honey—and, if you can, find a way to honor her wishes, too. Ask if she would like to host a family-only event in the week before the wedding at a venue of her choice.
If your mother (or other similar wedding elf) does not go gentle into that good night, be sensitive. Your wedding is a big, emotional day for her, too—and it’s only natural for her to want to be in her comfort zone.
When in doubt, sic your fiancé on her.
----
5
THE ONE
Not the man, silly—the dress
Dress shopping and the hunt for the last frock you’ll ever wear as a single gal
ELIZABETH
M y quest for the dress began with a mistake. Dark forces were at work, inexplicably drawing me to the swankiest bridal salon in Seattle, a place that would eventually prove to be more toxic than the set of VH1’s Rock of Love. (For the uninitiated, that’s one of the finest reality shows on television, in which a troupe of strippers with balloons for breasts compete for the lust of aging rock musician Bret Michaels.)
In fiction, such places are guarded by rabid, three-headed dogs, but at the Swank Salon (names changed to protect the bitchy), Cerberus had been replaced by a burbling replica of the Trevi Fountain.
My mom, my future bridesmaid, Molly, and I skipped happily through the flower-and crystal-encrusted door into a hippodrome-sized, airy room filled with every beautiful wedding gown I ever imagined. I’d never given much thought to the infinite possible shades of white, but here I was, jaw on the floor, confronted by the whole pale spectrum gleaming in satin and silk, lace and lamé. The shop was designed in the round, with layers of dresses lining the outer walls of the space like a cupcake wrapper, tasteful doors with hand-painted French signs tucked away behind the racks. Each door was unique, and promised a cozy and beautiful nook for trying on the dress of my dreams.
But the center of the store was what really made me need the crash cart.
There, raised about three feet off the chic navy-blue carpet, was a glowing Lucite runway. Plush ivory chairs sat at either end of the runway, understated yet unspeakably elegant, with crystal champagne glasses on low tables and bottles of Dom Perignon chilling in monogrammed ice buckets. A discreet video camera was set up at the far end and live images of the empty runway appeared on flat-screen televisions throughout the shop. French music from the movie Amélie filled the air, just soft enough to add to the ambience without interrupting the rustle of chiffon and tulle.
I felt a string of drool dribble from my lower lip and plop on the old tank top I wore.
“We’ll give you a DVD of all the dresses you try on, so you can show anyone in your life who’s not here today,” cooed voice behind me, dripping with sweetness.
I turned around and stared down at the waif of a salesgirl who had materialized behind me like a silent-but-deadly fart.
“I’m Brigitte,” she said.
Her black hair was meticulously teased into an edgy, bouffant-style ponytail. Her eyes were expertly rimmed in kohl black eyeliner, adding drama to her pale, elfin face and petal-pink cheeks. She smiled at me, revealing a row of perfect teeth that were whiter than any of the dresses she peddled. She wore black skinny jeans and a beige cashmere sweater that wrapped luxuriously around her small form as though it had been made for her. When she moved, a collection of chic bangles on her wrists made a soft clanging noise, calling attention to her perfectly manicured, purple-black fingernails. She probably weighed about the same as one of my calves.
In short, she was a bride’s worst nightmare. She pretty much looked like a model, except she wasn’t tall so I couldn’t convince myself that she was one of those girls who’s too tall to love (I get judgmental when I’m feeling intimidated). I quickly realized that I would be trying on my dresses in front of her, which didn’t bode well for my self-esteem. Standing next to her, I felt like
If your mother (or other similar wedding elf) does not go gentle into that good night, be sensitive. Your wedding is a big, emotional day for her, too—and it’s only natural for her to want to be in her comfort zone.
When in doubt, sic your fiancé on her.
----
5
THE ONE
Not the man, silly—the dress
Dress shopping and the hunt for the last frock you’ll ever wear as a single gal
ELIZABETH
M y quest for the dress began with a mistake. Dark forces were at work, inexplicably drawing me to the swankiest bridal salon in Seattle, a place that would eventually prove to be more toxic than the set of VH1’s Rock of Love. (For the uninitiated, that’s one of the finest reality shows on television, in which a troupe of strippers with balloons for breasts compete for the lust of aging rock musician Bret Michaels.)
In fiction, such places are guarded by rabid, three-headed dogs, but at the Swank Salon (names changed to protect the bitchy), Cerberus had been replaced by a burbling replica of the Trevi Fountain.
My mom, my future bridesmaid, Molly, and I skipped happily through the flower-and crystal-encrusted door into a hippodrome-sized, airy room filled with every beautiful wedding gown I ever imagined. I’d never given much thought to the infinite possible shades of white, but here I was, jaw on the floor, confronted by the whole pale spectrum gleaming in satin and silk, lace and lamé. The shop was designed in the round, with layers of dresses lining the outer walls of the space like a cupcake wrapper, tasteful doors with hand-painted French signs tucked away behind the racks. Each door was unique, and promised a cozy and beautiful nook for trying on the dress of my dreams.
But the center of the store was what really made me need the crash cart.
There, raised about three feet off the chic navy-blue carpet, was a glowing Lucite runway. Plush ivory chairs sat at either end of the runway, understated yet unspeakably elegant, with crystal champagne glasses on low tables and bottles of Dom Perignon chilling in monogrammed ice buckets. A discreet video camera was set up at the far end and live images of the empty runway appeared on flat-screen televisions throughout the shop. French music from the movie Amélie filled the air, just soft enough to add to the ambience without interrupting the rustle of chiffon and tulle.
I felt a string of drool dribble from my lower lip and plop on the old tank top I wore.
“We’ll give you a DVD of all the dresses you try on, so you can show anyone in your life who’s not here today,” cooed voice behind me, dripping with sweetness.
I turned around and stared down at the waif of a salesgirl who had materialized behind me like a silent-but-deadly fart.
“I’m Brigitte,” she said.
Her black hair was meticulously teased into an edgy, bouffant-style ponytail. Her eyes were expertly rimmed in kohl black eyeliner, adding drama to her pale, elfin face and petal-pink cheeks. She smiled at me, revealing a row of perfect teeth that were whiter than any of the dresses she peddled. She wore black skinny jeans and a beige cashmere sweater that wrapped luxuriously around her small form as though it had been made for her. When she moved, a collection of chic bangles on her wrists made a soft clanging noise, calling attention to her perfectly manicured, purple-black fingernails. She probably weighed about the same as one of my calves.
In short, she was a bride’s worst nightmare. She pretty much looked like a model, except she wasn’t tall so I couldn’t convince myself that she was one of those girls who’s too tall to love (I get judgmental when I’m feeling intimidated). I quickly realized that I would be trying on my dresses in front of her, which didn’t bode well for my self-esteem. Standing next to her, I felt like
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