Charming, but single

Seriously, people, you do not want me to be your bridesmaid. I promise.

My bridesmaid dress? Was a touch tight. And I was walking out the door to have a seam or two taken out and talking to my mom and she suggested, brilliantly, that I call back Massive Chain Bridal Store to see if they had one size larger.

I told her this never would happen, that the dress was discontinued when I ordered it, that they simply didn’t have the size I’d originally wanted. But I called them anyway and wouldn’t you know they had the larger size at one store in California.

With shipping, both dresses cost less than one at full price. And after some mix ups with the shipping, the dress arrived Friday evening and I tried it on Saturday morning.

And it was too big.

Not a little bit too big. Like much too big. I wondered if wearing the too tight dress was a better option. The dress seemed much more than one size bigger. The neckline drooped low, the halter straps were five or six inches too long, the hem pooled on the floor and the back of the dress stuck out almost two inches away from my back.

Thankfully, my mom is an expert seamstress. She fixed the halter, which pulled the neckline and hemline up correctly. Then she reached under the arms and tucked each side in about two inches and sewed it down. The bodice fit perfectly and though the fabric puffed a little under the arms, she ordered me to keep my arms down during the ceremony.

Crisis averted, right?

Wrong.

A few weeks ago I rolled my ankle while grocery shopping. I slipped and caught myself and my ankle was swollen for a few days. I’d assumed I could walk off this minor injury. I iced the ankle. I elevated the ankle. I took Aleve. I wore flats.

To no avail. My ankle and calf hurt all the way from the weekend before Christmas to the present. Worried that I’d cracked a bone – I once cracked four main bones in my right foot and walked on it for days, so I know this is possible – I opted to visit a doctor.

And wouldn’t you know, it isn’t broken. It is terribly sprained, necessitating a big black cast boot. (That very thankfully comes off.)

The Bride took the news very well. I am scoping out silver ballet flats to wear instead of my silver and rhinestone strappy sandals. And thankfully the dress has a huge skirt and the boot shouldn’t be visible.

The good news: Instead of being The Single Bridesmaid or The Pudgy Bridesmaid, I will now be The Hobbling Bridesmaid, which I can handle.

Saturday evening, after seeing “Juno” with my girlfriends, I decided to pick up a few things for dinner and head in for a quiet night of watching Season Three of The Office. My ankle still hurts and I’m heading out on Thursday for a whirlwind wedding weekend, so a bit of relaxation was in order. I stopped by a new gourmet market to browse and wait for food-related inspiration.

I was rolling through the aisles aimlessly, trying to decide what to cook. And this led me to a logical place – the meat counter. You see, I’ve been working hard in my post-vegetarian months to build dinners around meat instead of adding it in at the last minute.

So I’m looking at different cuts of meats – incidentally, I went with chicken breast and later made the world’s worst chicken. I’d meant to make a nice Parmesan crusted chicken breast, but oh did I crash and burn and end up with a lumpy mess. But, of course, I didn’t know that that this point.

What I did know at this point was that, gee golly, I was about to have an encounter of the uncomfortable kind. Because as I looked up from the applewood smoked pepper bacon, I spied a familiar face. One I’d only seen once in person but studied extensively via MySpace before coming to the conclusion that, yes, I was cuter than she is.

It was The Nurse’s Girlfriend, in all of her not me glory.

Whereas I looked put together – a rose-colored sweater with a cowl neck, wide-legged trouser jeans, flats, with my hair pulled back and simple makeup with glossy lips – she was not only wearing what I assume was an oversized men’s polo-style red plaid shirt and, horror of horrors, a SKORT.

Now, I know it is impolite to mock your ex’s current fling, especially when she was unfortunate enough to bear his spawn recently, but I really don’t care, because this isn’t actually about her right now. Girlfriend was wearing a denim skort. A pair of denim shorts with a faux skirt flap in the front. The definition of frumpy. And I should have just giggled and went about on my merry little way, happily not saddled with a child by a soulless liar. But at that moment, my New Year’s Resolution to find the blessings in my daily life fell from my mind and all I could think was, “He dumped me for someone who wears a skort.”

My maniacal fashion judgment gave way to the realization that she probably wasn’t alone. And I was right – The Nurse and Their Child were right behind her.

And, yep, I was there in my cute outfit, but hopelessly alone with a package of chicken breast and two baking potatoes. As I peered at him holding his baby and perusing the aisles, the blood drained from my face and I fumbled in my purse for my phone and called Southern Belle.

“Are you busy?”

“No, just painting my nails. What’s up?” she asked.

I told her I needed someone to distract me while I finished my shopping because I could not risk having to talk to the happy family.

