This is how things went down:
“I’m going to make my wedding dress,” I announce.
“Oh good,” says my dad. He doesn’t even try to veil the sarcasm.
“What’s it to you?” I demand. “You’re not the one making it.”
“No, but your sewing projects always end up involving innocent bystanders.”
I give him my best “I don’t know what you’re talking about” look even though I know exactly what he’s talking about and it’s not pretty.
Technically speaking, I’m a good seamstress— a great seamstress even—but emotionally speaking? I’m a hot mess.
I also have a habit of leaving pins all over the place, even though I try really hard not to.
And when I still lived at my parents’ house, the dining room table was frequently sacrificed to my various sewing projects.
There were the matching red, white and blue flapper dresses that my 4-H besties and I made in high school…
The prom gown I wore sophomore year (my mom bought the fabric for me at a high end boutique in California and told me I could never, ever, tell my father how much she’d spent)…
The Victorian-inspired fiasco that should have been my junior year prom gown…
The vintage strapless t-length dress that I made for my senior prom and later recycled for several subsequent college formals, dance department concerts, and Fringe shows…
The green corset and matching skirt I made for the Oxford Union Blenheim Palace Masquerade Ball (we had to wait in line overnight for tickets to that one); this gown served double duty for a fundraiser at the Union League here in Philadelphia as well…
And that’s not even including my historically accurate costumes: Elizabethan, 18th Century (both lower and upper class), Regency, 1920s… plus a whole host of 17th century outfits when I spent two summers interning at Plymouth Plantation in Massachusetts, and those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.
Suffice it to say, I have long history of making great dresses. But they don’t always come together very easily. In fact, they never come together very easily. The only thing that has changed over the years is that I now know more curse words with which to express my fury.
Perhaps its time for Plan B.