A Little (black market) Vera Wang for The Very Bloggy Wedding

Because I am a luxurious little thing, I headed to a place called Bridal Warehouse in search of a wedding gown fit for a queen.

A mom, a stylish friend, and a couple of sisters in tow, we journeyed into the premier palace of discount bridal wear on a mission: locate a few wedding dresses, haggle, haggle, bargain, beg, and wait to purchase a clearance-tagged beauty until my lovely blog-readers-turned-wedding-planners had a chance to vote for a puffy, white winner.

   My expectations for the warehouse were realistic, I thought. I expected burly men wearing weight-support girdles around their chunky middles as they schlepped loads of lumber on their shoulders. I expected cold concrete floors, the smell of wet paint, and a fine, yellow sprinkle of wood dust to coat all surfaces. Also, I’d hoped to hear at least once an employee barking over the intercom: “We need tulle and sparkle to the front. Tulle and Sparkle to the front. Price-check on satin. ” I adored these expectations of mine because the thought of buying a dress at Home Depot seemed entirely less intimidating than the glitz, glamour, and snobbery of the swanky bridal boutiques I’d seen on television.

Upon setting an appointment with the Nashville company, I’d disclosed what I deemed the important information: I have a budget that seems huge to me and teeny-tiny-ridiculous to everyone else, I need to place a deposit to “hold” two dresses until blog readers have voted for a winner, I wear a size somewhere between a baby and mama cow.

Upon arriving for my appointment at the Shack de Sparkle I faced some unexpected challenges: the place was surprisingly clean and free of building supplies, there was no Plumbing Department, and instead of the silver gleam of power tools, I was blinded by the ritzy gold glimmer radiating from every fancy light fixture and gaudy molding. Horrified by the second-rate fancy of it all, I prayed my bridal consultant would be wearing an orange apron and a we-can-fix-it attitude.

Her name was Maci. She had a dainty handshake and the jittery, escalating voice of a west coast prom queen. She smiled. I died inside. Having lost my information, Maci asked the basics to which I informed her: starving budget, heifer size, crazy blog vote. Her face changed. Her delighted-to-meet-you tone grew silent. Upon learning of my bargain bin budget, I suppose the helpful bride helper decided her help was worth more than the small comission she might earn. In a flash of sequins and pearls, my friend Maci was gone, and we were left clueless and alone amidst racks of unlabeled bridal fashions. In a rare moment of clarity, I realized why I preferred the rough and tumble world of Home Depot to the prim and proper world of ladylikeness:

FANCY FOLKS BE FUSSY. FANCY FOLKS BE RUDE.

    Not wanting to waste a perfect excuse to make those fanciest of folks uncomfortable, I committed to trying on an excessive number of gowns and making a mockery of this treasured, feminine pasttime. My mom elbow-deep in the sale rack,  a friend grabbing anything that looked cheap affordable, and an untrained sister trying her best to squeeze my whalish person into the prettiest mermaid silhouette you ever did see, we brought the freak show to that cirque de so rude. In yet another move that made me wonder if I missed the girlish Bride Gene, I actively prayed that I would loathe all dresses in this place. The thought of finding an outfit for a wedding seemed so much less rewarding than looking that money-hungry Maci in the eyes as she lost a super tiny but still cash comission. So I tried to find a pose that zipped that pesky back fat into submission. I called it The Hunchback of Nashville, and I liked it if for no other reason that I would all at once look elegant, toned, and like I was about to reenact wrestling smackdowns in a fit of marital rage.  I donned halter and sweetheart necklines, one shoulder, two thousand pounds of tulle, bedazzled and be-awful things until I felt content to go find our less-than-helpful bride helper (across the store chatting with a friend of a customer about the rhinestones on her nails) and tell her this:

” Unfortunately I am not prepared to say yes to a dress. I am prepared to say… kiss my discount-pantied -”

You get the point. I left Bridal Warehouse dissappointed on so many levels- no saw dust, no respect for girls who can’t spend thousands of dollars on a garment, no help, no dress- but surprisingly happy about one thing. I wouldn’t give my money (however small an amount that might seem) to a person who did nothing to earn it. I’ve never been so glad to leave empty-handed.

