Dress It Up

I have been on a quest. So much drama has gone into it that I could have made an Indiana Jones sequel based on it--Indiana Jones and the Hunt for Tummy Tucking Hip Hiding Dress. No doubt, as all the comedic tragedies in my life play out, the root of all nonsense is my beloved nutty sister.

We have been given strict warnings by our maternal unit (also known as mom) to 'wear proper clothes' when we descend upon her for our upcoming visit to the home country.  She is having a big do, and as per her stipulations based on superstitions, we are absolutely forbidden to wear black, white, and possibly grey. My sister got it into my head that I need a dress, not just a disco ball top and black trousers.

Sadly for me, anything fabulous I came across was in exactly the banned colors, or some combination thereof.  My sibling and I, brave as chickens during a thunderstorm, dare not go against this outfit decree, despite making a mockery of our mom's other superstitions.

Some of them include but are not limited to: spitting three times to prevent the evil eye (I strongly advice you not to sit to her left when you give her a compliment--if you do, bring a parasol), wearing a necklace and earrings all the time for good luck, and the random placing of lucky 'omens' such as full glasses of milk at the entranceway when anyone begins a journey or visits home after being away for a long time.

To show our strong defiance of these other superstitions, I’m constantly parading around without jewelry and my sister has made herself lactose intolerant, thereby eliminating the need to have full glasses of milk around the house.

When it comes to spitting, we leave it for the camels, because in general we are far less graceful that our mother, who can actually get away with it. Perhaps it’s because she only makes spitting sounds, and is not actually spitting.  Plus, she is elegant and my sister and I are more like baby elephants in tutus.

As such, my sibling has gone through half of Washington state and I have scoured all of Burnaby and we have come up empty.  In desperation, I bought a lovely lace lilac number, but my painfully honest spouse, P, asked me if I was going to an Easter party in June.

Yes, I'll be dining with Mad Hatter's but I was hoping I could swing it for an evening function. P vehemently shook his head and quickly fanned off any lingering hopes I had for pulling that one off. Poof.

Hi ho hi ho, it's back to the mall I go. The only thing I discovered from spending inordinate amounts of time in changing rooms was that my five year old, Lanes, was right. My stomach was getting rather jiggly and it does produce some sort of ripple effect--the result of my not exercising since March (when I started working--what I was doing all of May is a mystery).

The next day, I came home with a really slimming black dress, that was in no way appropriate for my trip, but was perfect for a Moroccan Night ladies only extravaganza that a friend of mine invited me to.  At least I looked fabulous for that. For once.  If only the dress came in another color!

So two dresses, one huge credit card bill and a minor headache later, I was back to square one.  In a last minute attempt to find something suitable, we were to meet up with my nutty sister in Bellingham over the weekend.  We were to merge our broods and conquer the shops.

After spending close to three hours at the border, we discovered that half of Canada was crowded into the one store we had time left to visit. It was so populated in there that I was feeling slightly claustrophobic. 

We squeezed into aisles, bravely pulling dresses off hangers before someone else did. I was most grateful to have a thirteen year old niece who adores me and stood guard while I valiantly forced myself into several numbers.

I did forgive her for constantly shoving the door open with full force when I was mid-change, causing me to scream hysterically, 'I'm in my underwear!'. In hindsight (horrible pun intended) perhaps I shouldn't have drawn more attention to that.

We grabbed some dresses and I just settled on one. It got my nutty sibling's seal of approval and if it fails, I was just going to bank on that. Then came the next series of searches based on the new idea that was put into my head by you know who. So began the trek for the perfect tummy concealing undergarments.

That kept me busy for the rest of the week.  I tried on some ‘shapewear’ but they left me looking like high school wrestlers or orcas on maternity leave. So I decided to go with comfort and to grin and bear the inevitable comments at the party 'have you put on weight? Such a shame'.

I think it's nice of me to give people something to talk about. P raised his eyebrows and was about to say something, but I gave him a warning glare and luckily for once, he got the hint, and remained mum. I think.

Most likely, it was the coughing fit he had at that exact moment. He has been battling a sinus infection and has resorted to things like netty pots and steam inhalation to get himself unclogged.

I'm afraid I might find him standing upside down in an attempt to drain his sinuses one day. As I type this, our ghetto fabulous apartment is smelling of l'eau du Vicks vapor rub.

And that my friends, is how I have been spending my new found unemployment. I now know almost every nook and cranny of almost all fitting rooms in the greater Burnaby area.  Other than that, I've been driving my spouse and spawn insane and catching up with friends.

I greatly enjoyed the Moroccan night.  I learned that I can actually use my arms and hands to dance--I have no idea what I was doing with them before. The ladies there were really nice--not the annoying kind of nice where you can picture unicorns sprouting out of their ears. The good kind of nice where you can talk and laugh and have a great time with kindred spirits.

With that I must sign off, as there are eggplants to be cooked. More musings from BC next week...or wait, where will I be? Never mind, I shall write sooner than this..