by Susan Wiggs
Her main point throughout the hometown wedding battle was that her house was a beautiful, free venue that would be incredibly easy on my whole family. When I asked how she felt about having Porta Potties for two hundred people in her backyard, she blithely shrugged and said, “They can come inside and use our guest bathroom!”
Thinking back to other weddings I’d been to and the state of the bathrooms after the bridesmaids had guzzled one too many lemon drops and unleashed a stream of citrusy vomit on the tiled floor, I gulped. I tried explaining to her how difficult it was going to be to find parking, to calm the neighbors when things got noisy, to keep her crystal stemware from being shattered on the concrete patio, but she wouldn’t be swayed. I tried trumpeting the benefits of our chosen venue, Court in the Square: close to home, accessible for all our guests, ample parking, beautiful atmosphere, airy space…but to no avail.
Then she sent this email to Dave and me:
* * *
From: Susan
To: Elizabeth, Dave
Subject: Wedding thoughts (long)
* * *
[Side note: I should have been tipped off by the long appended to the email subject line, a grim indicator of the drama I was about to plunge into headfirst.]
* * *
Dear Elizabeth & Dave,
Your dad and I want you to consider holding the festivities here on the island where you grew up. It’s a place with emotional ties, something that resonates more than a rented venue in Seattle. Friends and family will come to your wedding regardless of distance and convenience, even if it means camping out in the state park.
I know you’re determined for this to be a comprehensive celebration with the people in your life, including your beloved but always a bit difficult grandfather. Regardless of what a wedding planner may tell you about handling guests, your grandfather will need to leave early (I won’t go into the reasons for fear of scaring off the groom). Your dad will accompany him back to the island and that will be the end of Grandaddy and your dad for the day. Sorry, but that’s how it will play out.
Court in the Square is trendy, but there are many other island venues to explore, including the country club, the golf course, the local park, the community theater house, the gazebo at the state park, the winery, the rose gardens and more. And I still think about how taken you both were with the new church on the island. There was something in your faces as you looked around…
The ultimate goal is to be happily married for good. We all want that for you. But whatever you decide, let me know you’ve given this due consideration. Sorry to Dave for bringing you into the family drama. Poor Dave!
OK, end of manifesto. Let me know your thoughts.
Love,
Mommy
* * *
She’s good, huh? This is what happens when your mother writes for a living. She takes up her pen against you—and it cuts straight into the most tender, vulnerable spot in your heart. She had some valid points, as well as some that were not so valid. For instance, Court in the Square is gorgeous and in the end we spent very little on décor. And did she actually suggest that our guests consider camping? But she ended up being correct about my grandfather needing to leave early—and on the wedding night, I was sad to have to say goodbye to my dad well before the reception ended. I’m glad that she made me think about those things ahead of time, because in the end I would have been dramatically more upset if I hadn’t been expecting it.
But you can tell how she felt. I didn’t know how to respond, so I ignored the manifesto and hoped someone else would deal with it.
And—what do you know?—I had a fiancé who was already on top of it. With no prompting from me, he sent a measured, perfect response that left my mom feeling respected, listened to and accepting of our plans.
* * *
From: Dave
To: Susan
Cc: Elizabeth
Subject: RE: Wedding thoughts (long)
Dear Susan,
Thanks for communicating everything to us. I don’t have some castle-in-the-clouds idea of how this thing has to go. And right now it’s hard to wrap my head around rethinking the venue from thousands of miles away during my first year of law school. I just want a wedding that brings together our two families and friends to celebrate what is hands-down the most important event of my life.
Since college, Seattle is the only place both of us call home. Court in the Square is green, open-aired, full of old exposed brick, versatile, spacious, and the feel of six-story glass ceilings is hard to beat. It’s the awesomest [sic] reception venue we saw.
A reception on the island would require guests to drive afterwards, which will worry me. Even if someone has only one drink before leaving, there’s still a liability [OMG, my budding lawyer man!] that doesn’t exist in a city crawling with taxis. I personally like the idea of an event where the generations meet and celebrate together, but I imagine all the grandparents will trickle out early…We’ll do our best to make it as easy as possible for both of our families.
Our wedding will be an overwhelmingly happy and positive experience for me even if it rains on us and all the guests end up in jail for the night. Everything else aside, it will be the day we start our own family, and that won’t be affected by the logistics.
Your thoughts are important to me (us) and we want to make our families happy!
—Dave
* * *
Wow. He’s good, too. Any guy who can say awesomest with a straight face is a keeper, for sure.
My mom and Dave both had great points, and ultimately we decided not to completely rethink our wedding. Dave and I were both happy with the venue we’d already chosen. Still, I understood how important it was to my parents to host our family and friends on their home turf, so I asked Mommy to have a welcome barbecue for our immediate families and wedding party the Thursday before our wedding.
The barbecue went off without a hitch and was the perfect way to reunite with relatives I hadn’t seen in years. My mom got the hosting bug out of her system, and we eased into the wedding weekend, content with the way things played out.
