July 28, 2009
Welp, I fooled ya, but not by much. Let's recap:
Sammy and the Dress--With the exception of the first name "Sammy" that story is 100% entirely true. What else is there to say?
The Seminary--Also 100% completely true. But I will admit, that after some quick Googling, I realized that Hannibal Hamlin wasn't a former governor of Maine, he was actually Abe Lincoln's Vice President--an infinitely bigger deal. What can I say? History's never been my strong point. Bu-ut thanks to this sexalicious hot pot, I'm fairly well versed in world religions.
The Great American Poop Incident--Unfortunately, it's true. Thank goodness I'm so hopeless when it comes to history, otherwise I know I'd feel ever more ashamed than I already do--which I assure you is a great deal. Please direct all hatemail to Amy_Lawson@sheshatonahero.com. I'll be sure to get right back to you.
Sticky Sweet Revenge--50% false. We all know that Texas real estate agents are in fact that bad. But we also know that my husband doesn't love me nearly that much. I did meet a real estate agent who pulled over, told me I was huge, and handed me a card--but then she drove off. Nothing lost but 83% of my already low self esteem.
So that's that. If you would like verification, feel free to contact my mother--she's great.
Showing posts with label contest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label contest. Show all posts
Voting is Open
July 23, 2009
Voting is open until Monday evening in the top right corner of my blog. You Google Reader users will to have to click on over--I know, soooo inconvenient while you're trying to dodge your work!
I'm loving the discussion ad deductive reasoning--it's so funny!!!
Voting is open until Monday evening in the top right corner of my blog. You Google Reader users will to have to click on over--I know, soooo inconvenient while you're trying to dodge your work!
I'm loving the discussion ad deductive reasoning--it's so funny!!!
Three Truths and a Lie: The Great American Poop Attack of '98
July 22, 2009
Day three of Three Truths and a Lie--idea curtosy of the lovely CJane.
If you need to know the rules, check yesterday's post. Or Monday's.
If you know me, don't spoil it.
Back in the fall of 1998 I headed over to Washington DC for the annual Marine Corps Marathon. Although I was a super serious runner at the time, I wasn't actually participating in the marathon--my roommate and I were only going to the race to watch.
If you really want to get picky about the details, we were going to watch a guy named Jim, who I found to be pretty frickin' hot.
I met Jim on a random Saturday evening, while I was hauling ass on a solo training run down a farm road in western Virginia. I was running up and over a hill, we met at the crest, waved, and continued to go our separate ways.
Forty minutes later, we met up again. This time we passed each other on opposite sides of a fairly busy overpass. We repeated the casual wave, and I feel like it's very important to note that I was still hauling ass--and markedly faster than Jim.
Then, about thirty minutes later, we met up once more--this time on campus, in front of Norris Hall, the same place where that really horrible shooting spree happened at Virginia Tech a few years back.
I ran past Jim, smiled, waved, and kept on trucking. This time however, he stopped and yelled, "Hey!"
I stopped, turned around, wiped my sweaty hair out of my eyes and said, "Hi."
Jim was like, "You're fast. Are you on the cross country team?"
And doing my very best to sound smooth and sexy I replied, "Why yes. Yes I am." Okay fine, that was a lie, I'm pretty sure I said something more along the lines of "Yup," while I picked at a moderate-to-severe wedgie.
We pounded out three-or-so more miles that night and chatted about nothing too important. Turns out Jim was training for the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon with hopes of qualifying for Boston.
Over the next five or six weeks, we met up for a couple more runs together. I'd tag along for ten of his Sunday twenty-miler, or we'd run a quick six on a Wednesday night.
In October, when his marathon finally rolled around, he invited me to come and watch. Never passing up the opportunity to impress an older member of the opposite sex, my roommate and I jumped on the chance.
The Marine Corps Marathon is widely known as one of the most spectator friendly on the planet, so Allison and I managed to see Jim five or six times during the first eighteen miles of the race. At mile eighteen, Jim was obviously beginning to struggle. He ran over to us on the side of the road, put his hands on his knees and huffed, "Can you meet me at mile twenty and run me in? I don't think I can finish. I need someone to run me in."
