blood on the tulle.

Gather round, girlies, and let Auntie Katie tell you a story.

Late November, while relaxing after Thanksgiving dinner, I was overwhelmed with the sudden urge to go find a dress. I don't know what brought on this urge, since I'd actually been really dreading the girly fluffy lacey white aspects of the wedding for all of the three days since the engagement. My mother, sensing a rare bonding opportunity, offered to take me browsing the following day. The idea was to see what I liked, try on a few options, gauge prices, inquire about the cost and leadtime required for alterations, and to return home, full of knowledge and ready for a battle that was sure to last many, many months.

Early the next day we headed out to the local bridal shop, where I tried on four gowns in my own personal mirrorspace, my mother wept, the shopkeeper spoke quietly with a thick Italian accent, and I was told that I was a size 16. Apparently, bridal gowns run a little small. The fourth gown was what they call it. I called Marc, told him I was standing in a bridal shop, looking at myself in a mirror wearing the dress I would be wearing when I married him, and he gulped, (I'd like to think that he, too, shed a little tear at this point) and told me to go ahead and buy it. I was already one step ahead of him, since the shop had informed me that my dress wouldn't actually arrive for 6-8 weeks. We hadn't set a date for the wedding yet, but we were thinking February(!) or so. By the way, the sample dresses I had actually tried on were something like a size 6, and were each held closed in back with a carefully pinned white washcloth. Very tasteful. (Oh yeah, here's the dress.)

I should mention that most of our wedding was planned like this: you like it? yup, you like it? yup. great, we'll take it. Fortunately, we have relatively affordable taste.

Now, the next obstacle was my mother's dress. Here we shed tears of a different sort. The following day (we were really beat from the first whirlwind gown experience and rewarded ourselves with hours of Trading Spaces and a good night's sleep before venturing back out) we enlisted my mother's friend, Barb, and headed to her favorite source for middle-aged formalwear, David's Bridal. When we walked in, I was overwhelmed. I could barely hear the receptionist as she asked if we needed help. Fortunately, Barb was quick on her feet and told her we wouldn't be buying anything that day. Thereafter we were ignored.

Oh dear, sweet, Jesus. I am a big fan of Target. And I frequent Joann's Fabric as much as the next home-crafter. But a bridal superstore? That was too much. It was brides on parade, my friends, as float after float of layers and layers of satinesque, tulline, silkette, and pearlish sashayed past whimpering mothers, checkbooks in hand. I watched as "Bridal Consultants" perched tangles of veil atop cherry red faces and fluffed their cascading wares over fat backs crammed into sausage-casing gowns. "You look gorgeous." "This is the one." "You look like a dream." David's wasn't selling gowns, they were selling beauty. Well actually, it was more like they were selling beautiescent, or beautiesque. Closer examination revealed pulled threads, loose beads, splitting seams and ragged hemlines. Again, these were just sample gowns, but I was beginning to grow suspicious.

My mother, while I ogled the bridal three-ring of mirrors, had chosen three tastefully understated gowns for herself from the Mother of the Bride section. We proceeded to the "fitting corral," where we helped ourselves to a dressing room. I went in to assist my mother, and Barb held the (broken) door. My mother stripped, and then we heard a commotion outside. I heard Barb say, in her teacher voice, "But there's someone in there!" The door opened. My mother screamed. A store attendant reached in, grabbed the two dresses that were still on their hangers, and announced, "THIS room is reserved for a BRIDE." There were about fifteen people milling around outside, and they all turned to look into the small room, where my mother stood in her undies, with me, holding her dress up for her to slip into.

I'd like to say that at this point I dug deep down within myself and stood up for my mother, shouting back at the woman, or perhaps grabbing the dresses back or clawing the woman's eyes out. But instead, I meekly asked, "Can she at least get dressed first?" and closed the door. My mother quickly threw her clothes back on, growing angrier and angrier... We left the fitting room and the attendant greeted us with this: "You can't just go into a fitting room on your own!" I turned and watched my mother slowly inhale, adjust the way her purse strap sat on her shoulder, straighten her back and lean forward menacingly: "I will never buy anything here!" She grabbed a brochure from my hand and tore it in half, dropping it on the floor. She stormed past me and Barb, and quickly headed for the door, announcing the entire way for anyone who cared to listen, "I don't know why anyone would shop here. What a miserable experience. What a bitch. I hate this kind of place. This is insane." At the door, she gave one last loud sigh and pushed her way outside. Barb and I were a few steps behind, and I made sure to throw the remaining brochures at the receptionist's desk on the way out.

I don't know if it's the worst thing they could have done, but it felt terrible at the time. I would encourage any bride-to-be to avoid the place like the plague, unless you're looking for a funny place to watch ugly dresses parade past on bodies they don't fit.