sometimes, the group bursts into applause when they make the decision

All anxious, self-deprecating humor aside, I really love my part-time job at this bridal shop.

I love it because I love listening to people talk about their style and/or observing people’s style choices and wondering about how they came to them.  I could wonder about that shit all day.  (I once wrote a paper about how exactly the literature on popular culture helps to explain the visceral joy I get from reading amateur fashion blogs.  My professor told me it was “moving,” and I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud.)

I also really like weddings.  For real, I think most of the dresses we sell are heinously expensive and actually just kinda nasty, and I think that if I got a closer look at more of the wedding industry, I’d be even a little more queasy about all that.  (I tried on one of the dresses the other day, and besides the out-of-body weirdness of it, I was struck by how seriously difficult it was to walk in it.  Always with the constriction of women’s bodies…).  But weddings.  I love the idea of blurring the public and the intimate, of standing there, bolstered by the support of all of the people who have made you who you are, and saying, “Okay, let’s make your people my people.”  It’s beautiful. 

Plus, this place is all women all the time.  I love working in all-women contexts.  So much.  I really feel like there’s an unspoken solidarity all up in there.  Maybe I’m just sentimental (I am.).  Women (the other staff all call them “brides,” but that gives me the willies a little bit) come in with their mothers, their sisters, their grandmothers, their in-laws, their friends, their cousins.  It’s fascinating, and sort of an honor really, to get to stand so close to those relationships as they work through this particular style decision, laden as it is with sentiment and body image stuff and $$$ concerns.  I keep thinking that I should write about this part of the job, getting into the gorgeous little details that make up the wide range of relating that I get to see.  But I suppose it’s not very nice to write about strangers without their permission.

You know what's the best?

Laughing so hard you cry. And I do that a lot.

Like when Daniele took this photo of Jess and Jordan with our crappy waiter. Jordan rested his hand on the guy's stomach for at least 45 seconds while Daniele figured out the camera.


And like last night when Amy altered her "The Beef Stroganoff Song" from, "It's a stroganoff party and EVERYONE'S invited. It's a stroganoff party and EVERYONE'S invited," to better fit the hypothetical situation of Aaron and Kevin's stepdad comparing their willies to see if they were in fact related. Kevin's stepdad's idea, oddly enough. Anyway, Amy changed the song to, "It's a genital showdown and EVERYONE'S invited. It's a genital showdown and EVERYONE'S invited."

And just now, I said "hi" to Jess via gchat. I'm sitting at the dining room table, she on the couch. She typed "uuhhh," "you're dumb," and "turn around," and when I did, she was giving me the finger.