"Can I run your sexy ass to the finish line," I thought to myself? "Um, it would be my pleasure!!!!"
I was excited. So excited that I nearly shat my shorty-shorts right then and there.
And that last sentence? I meant that literally.
As soon as Jim took off for mile nineteen, the contents of my colon began taking off for daylight. I had to poop, and I had to poop immediately. At once. If not sooner.
Still to this day, through pregnancy, travel, and all manners of illness, it was most severe fecal attack of my entire life.
According to my calculations I had approximately fourteen minutes to get to mile twenty, and fourteen seconds before I had a load swimming around in my underpants. Scoping out an appropriate, legal place to relieve myself was simply not an option--my friends, there was absolutely no time.
So, in my moment of pure and absolute desperation, I found a clump of beautifully manicured bushes--which technically speaking, I'd have to call landscape features. Landscape features of a prominent, highly photographed national monument that is.
Honestly, it hurts my very patriotic heart to type the next half of this sentence, but guys, I Amy Lawson, took an emergency poo on a national landmark--about twelve inches from the actual structure if you want to be precise about it.
I can't tell you which wheelchair-bound leader this particular monument paid homage to, I'm far too ashamed. He was a tremendous man, and it's far too painful to admit that I took a doodie on his well deserved legacy. Far too painful. Seriously.
Fear not fellow Americans, these landmarks seem to very well monitored. I'm quite sure that monument defication is a very rare event, because before I even had the chance to get out from behind that little bush, I spotted a security guard, and he was approaching quickly.
I walked away, he followed. I walked a little faster, he sped up. I broke into a jog, he broke into a light run. I hopped the plastic, orange fence onto the marathon course, merged in with the oncoming runners, and thankfully he stayed behind.
I was clear. No arrests for me. And to this day, I still maintain a squeaky clear legal record--I take a lot of pride in that.
Eventually I did meet up with Jim at mile twenty, and oh my word, he had all but given up. He was groaning and shuffling, draping his sweaty self all over my shoulders, and at times he even slowed to a walk. A walk!
What a friggin' pansy.
I dragged his sorry ass to the finish line, where he missed the cutoff for Boston by three and a half minutes--so not sexy.
And a relationship? Yeah, nothing like that ever panned out. I needed a man who could run like a man. And Jim? Well, he needed a woman with a little more colon control than I had to offer.
Obviously, it was never meant to be.
Day three of Three Truths and a Lie--idea curtosy of the lovely CJane.
If you need to know the rules, check yesterday's post. Or Monday's.
If you know me, don't spoil it.
*****
The Great American Poop Attack of '98
Back in the fall of 1998 I headed over to Washington DC for the annual Marine Corps Marathon. Although I was a super serious runner at the time, I wasn't actually participating in the marathon--my roommate and I were only going to the race to watch.
If you really want to get picky about the details, we were going to watch a guy named Jim, who I found to be pretty frickin' hot.
I met Jim on a random Saturday evening, while I was hauling ass on a solo training run down a farm road in western Virginia. I was running up and over a hill, we met at the crest, waved, and continued to go our separate ways.
Forty minutes later, we met up again. This time we passed each other on opposite sides of a fairly busy overpass. We repeated the casual wave, and I feel like it's very important to note that I was still hauling ass--and markedly faster than Jim.
Then, about thirty minutes later, we met up once more--this time on campus, in front of Norris Hall, the same place where that really horrible shooting spree happened at Virginia Tech a few years back.
I ran past Jim, smiled, waved, and kept on trucking. This time however, he stopped and yelled, "Hey!"
I stopped, turned around, wiped my sweaty hair out of my eyes and said, "Hi."
Jim was like, "You're fast. Are you on the cross country team?"