And it turns out that I was going to need the distraction. Because they were everywhere – at the meat counter by the pork chops. In the deli section by the sliced cheeses and the prosciutto, comparing babies with another couple with an infant. At the seafood case by the scallops. In the produce section by the portabellas.

I was skillfully dodging him while carrying on my conversation and silently seething about how much I hated him for dumping me without bothering to give a reason and then occasionally dropping back into my life to flirt or suggest that we reunite for a night. And really hating myself the most for caring so much at this point and for letting him remain under my skin when I should have banished him like the poisonous rash that he is.

But as I went to replace a package of gnocchi on the pasta aisle, he was leading his brood down the same aisle and we ended up face-to-face. We made direct eye contact, he nodded and smiled to acknowledge me and I managed a weak smile and turned my cart around.

Later, as I walked to my car, I moped to Southern Belle.

“It isn’t him,” I said. “It is that he just dumped me for no reason, or at least if he had a reason he didn’t share it. And now he’s dating some woman who just doesn’t seem to be as fun as I am and he keeps popping up and making inappropriate comments to me and telling me how awful she is.”

“Yes, it would be easier if he were just gone.”

“Right. And, I’m sorry, she was wearing a skort.”

“Excuse me? His girlfriend was wearing a skort?” she asked.

“Yes, a skort. A denim skort. Like we wore in 1993. When we were 13.”

“Oh dear, I see why you’re upset,” Southern Belle said. “I don’t think there is any good reason to wear a denim skort out in public. Ever.”

“And this means I am officially the girl who got dumped for no reason so that her guy could go off and date a skort-wearer,” I said.

“The sad truth is, you’ll probably never know why he dumped you. And that’s crazy, but at least you’re not still with him,” Southern Belle said.

And she’s right. There isn’t always a tangible reason you can see for why a man dumps you. And that needs to be okay, because sometimes you’re the one the guy lusts after and the one who makes his heart pound.

And then other times you’re just not what he wants. And so, inexplicably, you get dumped for the girl in the denim skort.

I’m feeling a bit scatterbrained today. Deep in my soul I was sure it was Monday, so I was extra grumpy, only to realize that it was actually Wednesday and, thus, I should be happy for a short week.

But really, all I could think of today was nesting far away from the cold outside (anything less than 40 degrees is frigid to me) and what movie I should see with the ladies this weekend and how I couldn’t wait to be cooking up a storm this weekend in preparation for next Monday’s Big Game watching party. (We shall toast to our victory and feast triumphantly!) And cooking up a storm became a little more fun Chez Charming since I was blessed with gifts of KitchenAid knives and a Cuisinart mini food processor for Christmas. I have been anxiously looking for reasons to slice and chop and grind.

But, dear readers, I can’t pick just one recipe. So, I’ll share my ideas and you can share yours and together we can all decide which vegetarian (the hostess is veggie and I must be polite!) savory appetizer-style dish I should bring to the celebration.

First off, we have the Charming Standbys:

• Hot spinach and artichoke dip – I think I used to alter a Rachael Ray dip when I made this, but I’ve made it so many times that I just make it – one pack thawed frozen spinach, one can artichokes (in water) drained and chopped, a handful of minced garlic cloves, enough mayo to make it stir and a handful or two of cheese (usually mozzarella and Romano). Stir it all up, add spices of choice (I usually add dried Italian seasoning, Cajun spice, black pepper, paprika and maybe cumin if I’m feeling crazy.) and bake until everything melts. Open chips. Get ready to be worshipped.
• Stuffed mushrooms – Seriously, I couldn’t even write a recipie for these if you paid me to – I make a stuffing out of what I have on hand, like the cleaned mushroom stems, tomatoes, cheese, random seasoning, bread crumbs, olive oil, eggplant, squash. (Not all at once. Usually.)

Then we have the new, Internet-found recipes:

• Barefoot Contessa’s Sundried Tomato Dip
• Barefoot Contessa’s Pan Fried Onion Dip
• Olive Cheese Bread from The Pioneer Woman

So what should I cook, my dearies? Be nice and I’ll write all about the tarot card lady tomorrow, I promise!

Grits, tarot cards and all the champagne I could drink. Yes, 2007 ended with a bang and 2008 started with a whimper – the whimper of a woman with a champagne hangover, which I do believe is the worst of the hangovers.

I didn’t make progress on the resolution not to overindulge. But I did tell numerous people that I loved them and was glad to be their friend and I also made a point to introduce myself to one of those people I’d normally just smile at and not speak to.

“I think you should introduce yourself to all of the guys here,” said a friend, upon hearing about my resolutions.

“The resolution is to introduce myself to PEOPLE, not just MEN,” I said.

“Well, men are people, too, [Charming],” she said.

“Allegedly,” I laughed.