Bride Crossing Part 2

After a few weeks, I was able to pick up my wedding dress from Chinese Lady. The work was completed beautifully: Chinese Lady agreed that deciding to shorten the gross floor-length to a flattering knee-length was perfect for the look I was going for. Well, no shit Chinese Lady, I always know what's best - ask anyone.

The next step was to drop the ivory gown at the dry cleaners - I drove to another nearby location suggested by Chinese Lady. I walked into the facility, layed the plastic-covered dress down on the counter and said hi. There was no hi, no alternative greeting, no smile, no questions as to what I needed coming from the lady behind the counter. And she looked as though she had not showered in 17 days or visited her stylist for a root touch-up since 1992. If I couldn't trust her to take a shower before work, how could I trust her with my wedding dress? This was the exact moment I realized I didn't like the lady working the counter and our relationship was most likely not going to improve: we're going to call her "Roots" from here on out.

I told Roots that I was was dropping off my dress to be cleaned and pointed out a few marks around the bust area. We went over pricing, what kind of chemicals are used, whether or not the marks would come out, and the date of pickup. I was pretty much running the conversation since all Roots had to say was the ever-helpful, "Uh huh". It was beyond difficult to concentrate and not look at Roots' roots during that interaction. Anytime I meet someone I don't like, the same thing physical reaction occurs: my eyes narrow, my palms become cold and sweaty simultaneously, my heart thumps quickly in my chest, and my brain freezes up. Over the years, I've learned to control these symptoms, but yet they remain. (More about why I hate everyone later.)

Two days later, I strolled in to see Roots with the looming feeling that something big, something small, or just something has happened to my dress. There is reasoning behind my craziness and here it is: Roots brought the lovely ivory cocktail-length beaded bust dress out from the back and hung it on the rack for me to view. My eyes honed in on the bust immediately and saw that the formerly beige beads on the bust area were now virgin-FUCKING-white. My eyes narrowed, my palms sweated, my heart thumped, and I could barely think: Roots and her shitty root job fucked up my wedding dress.

To be continued...