And doing my very best to sound smooth and sexy I replied, "Why yes. Yes I am." Okay fine, that was a lie, I'm pretty sure I said something more along the lines of "Yup," while I picked at a moderate-to-severe wedgie.
We pounded out three-or-so more miles that night and chatted about nothing too important. Turns out Jim was training for the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon with hopes of qualifying for Boston.
Over the next five or six weeks, we met up for a couple more runs together. I'd tag along for ten of his Sunday twenty-miler, or we'd run a quick six on a Wednesday night.
In October, when his marathon finally rolled around, he invited me to come and watch. Never passing up the opportunity to impress an older member of the opposite sex, my roommate and I jumped on the chance.
The Marine Corps Marathon is widely known as one of the most spectator friendly on the planet, so Allison and I managed to see Jim five or six times during the first eighteen miles of the race. At mile eighteen, Jim was obviously beginning to struggle. He ran over to us on the side of the road, put his hands on his knees and huffed, "Can you meet me at mile twenty and run me in? I don't think I can finish. I need someone to run me in."
"Can I run your sexy ass to the finish line," I thought to myself? "Um, it would be my pleasure!!!!"
I was excited. So excited that I nearly shat my shorty-shorts right then and there.
And that last sentence? I meant that literally.
As soon as Jim took off for mile nineteen, the contents of my colon began taking off for daylight. I had to poop, and I had to poop immediately. At once. If not sooner.
Still to this day, through pregnancy, travel, and all manners of illness, it was most severe fecal attack of my entire life.
According to my calculations I had approximately fourteen minutes to get to mile twenty, and fourteen seconds before I had a load swimming around in my underpants. Scoping out an appropriate, legal place to relieve myself was simply not an option--my friends, there was absolutely no time.
So, in my moment of pure and absolute desperation, I found a clump of beautifully manicured bushes--which technically speaking, I'd have to call landscape features. Landscape features of a prominent, highly photographed national monument that is.
Honestly, it hurts my very patriotic heart to type the next half of this sentence, but guys, I Amy Lawson, took an emergency poo on a national landmark--about twelve inches from the actual structure if you want to be precise about it.
I can't tell you which wheelchair-bound leader this particular monument paid homage to, I'm far too ashamed. He was a tremendous man, and it's far too painful to admit that I took a doodie on his well deserved legacy. Far too painful. Seriously.
Fear not fellow Americans, these landmarks seem to very well monitored. I'm quite sure that monument defication is a very rare event, because before I even had the chance to get out from behind that little bush, I spotted a security guard, and he was approaching quickly.
I walked away, he followed. I walked a little faster, he sped up. I broke into a jog, he broke into a light run. I hopped the plastic, orange fence onto the marathon course, merged in with the oncoming runners, and thankfully he stayed behind.
I was clear. No arrests for me. And to this day, I still maintain a squeaky clear legal record--I take a lot of pride in that.
Eventually I did meet up with Jim at mile twenty, and oh my word, he had all but given up. He was groaning and shuffling, draping his sweaty self all over my shoulders, and at times he even slowed to a walk. A walk!
What a friggin' pansy.
I dragged his sorry ass to the finish line, where he missed the cutoff for Boston by three and a half minutes--so not sexy.
And a relationship? Yeah, nothing like that ever panned out. I needed a man who could run like a man. And Jim? Well, he needed a woman with a little more colon control than I had to offer.
Obviously, it was never meant to be.
Three Truths and a Lie: The Seminary
July 21, 2009
Here we go with day two of Three Truths and a Lie--which, of course, is an idea that I stole (without permission) from CJane.
Remember, Monday through Thursday I'll post stories from my life. Three will be true, one will be made up. On Friday everyone can vote on which story they believe to be the lie.
And really now, if you know me in real life, please fight the urge to spill the beans with a comments. We're having fun over here!
Did you know that I spent a year and a half in theological school? I'm not talking about bible college or BYU, I'm talking about a full-on Protestant seminary where people go to become ordained ministers--UCC, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopal--that type of thing.
