Who's the Dummy?

I should preface this little anecdote by assuring you that, though my husband is often begrudging with his sewing assistance, he rarely leaves me in the lurch. He is an invaluable partner in my learning process. Furthermore, I have no doubt that he finds me completely attractive (because he tells me all the time). Alas, this post is not about how great my husband is. Where's the intrigue in that?? No, my friends, this is one of those "men are from Mars" stories.

About a week ago, when the dress form arrived, I convinced Scott to assist me in "shaping" it. Y'all know that process is not yet complete, but at this inception moment, I was entirely confident I'd have it all sorted out in a session or two.

We were tired. It was a Tuesday evening. The child's (traumatizing "eco house" construction) project was mid way through. It was dark and dreary. Really, it was a stormy night.

First off, the job was to take current measurements. That was Scott's role and he didn't do a very accurate job, truth be told. Instead of holding the tape measure taut (but not tight), he kept putting his finger in between the tape and my body. Or, allowing it to slacken slightly before recording the size. I tried to explain - again and again - how one measures for fit but he didn't get it. Outrageously, at one point - admittedly after I expressed some frustration with his technique - he had the nerve to suggest that he knew it was a difficult process, but I should just accept my true measurements, even if they were larger than I am comfortable with.

Um, hello?!?!? I'm the woman who just spent hundred's of dollars to undertake the worthy challenge of reproducing my true shape in an effort to design clothes of flawless fit. I'm the one who spends every weekend measuring fabric against antiquated big 4 sizing protocols - decreasing seam allowances as necessary, leaving my ego in the dust. Don't fucking tell me I have an issue accepting the fucking number on the tape!

OK, we had a moment. I suggested we should get a dress form that approximates him. We eventually got over it. I mean, I needed his help.

A (tense) while later, after struggling with the partial limbs I call "leglets", and the hips, we came upon the stomach-shaping. Scott took one look at the abdominal foam and said: Lord, there is no way that's going to be big enough.

Whereupon I realized there are some activities you should not undertake with men. And until further notice, he is prohibited from the sewga room, even if that was his secret motive.

The end.