Your Own. Personal. Jesus.

I currently have a butternut squash and a two-foot-long inflatable penis in my car and they are, in some strange way, related thanks to Chairsy’s upcoming wedding. The wiener is one of many inappropriate objects destined for her bachelorette party this Saturday. The produce. Well.

As you may remember, I was incorrectly measured for my bridesmaids dress. I have since learned that it was ordered a full THREE sizes too small. I’d lost a size by the time it was delivered so by the time I was hopping up and down trying to squeeze into it, it was only TWO sizes too small. Only. After briefly exercising in an attempt to shed 30 pounds in 2 months, I came to the conclusion that I much prefer drinking vodka alone at my kitchen counter to sweating. She-Ra recommended I go to the uber-Italian seamstress who altered her wedding gown, proclaiming her a bonafide miracle worker. She works (and apparently lives) in the basement of her big, beautiful house, I assume because Italians have a strict no-touch policy when it comes to having nice things (thus the plastic couch covers so prevalent in popular movies). I’m used to this because my aunt in Long Island has a white couch in her mirrored front parlor guarded by a porcelain jaguar. In a quarter of a century, I have NEVER seen anyone sit on that couch. Anyway, that’s why the basement thing didn’t weird me out.

Last month, after a bit of prodding and yanking on the zipper, the seamstress asked for more fabric to complete the sash around the middle of the dress. I ordered a yard of it from China which was finally delivered last weekend. I didn’t make it to the seamstress until today because I’m having a REALLY hectic week month year. I forgot the fabric at home on Tuesday, postponed my fitting till Wednesday, forgot the shoes on Wednesday, postponed the fitting till today and finally made it to her house basement, flustered, red-faced, and extremely apologetic.

I wiggled into the dress which already fit thanks to her wizardry and wobbled out to the pedestal where she spun me around in circles while marking the hem and patiently listening to my outpouring of gratitude for fixing a dress that previously had a 4-inch gap to overcome via its zipper. I paused for breath at one point and she calmly said while holding pins between her lips, “That’s life. Nothing to get upset over. Don’t you worry. This is nothing.” It made me pause mid-hyperventilation and reevaluate my entire life. Wow. So what if I came inches (4 to be exact) from walking down a church aisle at one of my best friend’s weddings with a gapping hole in the back of my dress? It’s not the end of the world. No biggy. She fixed it. Just like that. I wanted to take her with me to say it over and over again the next time I’m stuck in traffic thinking about following a tailgater home so I can egg their house and key their car.

While I stood there dumbstruck by my existential epiphany, her husband wandered through the studio to ask about lunch. They exchanged a few words in Italian and he smiled and said to me, “I still have to ask her how to cook everything.” I smiled. Then he asked “You like these?” and pointed to the squash in his hand. I answered “Of course!” He could have been holding a pound of rancid meat and I would have said yes at that moment. “Then I give you one before you go.” True to his word after I’d changed clothes again, he took me to the garage to display his garden’s bumper crop and insisted I pick out a butternut squash for dinner. I almost hugged the seamstress when she walked me to the door. We’ve shared philosophy and squash. In the Italian culture, that practically makes us family now.