You couldn't major in finance or biology at this institution. Hell, you couldn't even focus on philosophy. There were only two degree tracks, Divinity or Theology, and to be quite honest, I still don't understand what the difference is.
I was eighteen years old when I enrolled at the school, and yes, for eighteen months, this was my full-time college experience. No football team, no keg parties, no furry mascot, and definitely no hot guys.
Well, actually, I take that back. My World Religions professor was bangin' hot--his name was Dana Somethingorother, he had long brown hair, and I spent hours upon hours fantasizing about trekking across India by his rippled, muscly side. He drove a purple Toyota Tacoma, and oh my word, it gets me all hot and bothered just reflecting on the memory of beautiful, enlightened him.
Anywho, this was certainly not a traditional college experience by any stretch of the imagination. In total, there were one-hundred-and-thirty students with an average age of forty-seven. I was the second youngest student at the school, as a kid named Shawn was one month my junior--and trust me, I whipped that guy around harder than a kid brother.
During my time at the Seminary I learned Greek (very well, mind you), I sang in the church choir (against my will), and I was the worst player on our school's bowling team--which I proudly named "The Holy Rollers." And dude, the old people loved it--thought it was a friggin' hoot.
The campus consisted of a very New England church building with classrooms on top, a cafeteria/meeting hall, a library, four or five old apartment houses, and for some reason--I'm still not sure why--a big old mansion that had belonged to Hannibal Hamlin, a former governor of the State of Maine.
Shawn lived in the Hannibal Hamlin House. Well, he actually lived in an apartment that was attached to the side of the mansion--we think it had been the maid's quarters way back in the day.
One night, after a box of doughnuts and a-dozen-or-so wine coolers (sorry, Mom), Shawn and I somehow discovered that we could get into the museum part of the Governor's Mansion by jiggling the handle on a teeny-tiny connecting door in the back of Shawn's linen closet.
We took turns wriggling through the little entrance, and made it in without a trace. The idea of a security alarm never crossed our minds, and apparently that was okay because we peered through cabinets, sat on the roped off furniture, and rolled around on the old feather beds (not with each other get your mind out of the gutter), without ever calling it to any one's attention.
And then we did it again the next night.
And then the next weekend.
And then eventually, we started sneaking into the old governor's mansion every single weekend to sit at his expansive dining room table, sip on brandy (Shawn, not me), and play poker in our best colonial accents. Some nights, when we were feeling particularly crazy, we'd climb through the master bedroom closet, to the top of the widow's walk and smoke cigars in the purplish. moonlight.
I know. How weird can you get?
Eventually, my lack of an age appropriate social life started to weigh on my soul and I transferred up the road to the University of Maine. I had had it with the age difference--If I saw one more can of Ensure, I swear I was going to lose my mind. This young girl need cans of Bud in her sight line, and trust me when I tell you, they were flowing at the University.
Of course I was sad to say goodbye to my wealth of post-menopausal friends, and almost none of my credits transferred, but really, I wasn't sure how I'd ended up at that school in the first place.
Here we go with day two of Three Truths and a Lie--which, of course, is an idea that I stole (without permission) from CJane.
Remember, Monday through Thursday I'll post stories from my life. Three will be true, one will be made up. On Friday everyone can vote on which story they believe to be the lie.
And really now, if you know me in real life, please fight the urge to spill the beans with a comments. We're having fun over here!
*****
The Seminary
Did you know that I spent a year and a half in theological school? I'm not talking about bible college or BYU, I'm talking about a full-on Protestant seminary where people go to become ordained ministers--UCC, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopal--that type of thing.
You couldn't major in finance or biology at this institution. Hell, you couldn't even focus on philosophy. There were only two degree tracks, Divinity or Theology, and to be quite honest, I still don't understand what the difference is.
I was eighteen years old when I enrolled at the school, and yes, for eighteen months, this was my full-time college experience. No football team, no keg parties, no furry mascot, and definitely no hot guys.
