Ordering this dress proved to be a little more than difficult: the first place I went wouldn't exactly fall into the "speaks English fluently" category and involved a phone call to a company from the store's owner that was less than pleasant. Basically, it was super awk.
The next place I ventured to was just past the back forty. This store was hoppin' and boppin' for a Monday. I'm guessing MLK Day brings people out of the woodwork for bridal apparel. That's just a guess though. Anyway. The visit started out nice enough until Shay (although her name on the print out she gave me read: Shequella) started speaking. First, she asked if I was pregnant. I'm sorry, but why would you ask me that? Did I do anything to lead you to believe that I was, in fact, with child? Isn't there a rule somewhere about never asking that question to someone no matter how curious? I told her politely that, "If I'm pregnant, the Virgin Mary just lost some of her clout." She seemed confused and then, apparently, she tried to recover by asking, "Is that baby out there yours?" (Lauren and baby hoodrat, Harper were accompanying me on this trip to Hell). Why would that baby be mine? Was I ever holding the baby? Do I have the ability to dress a child that cute? Didn't you just get your foot out of your mouth? Why would you want it back in there? I told her that the baby was not mine and she finally quieted down a bit. Then, all hell broke loose when she informed that I should order a size 16 dress. I'm sorry, 16? 16, like the number after 15? Even at the most I've ever weighed I didn't need a size 16, how about I try this smaller size just for fun? Ok, great. Well, the smaller size fit just swell and she mumbled something about it being "perfect."
Shay, honey, darling, deary, if you're reading this: please re-evaluate your life and the words that come out of your mouth. But, if I ever get pregnant (immaculate conception or otherwise) you'll be the first to know!