a lovely woman with a sharp pair of scissors and the confidence to snip & mark a dress in seconds.

Trying on the dress was (and I know how cliche this word is), surreal.  It’s my dress!  And it’s on me in a room with beautiful lighting!  And we’re cutting it to fit me!  Which is also scary because I still haven’t married (ha!) my shoe choice, an important factor in determining the length of my dress.  I bought these online, but they were super tight so I’ve ordered them up a size & we’ll see how they fit.  I love the antique quality & the “something blue” aspect.

Random aside: I can’t love bustling more.  Good god, I love a giant bustled JLo booty.  The more that thing sticks out, the better.  Am I tiptoeing into fetish territory here?  I don’t mean to, I just love those old fashioned pics of renaissance women with a huge bustled badonkadonk.  I have to say: my dress, when bustled, is a booty-riffic sight to behold.

So, we’re rolling!  The awesome peeps at Demetrios are hard at work making my dress fit perfectly.  I made it clear to Emily that I have no interest in actually breathing in the gown, so she can take it in until I have completely impossible barbie-sized proportions.  Which means I damn well better stop eating between now & my next fitting in early August.  And let me tell you, I have every intention of doing just that.  After this bowl of ice cream.  And maybe one Cadbury bar. But then for real!  Except for going out to dinner tonight.  But after that?!  Forget about it!

 
(also Sunday brunch. BUT AFTER THAT?!  IT’S ONNNNN!)

Rach