Well, actually, I take that back. My World Religions professor was bangin' hot--his name was Dana Somethingorother, he had long brown hair, and I spent hours upon hours fantasizing about trekking across India by his rippled, muscly side. He drove a purple Toyota Tacoma, and oh my word, it gets me all hot and bothered just reflecting on the memory of beautiful, enlightened him.
Anywho, this was certainly not a traditional college experience by any stretch of the imagination. In total, there were one-hundred-and-thirty students with an average age of forty-seven. I was the second youngest student at the school, as a kid named Shawn was one month my junior--and trust me, I whipped that guy around harder than a kid brother.
During my time at the Seminary I learned Greek (very well, mind you), I sang in the church choir (against my will), and I was the worst player on our school's bowling team--which I proudly named "The Holy Rollers." And dude, the old people loved it--thought it was a friggin' hoot.
The campus consisted of a very New England church building with classrooms on top, a cafeteria/meeting hall, a library, four or five old apartment houses, and for some reason--I'm still not sure why--a big old mansion that had belonged to Hannibal Hamlin, a former governor of the State of Maine.
Shawn lived in the Hannibal Hamlin House. Well, he actually lived in an apartment that was attached to the side of the mansion--we think it had been the maid's quarters way back in the day.
One night, after a box of doughnuts and a-dozen-or-so wine coolers (sorry, Mom), Shawn and I somehow discovered that we could get into the museum part of the Governor's Mansion by jiggling the handle on a teeny-tiny connecting door in the back of Shawn's linen closet.
We took turns wriggling through the little entrance, and made it in without a trace. The idea of a security alarm never crossed our minds, and apparently that was okay because we peered through cabinets, sat on the roped off furniture, and rolled around on the old feather beds (not with each other get your mind out of the gutter), without ever calling it to any one's attention.
And then we did it again the next night.
And then the next weekend.
And then eventually, we started sneaking into the old governor's mansion every single weekend to sit at his expansive dining room table, sip on brandy (Shawn, not me), and play poker in our best colonial accents. Some nights, when we were feeling particularly crazy, we'd climb through the master bedroom closet, to the top of the widow's walk and smoke cigars in the purplish. moonlight.
I know. How weird can you get?
Eventually, my lack of an age appropriate social life started to weigh on my soul and I transferred up the road to the University of Maine. I had had it with the age difference--If I saw one more can of Ensure, I swear I was going to lose my mind. This young girl need cans of Bud in her sight line, and trust me when I tell you, they were flowing at the University.
Of course I was sad to say goodbye to my wealth of post-menopausal friends, and almost none of my credits transferred, but really, I wasn't sure how I'd ended up at that school in the first place.
Three Truths and a Lie: Sammy and the Dress
July 20, 2009
This week I'm shamelessly swiping an idea from the fabulous CJane, and we're gonna have some fun playing Three Truths and a Lie.
For the next four days, I'll post a story about my life--three will be true, and one will be a big, fat, fabricated lie. Then, on the fifth day you'll all get to vote for the story you believe was pulled straight out of the darkness of my arse.
To prevent any bean spillage from those of you who are familiar with my real life business, please, please, please refrain from commenting.
So here we go. Story numero uno:
One zillion years ago, I sold a never-used wedding dress on FirstClass for $50. FirstClass was my college's email system, and in a lot of ways, it resembled a stripped down Craig's List. It was the place to sell heavily-used furniture, adopt frat dogs, and find random, non-committal hookups on a lonely Friday night.
Not that I ever did that--because seriously, I really never did that.
In all honestly, I wasn't that type of girl. My style was far more akin to lasting devotion and long-term commitment. I suppose that's how I found myself engaged, at the age of 19, to a promising young chef.
This was no joke you guys. We're talking diamond ring, wedding dress, wedding date, church, reception site, the works.
Trust me friends, if you had tasted this man's lobster bisque, you would have said 'yes,' too. I don't care if you're male, female, gay or straight--you most definitely would've let him put the ring on your hungry little, food loving finger. His soup was that good.
