Tailor-Made

Today I hauled my ample behind to the tailor to get some clothes let out – yes, though I have had my low-budget fun at Dress Barn and Costco, as you know, I also did some major damage about two years ago at Bergdorf Goodman, when I was starting a hotsy-totsy job and spent some major buckage on several spectacular pants, skirts and jackets. Three weeks after I started said job, I lost it, in a crazy set of circumstances that left me at home starting this blog and hanging heavily with Himself and Pancake. And eating. Oh, yeah, I was eating. Club Crackers and Hershey Miniatures mostly (I would eat the milk chocolates and Krackels. Himself ate the dark chocolates and Mr. Goodbar. It was heaven!) I just didn’t wear my fancy clothes because it didn’t make much sense to deck myself out in Oscar de la Renta and Akris to walk the two yards to the dining room table.

But now with the new job and the fall weather, the time had come. I tried on the practically-new duds and had to face the lumpy, protruding evidence – panty lines that were like crevices in the Grand Canyon, a tummy bulge so rednecky that I started having galloping fantasties of liposuction. “It’s only five pounds,” Himself said helpfully. Pancake said nothing. She just gave me the once-over and went back to thoughtfully chewing her Flossie. (For those of you who have not run across a Flossie, it’s a spiral chew made out of bull testicles. And it’s a sharp spiral, I can tell you from personal experience. Experience gained at 3am one night when I went to the kitchen for water and stepped on it, screamingly silently in pain while everyone else slept on.) And anyway, what does Pancake know about clothes that do or don’t fit? She’s naked all the time, for god’s sake.

This tailor was the real thing, a lovely Italian man who looked at the pants and immediately whipped out his razor blade to see if there was any extra fabric, while I stood by trembling, hoping he knew what the hell he was doing. He said to me, “What happened? Too much dinner?” He should only know, I thought. He had me try on the pants, one of which had enough material. The other didn’t. He measured my hips to make sure he knew how much to let out the skirt. Then he showed me the number and shook his head sadly. “I don’t eat dinner,” he offered.

Later, I called my mother. I told her that I thought I could still wear the pants he couldn’t fix if I skipped the undies. “Elizabeth Taylor NEVER wore underwear,” Jeanne said knowledgably. Well, listen, if it’s good enough for Liz, it’s good enough for me. In the meantime, what’s for dinner?

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One response to “Tailor-Made

  1. Oh, Hot Pants, how long I have known the agony of rebuilding my clothes? Many a night in Westwood, New Jersey I endured the handsy machinations of some Yiddish accented tailor with a home basement sweatshop. I swear, my legs are different lengths. You have my sympathies. And leave it to Mah to be the last word on Elizabeth Taylor’s scanties – or lack thereof.

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