That glee gave way to gloom  twelve seconds later in the parking lot. My four-woman crew looked at me anxiously. I looked across the street to a crowded fast food joint, and wondered if buying a milkshake in leui of buying a wedding gown ought to count for some sort of success. With just an hour left until the close of business, we made the decision to give this desperately-seeking-dress adventure one more try at David’s Bridal down the street. Although improvised, our mission at the chain store would stay the same:  locate a few wedding dresses, haggle, haggle, bargain, beg, and wait to purchase a clearance-tagged beauty until my lovely blog-readers-turned-wedding-planners had a chance to vote for a puffy, white winner.

 The place was crammed with frantic employees darting to-and-fro with plastic garment bags slung over shoulder. One helped hollered across the store for a “price check on birdcage veil”, and I was at peace. All that was missing was the wet paint smell and tiny orange aprons. Without an appointment and so close to closing time, I decided we would just look. I wouldn’t hog a dressing room with so many seriously serious brides shopping about, and, after all, I didn’t think we could find a free bridal consultant amid the chaos. It wouldn’t be as fun, but I could find a few pretty dresses, show you guys the pictures from their website, beg for your imagination as I am three times the woman as the 14-year-old model in the photos, and let you choose a winner.

     Within seconds I heard angels singing. Not the typical store music, I thought, but certainly better than Ke$ha.  A woman dropped the load of dresses she’d been organizing and approached, sweet-smiling and calm. Her name is Angela. She’d like to help me. She thinks my budget is perfectly fine. She thinks I have pretty hair. I think I love her.

As Angela gathers gowns to fit my lengthy wishlist (“plain, no beading, no craziness”), I overhear from her concerned manager that the most helpful of bridal helpers has worked all day without a break and was supposed to clock out already. Angela returns with a few options, her face sweet and selfless, and I want to say “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I needed somebody to be nice to me today”.  She gently pours my lumpy hour glass figure into this princess ball gown and then that sleek Grecian look. All the while I am fighting the urge to hug her.

Just say no... to Fascinators.

A few dresses buttoned and bustled without success, Angela’s halo lit up. She had an idea. “There is one dress,” she said, “that no one has ever tried on.” I was skeptical. People don’t try on ugly things.

    But she is right. It is perfect. It is plain. It has no beading. It has no craziness. It is clear, as she sticks tall heels on my taller-than-tall self that surely this dress has never fit another woman. It is retro. It is southern. It makes me wonder if an artist has ever used my rear as his muse. Oh, and blessed by thy girdle, it is on sale. My mother cries, fellow shoppers are commenting enthusiastically about the dress and its superior effect on my butt, and- to my horror- the whole room is smiling, looking, staring. Someone rings a cowbell. I smile inside.

I spy with my little eye someone staring at my hind.

 

I am torn. I look at Angela, so willing to help with a smile despite her long day at work, my tiny budget, her sure-to-be tinier commission check. I think of The Very Bloggy Wedding, my cool blog readers surely excited to vote on  a very bloggy wedding dress. I am torn, I am torn, I…decided I would buy a white poncho from Angela because she deserved it.

I learn the dress is Vera Wang. I die inside. My sister immediately updates her facebook status to some braggy something about her two-degrees-from-Vera-Wang experience. She leaves out the part where it is a discount line made for the chain store, an attempt to make broke brides feel a little less broke about things. Oh, and the other part, where even the discount Vera Wang is normally twice my budget, and I just so happened to get this one, a discount dress discounted another 50%, because I am freakishly tall and that dress can’t fit height-acceptable folks. At the end of the day, friends, I hijacked your vote, hopefully made the day of a hard-working woman, and added a little Vera Wang to this Very Bloggy Wedding.

Hunchback of Nashville... and the child-sized Angela, Angel of Tulle

Fear not, loyal wedding planners, I’m not about to wreck your world completely. We’ve many votes left that I promise not to steal. To you I say sorry. To Angela I say thank you thank you. To Maci and The Bridal Warehouse crew, well, I still insist you kiss my discount-pantied a- you get the point.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

*Check in next Friday for a BIG bloggy wedding vote with Rachel of A Lovely Day!

*And the winner of the Pajama Eater Eats Whaa? contest is the ha-ha-hilarious Darla

from She’s A Maineiac. 

Her genius, prize-winning comment:

“Those are adorable! can I have one that will eat my ass and thighs?

I really have no use for them anymore,

but they insist on getting bigger and bigger.”