(Do you think it'd be overly tacky to call him 9 years later, and ask him to whip up a quick batch for my husband and me?)
If you do the math, and consider the fact that I married Jared at the fresh, young age of 21, you'll come to realize that this engagement didn't last so long. Within a matter of months the ring was returned, the date on the calendar was scratched off, and all kinds of deposits were rightfully refunded.
But the dress? Oh my word that dress stuck around.
For the first couple of years it hung around in my childhood closet, taking up 60% of the available space with its many cubic yards of tulle and organza. And then, 3 or so years later, when Jared and I bought our first house (which coincidentally, we later sold on FirstClass), my mom wrestled that dress into the back seat of her Jetta, drove it up to Maine, plopped it on my bed and said, "Congratulations on the house. Now take this."
This house--all two stories of it--boasted just over 800 square-feet and was set on a lovely .09 acre lot. Our master bedroom literally measured 7x11, so it's needless to say that storing a 62 square-foot dress from a called off wedding was completely out of the question. Even the backyard couldn't have handled this thing.
So up it went, on FirstClass. It was listed above a ratty apartment for rent and under an advertisement for keg-stand coaching.
I'm dead serious.
Within 48 hours, I had gotten two inquiries. One from a super sweet, size 24 girl, who was hoping to be a size 8 by her wedding day in August, and the second was from a person named Samuel. The email was signed by "Sammy," and according to the text, Sammy was a wedding dress collector.
Okay.
I replied to both emails, setting up times for each person to come and see the dress.
Cara, the plus-sized sweetheart, came to see the dress on Monday. As soon as I unzipped the garment bag, tears welled up in her eyes. By the time the dress was out of the bag, she was engulfed in full on sobs. A few minutes later we were sitting at my kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, discussing Cara's lifelong battle with her weight. An hour later we hugged, and she drove off. Without the wedding dress.
Damn.
The next day, Sammy came to see the dress, and sure enough, Sammy was a man dressed as a woman. Actually, he was a college guy dressed up as a college girl. He was obviously in the beginning stages of his transition wearing female clothing and press-on nails with a giant men's watch. High heels and long hair with very manly glasses.
Whatever. I didn't care. I just wanted someone, anyone, to buy the damn dress.
Sammy stepped into the privacy of our bedroom and quietly worked himself into the dress. He came out a few minutes later asking for help with the zipper.
No problem.
"Suck it in," I said.
He did.
I yanked up on the zipper and Sammy said, "You've got to be kidding me! This is so tight! I can hardly breath!"
"But it looks beautiful," I replied.
"But I can hardly stand it," he retorted.
"Listen," I said. "Sammy, being a man is all about the comfort. But being a woman? It's all about the beauty, and you look beautiful in this dress."
"Really," he asked?
"Really," I said. "If you're serious about this, you've got to get used to not breathing."
And apparently he did. He bargained me down by $10, bought the dress, and a few weeks later he emailed me a couple pictures of himself sporting the dress at a sorority formal.
Sure he was overdressed, but damn he looked goooood.
These days, Sammy and I still keep in touch on Facebook and she looks a heck of a lot better than I do--perfect hair, perfect nails, and slammin' legs in a miniskirt.
Every now and then I'll find myself feeling jealous of her looks. But then I have to remind myself--I've had a baby, Sammy hasn't.
This week I'm shamelessly swiping an idea from the fabulous CJane, and we're gonna have some fun playing Three Truths and a Lie.
For the next four days, I'll post a story about my life--three will be true, and one will be a big, fat, fabricated lie. Then, on the fifth day you'll all get to vote for the story you believe was pulled straight out of the darkness of my arse.
To prevent any bean spillage from those of you who are familiar with my real life business, please, please, please refrain from commenting.
*****
So here we go. Story numero uno:
One zillion years ago, I sold a never-used wedding dress on FirstClass for $50. FirstClass was my college's email system, and in a lot of ways, it resembled a stripped down Craig's List. It was the place to sell heavily-used furniture, adopt frat dogs, and find random, non-committal hookups on a lonely Friday night.
