wedding dress | Psychobabble

Shopping for a wedding dress is awkward. vulnerable. Fucking scary.
First of all, they make you write all of your identifying information down on a pretty piece of paper. They even ask where you keep all your porn, so you know they really have you by the ladyballs.

Each boutique is different on purpose, because they don’t want you to get too comfortable. Who are they, you ask? They are the The Powers That Be. The bridal industry. Those doctors who insist you get an exploratory colonoscopy “just to rule some things out.”

What do I mean by different? I mean that all the rules change, bro. In one place I was allowed to paw through the gowns like my cat paws through a pile of dead rodents. Expensive albino rodents. And in another place I wasn’t allowed to touch anything. Indeed, I couldn’t even scratch my own ladyball without my ~~keeper~~ attendant yelling at me and swatting my hand away.

Another variable involves unmentionables. When I first went dress shopping, I didn’t know what to expect, and so I made sure I wore my best skivvies with minimal amounts of unsightly holes and skid marks, just to be safe. You know, I even removed my leg hair and made sure my head hair was in socially acceptable condition. The preparation that went into this expedition wasn’t unlike the grooming needed for a blind date where you were promised some ~~second base action~~ good conversation.

Once I was half naked in front of huge mirrors and cold because I was missing all my winter leg fuzz, I had to actually put some dresses on. Getting into a dress was like trying to claw my way up through an igloo that had collapsed on top of me. I could feel my world closing in on me. It was hard to breathe. My arms were stuck up over my head, groping through endless, fluffy white matter. I could hear my attendant, just barely, reassure me from the other side. Don’t worry, she said, I’ll get you out. Even if I have to cut you out!

I requested that if she couldn’t get me out to please refrain from cutting of any kind and call some hot firefighters to sexily rip me out. And have some cold glasses of milk ready and waiting. At that point, who needs a bachelorette party, amirite?

Once I emerged with a second degree tulle-burn from the white abyss, a complicated pattern of zipping, tugging, lacing, and clamping ensued. For a moment I was not sure if I felt more like Kate Winslet in Titanic when her mom is doing up her corset and reminding her -yet again- that the money’s all gone, or if I felt more like the stuffing in a Thanksgiving turkey. Eh, the latter involves more butter so I’ll go with that.

Then I was made to stand there displayed on a platform while people took my picture and commented on various parts of my body as if I were that amazingly tasty-looking pig from Charlotte’s Web. And don’t get me wrong, because I am rather tasty, but where the hell is my motherly, not-at-all-creepy, talking spider who is supposed to save me from torture and almost certain death?! You and your web of lies!

Taking all this into account, I am somehow supposed to have an opinion about which dress ~~I like the best~~ doesn’t make me look like a Big Fat Greek sparkly snowstorm. There are so many things to take into account. It’s gotta be slutty, but not too slutty. Pure and chaste, but not too pure and chaste. It’s a delicate balance. And remember, all this is provided the dress costs less than what Oprah’s “s” shaped poop goes for on eBay.

So there you have it. I feel like a poor barnyard animal lost in a snowstorm. With no firefighter milk and no under the shirt action in the car on the way home from that cheap restaurant with the colorful crap on the walls because Blind Date Man “thought it would be fun.”

I must be a masochist, because even after all this, I am still going back for more. I have an appointment at yet another new boutique for a week from Sunday.

Wish me luck!

Wedding planning is coming along, and I am starting to get really freaking excited.
Brian and I have found the perfect venue (bird’s eye view in this post) that matches the vibe and feel of what I described – and it’s also full of whimsy (to be explained).

The venue is a working ranch and small winery with acres of vinyards, lavendar fields, and almond trees. (This means we’ll get drunk, but still smell nice, and we’ll have a good source of protein nearby in case the zombie apocalypse breaks out during the festivities. We really do plan for everything.) The ceremony will take place on a grassy hilltop that has panoramic views of the surrounding golden brown hills (so we’ll see the zombies coming way before they’re within biting distance). The reception will take place in a converted barn that has three levels of seating and is decorated with kitschy, cute antiques. There is bocce ball (possible weapons), a pond (possible place of safety), and joy (zombies despise this).

This place is different, and by different, I mean whimsical. On the garden walk from the parking lot to the barn, there are little scenes set up with knick-knacks and stuff. One scene displays Dorothy’s ruby slippers and the witch’s rusted-over old bike. There’s a display with a stove, dishes, and a rusty metal bloke named Julio dressed in an apron and chef’s hat.

This is why I don’t cook.

The bathrooms across from the barn look like they were decorated by the people who work in those restaurants where you have to wear flair on your vest in order to fit in. Hats, gloves, feathers, and an old-timey chair reupholstered in lime green kept me company while I emptied my bladder. I look forward to emptying my bladder in that same room with my best friends holding up yards of white fabric beside me! Squee!

Once we found a venue, Brian and I got ourselves a wedding planner, and omigod, if you can fit this into your budget, I highly, highly recommend it. In fact, a good wedding planner will pay for him/herself in both time and money. I hate doing research, but I come from a thrifty family where we hate paying more for things than we should – so this is where a good, skilled wedding planner comes into play.

Our wedding planner Stephanie gives us lists of vendors to look through, and she can recommend them in groups of different price ranges. She’s worked with these vendors before, so she knows the quality of their services, and she’s quite honest about what we’ll get for our money. She’s open to working with vendors that Brian and I have found who aren’t on her lists. She schedules meetings with vendors we like and attends these meetings with us. She also helps us through the contracts to make sure we know what we’re getting into – huzzah!

Basically, she’s a godsend. Brian and I don’t know what the hell we’re doing, and we’re also super shy around new people, and we’re really good at being awkward. If we met vendors by ourselves, we’d probably end up hiding under the table and only coming up to shout things like I LIKE FLOWERS! and PLEASE MAKE ME PRETTY! before ducking back down. Stephanie is cool because she asks all the questions we forget to ask like, “Do you accept M&Ms as payment for your services? My clients have agreed to pick out all the brown ones if you’d like.”

Stephanie is like a cross between our therapist and our Jedi Master of weddings. She is strong with the force. But she’s prettier than Yoda. And less hairy.