The Dress

Last Edit September 2, 1998

I was rewriting a seminar all month, and teaching it. High Tech. New software (complete with bugs), new library (ditto), new user manual (no resemblance to the beta book I had been working from).
So I let time get away. Nina had to prompt me. She has her shoes. She has her dress. Fishnet. She hopes to get caught on a button.
Ooops. At least I have shoes.
I tried a catalog - can't figure out how to put a 45-40-40-40 body into anything. I wear medium totable pants and XL or 1X tops.
Elastic is my friend.
Even three weeks into Medifast. (A liquid - almost totally - diet.)
But, luckily, I know how to sew. I am a country girl. Raised on a chicken farm. You figure it out.
So --- I taught Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and on Thursday, in a coma, at lunchtime, I tried to find my way to a fabric store in Mountain View.
I tried.
No joy.
I spent one hour driving to and from where it should have been -- and missed it.
So, my son refusing to come with me, I went out at night. I don't like going out alone after dark. You never know what you might find in a mall.
I am a woman on a mission.
I power-shop a close-out sale (new owners) and picked up bright purple stretch velvet, bright blue and some black. Plus two patterns.
Two dresses.
Fabio always inspires my creativity. Don't know why. Don't ask.
Pheromones.
Chemistry.
Whatever.
Friday I cut out the purple dress -- size 18-20 just to be safe. V neck. Flared bottom that sweeps the floor. Slit up the thigh.
I bought an invisible zipper.
I put it in a placket.
Can't teach an old seamstress new tricks. Not when she's in a hurry.
I made the dress -- all day Saturday.
I refused to go to the movies.
I refused to do the wash.
I refused to mow the lawn.
I sewed.
It's pretty.
Bright.
Low cut.
Not too tight -- don't want to show off my old body.
My almost seventeen said the neckline was all right. "It just shows the crack."
OK. I think.
My almost seventeen said the slit needed to go higher.
OK. I think.
My almost seventeen said I looked like Barney.
I'll kill him.
I have a costume from 3-4 years back -- a Romantic Times costume contest -- a purple velvet gown decorated as a medieval outfit. Expensive ($$$$) gold and black drape sewn across the shoulders. Goes to the floor.
The drape was quickly drafted. I ruthlessly cut it in half. I sewed it together the long way. I sewed it into a long, stiff sash I could put at the throat and drape down the back.
I added a Nolan Miller necklace -- big, purple thing, wrapped around my neck twice. Fills in the neck.
This pendant broke once -- the purple piece fell off. I repaired it with bathtub caulk.
Don't ever say I am not creative.
The sash and necklace made the dress.
One down.
Sunday, with four days left, I cut out and make the second dress.
Both dresses have long sleeves. No need to show off cellulite, sun spots, freckles, dry skin.
The second dress is not floor length. It swings in a flare at the knee. My plastic surgeon says I have nice legs. At least I have that.
The dress is one color on top, another color on the bottom. It has a banded neckline - high. It is cut across the middle on the diagonal. I used black at the neck, and for the skirt and the blue for the top and the sleeves.
I tried it on.
My 22-year old was visiting. He had just ferried the van back from the body shop.
He said, "Where's your insignia?" As in Star Fleet.
Sure enough. I have made a dress uniform for a Vulcan.
I'll kill him.
I'm going to Little Rock anyway. And I am wearing these dresses.
And I will be thinking of my boys while I stalk Fabio.
It is, of course, what they intended.