Not that I ever did that--because seriously, I really never did that.
In all honestly, I wasn't that type of girl. My style was far more akin to lasting devotion and long-term commitment. I suppose that's how I found myself engaged, at the age of 19, to a promising young chef.
This was no joke you guys. We're talking diamond ring, wedding dress, wedding date, church, reception site, the works.
Trust me friends, if you had tasted this man's lobster bisque, you would have said 'yes,' too. I don't care if you're male, female, gay or straight--you most definitely would've let him put the ring on your hungry little, food loving finger. His soup was that good.
(Do you think it'd be overly tacky to call him 9 years later, and ask him to whip up a quick batch for my husband and me?)
If you do the math, and consider the fact that I married Jared at the fresh, young age of 21, you'll come to realize that this engagement didn't last so long. Within a matter of months the ring was returned, the date on the calendar was scratched off, and all kinds of deposits were rightfully refunded.
But the dress? Oh my word that dress stuck around.
For the first couple of years it hung around in my childhood closet, taking up 60% of the available space with its many cubic yards of tulle and organza. And then, 3 or so years later, when Jared and I bought our first house (which coincidentally, we later sold on FirstClass), my mom wrestled that dress into the back seat of her Jetta, drove it up to Maine, plopped it on my bed and said, "Congratulations on the house. Now take this."
This house--all two stories of it--boasted just over 800 square-feet and was set on a lovely .09 acre lot. Our master bedroom literally measured 7x11, so it's needless to say that storing a 62 square-foot dress from a called off wedding was completely out of the question. Even the backyard couldn't have handled this thing.
So up it went, on FirstClass. It was listed above a ratty apartment for rent and under an advertisement for keg-stand coaching.
I'm dead serious.
Within 48 hours, I had gotten two inquiries. One from a super sweet, size 24 girl, who was hoping to be a size 8 by her wedding day in August, and the second was from a person named Samuel. The email was signed by "Sammy," and according to the text, Sammy was a wedding dress collector.
Okay.
I replied to both emails, setting up times for each person to come and see the dress.
Cara, the plus-sized sweetheart, came to see the dress on Monday. As soon as I unzipped the garment bag, tears welled up in her eyes. By the time the dress was out of the bag, she was engulfed in full on sobs. A few minutes later we were sitting at my kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, discussing Cara's lifelong battle with her weight. An hour later we hugged, and she drove off. Without the wedding dress.
Damn.
The next day, Sammy came to see the dress, and sure enough, Sammy was a man dressed as a woman. Actually, he was a college guy dressed up as a college girl. He was obviously in the beginning stages of his transition wearing female clothing and press-on nails with a giant men's watch. High heels and long hair with very manly glasses.
Whatever. I didn't care. I just wanted someone, anyone, to buy the damn dress.
Sammy stepped into the privacy of our bedroom and quietly worked himself into the dress. He came out a few minutes later asking for help with the zipper.
No problem.
"Suck it in," I said.
He did.
I yanked up on the zipper and Sammy said, "You've got to be kidding me! This is so tight! I can hardly breath!"
"But it looks beautiful," I replied.
"But I can hardly stand it," he retorted.
"Listen," I said. "Sammy, being a man is all about the comfort. But being a woman? It's all about the beauty, and you look beautiful in this dress."
"Really," he asked?
"Really," I said. "If you're serious about this, you've got to get used to not breathing."
And apparently he did. He bargained me down by $10, bought the dress, and a few weeks later he emailed me a couple pictures of himself sporting the dress at a sorority formal.
Sure he was overdressed, but damn he looked goooood.
These days, Sammy and I still keep in touch on Facebook and she looks a heck of a lot better than I do--perfect hair, perfect nails, and slammin' legs in a miniskirt.
Every now and then I'll find myself feeling jealous of her looks. But then I have to remind myself--I've had a baby, Sammy hasn't.
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