“You ruined my dress! You must pay to replace it!” I screamed to the owner.

“It wasn’t our fault” they claimed “we know your dress was used. The damage was done during a prior cleaning. “

“How can you say that?” I cried “The dress was perfect when I dropped it off and damaged when I picked it up.”

Regardless of the incriminating evidence, the things I said were used against me in the court of cleaners. Because of my big fat mouth, they knew I bought the dress at a resale shop and they knew I paid less than a hundred bucks for it. Finally, after tears, threats, and insults the dry cleaners agreed to pay a whooping $75 for the damage.

In less than three hours, I found another gown (for five times what I paid for the original) and drove twenty miles to have it altered by a seamstress known as “Mom” who spoke broken English with a heavy Russian accent. Her husband worked the cash register. He had white hair and black eyebrows and also spoke with a Russian brogue. I noticed that the hair in his ears matched his eyebrows and I was fixated by the black fuzz that creeped out onto his large lobes like a spider. Still, as far as I was concerned, they were miracle workers and I was comforted when Mom said “Don’t verry – ve’ll make it perfect!”

Like Cinderella, I managed to get to the ball, dance with my prince, and get home before midnight without losing my shoe. Despite all of the drama, it was wonderful evening– in a Not-So-Perfect sort of way.

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