Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [21]
I am no stranger to the impossible. Work two jobs, go to grad school, and single-handedly rear my daughter in a city where I know not one soul? Sure, no problem. Find a second husband and give him five boys in ten years, rearing them all in a two-bedroom apartment in the middle of Manhattan while continuing my career as an architect? Don’t make me shrug. Create a killer dress from a paper clip and a piece of lint? Freaking cakewalk.
I tried to share my love by telling everyone to watch the show with me, but reality television with its lowbrow reputation was too hard a sell in my house—not to mention the part about people sewing dresses. I did manage to convince my nine-year-old, Truman, to sit by my side as I yelled at the screen—disagreeing with the judges’ comments or questioning a contestant’s design decision—and that was because the show aired past his bedtime. One late night, as I was watching an episode I had already seen at least fourteen times, Truman looked up at me from where he lay.
“That dress should not have been cut on the bias,” he muttered. “Mom, you can do better than that.”
You’re right, I thought. That fabric is not bias friendly. I could do better with my eyes closed. I hadn’t been to fashion school, but I had learned to sew when I was tiny, and my architecture training had honed my sense of design to a razor-sharp edge. I’d been making fantastic, elegant black-tie-event dresses for years; I knew how to drape and make patterns without ever really thinking about it. As I sat on the couch, Truman gently snoring during the runway segment, it occurred to me that I could audition for the next season. What was there to lose? At least if I got cast all my friends and family would have to watch the show with me, even if I didn’t make it very far.
I found the New York City open call on the Bravo website—it was to be held in three days. I couldn’t believe my luck. The interviews would be at Macy’s, only three blocks away, so I wouldn’t have to travel or make any crazy arrangements for the kids. It really was a no-brainer.
I wasn’t sure what they would be looking for, so I decided to bring what I do best, grabbing three sparkling cocktail dresses from the clothing rack in my bedroom. I was flying blind, trying to remember what contestants had shown up with in the past and gleaning what I could from the Internet. I figured my chances were about as slim as those of an African American ever becoming president, but then again, why not me? I can out-gay the gayest young male designer out there, I told myself. The night before the auditions, I ignored the March forecast of “continued cold snap” and selected a shimmery sleeveless cocktail dress lush with hand beading and a neckline that plunges to the navel. When I pulled it on the next morning, I hoped I would stand out from the crowd.
And I do mean crowd. Peter walked with me, and when we showed up at the side entrance of Macy’s the line of people stretched all the way down Thirty-fourth Street and wrapped around the world’s most famous department store.
Peter, my hero, offered to hold my place in line so I could return home and wait in our warm apartment. God, I love that man. He called me hours later saying he was getting close to the front and it was time to make the switch.
Just as I arrived at Peter’s place in line, a guy with the requisite gear and a clipboard—clearly a producer—came outside for the next ten contestants.
“Seven, eight, nine,” he counted out, and when he said, “Ten,” I felt a hand on my shoulder guiding me through the door. My sense of the surreal started to kick into high gear.
Once inside the waiting room, I took off my coat and smoothed my hair, ignoring the nine people staring at me like I was crazy to wear a beaded dress before noon. Dress like you want it or stay home, I thought as I refreshed my red lipstick. They kept staring. I guess when you spend hours on a city street in the freezing cold a bit of camaraderie develops. I didn’t quite have that frozen-to-near-death-camped-on-the-sidewalk look about me. I