* * *
CHEAT SHEET
DID YOUR FANTASIES ABOUT GETTING MARRIED
AT WINDSOR CASTLE DISTRACT YOU FROM YOUR
READING? HERE’S YOUR CHEAT SHEET:
Okay, yeah, you do get the final say. So use your power wisely. Don’t force a venue down your mother’s throat. Gently express how perfect your chosen venue will be for you and your 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
My 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 the off spring of a cow and an ogre. The cellulite on the backs of my thighs tingled a warning signal at me, as if to say, “Get out while you still have your dignity!”
But I didn’t listen. The siren call of the runway in the center of the enormous shop was too much for me. I sucked in my gut, plastered a confident-ish smile on my face and introduced myself.
She looked me slowly up and down, one delicate hand twirling a silky strand of dark hair. She frowned slightly, her impeccably waxed eyebrows coming together in an expression of thoughtful confusion. I could practically hear what she was thinking: What could possibly disguise those flabby arms without accentuating her pear-shaped hips? (This was before I had gotten in shape for the wedding, after all. But still.)
“What do you think would look best on you?” she asked me. The emphasis on you made it seem like she very much doubted my fashion sense. I mean, I was wearing old yoga pants and a shirt with a built-in bra, but isn’t that what most gals would wear when planning to spend an entire day trying on dresses?
I’m just glad I’d been planning my wedding gown from the moment I popped out of the womb, because I had a firm answer for her: “I want the biggest ball gown you’ve got. Strapless.”
She smiled, her glossy lips turning up even as her eyes lingered on my upper arms as if to remind me that a strapless gown would do nothing to hide the lard-filled wings that flopped from my biceps whenever I moved.
I reminded myself that from her point of view, in which Kate Moss represented the ideal body type, my slightly undefined triceps muscles would appear offensively large. And, yes, I did need to do more dips at the gym. But I was a former college athlete, and I knew how to get myself toned. Sure, I could stand to lose ten pounds or so, but I tried to remember that I wasn’t as grossly obese as her expression implied. A strapless gown would look lovely on me. I might just need to live on celery and water for a month before the wedding.
I smiled back. “Yep,” I said. “A strapless ball gown.”
“Great!” she chirped. “And what budget are we working with?”
As she asked, she began to usher my mom, Molly and me to a corner of the store where I could see deliciously poofy-looking skirts dangling beneath delicate-boned bodices.
“Uh…I was thinking maybe around a thousand bucks? I guess I could go up to fifteen hundred if it was perfect enough. Does that sound about right to you, Mommy?” I looked at my mom and Molly, hoping that I hadn’t just named an offensively outrageous sum of money.
“Or less,” my mom stated, seemingly unfazed by this evil bird of a woman.
The heroin-chic salesgirl stopped in her tracks. I could practically hear the soles of her patent-leather ballet flats screech on the floor. With a poisonous look in her eyes, she rounded on me.
“I’m not sure if you know how much a high-fashion dress costs in an upscale shop like ours, but you really need to reconsider how much you’re willing to spend on the most important gown you’ll ever wear.” The bangles on her wrists jangled as she stabbed her tiny hands through the air to emphasize her point.
Suddenly, she looked down and stopped midsnarl. I saw her eyes light on my mom’s robin’s egg blue Christian Louboutin pumps (bought for 90 percent off their usual $900 price tag at Nordstrom Rack). The sight of high-end shoes seemed to calm her.
“I mean,” she tittered, taking on the tone of a concerned friend, “you wouldn’t want to pass up the gown of your dreams just because you’re letting a silly little thing like budget get in the way, would you?”
“I…I…” I stammered.
I think I was suffering from temporary insanity due to couture vapors, because if I were treated this way in any other circumstance, I would have flashed her my pleasantly plump middle finger and gone out for a burger. But here, in this tulle-draped shop that looked as though it had been spun from my little-girl wedding dreams, I was speechless.
Brigitte saw my moment of weakness and knew she had me. All she had to do was get past my last line of wedding defense—my mom.
She looked down at my mom’s shoes as if to gather strength from their signature red soles, then tried a new tactic: “Mrs. Wiggs, I can see by your ensemble that you’re a woman who knows fashion. You must see how tragic it would be for your daughter to wear a less-than-perfect gown on the day of her wedding.”
My mom, in an uncharacteristic moment of gullibility, seemed to waver. I’m guessing this resulted from the cloying scent of gardenias wafting through the air from the multitude of floral arrangements adorning the shop.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose we could look at a couple of slightly more expensive gowns…but nothing over two thousand. I’d be shocked if we can’t find something beautiful for such a price.”
The words more expensive seemed to bring Brigitte back to life. Invoking a salesgirl’s selective deafness, she ignored the slightly part of my mom’s response and promptly took us on a whirlwind tour of tulle-and-satin heaven. She seemed to float around the shop, hoisting piles of gowns that must have weighed more than she did and transporting them to a dressing room that resembled Marie Antoinette’s boudoir.
She ordered me to strip down to my grundies (that’s grandma-undies, to those of you who are still convinced that G-strings are comfortable). It only took me a minute (and a glass of Dom Perignon) to forget my jiggly abs and flabby butt as dress after beautiful dress slipped over my head, each more stunning than the last. Brigitte’s fingers flew, fastening rows of minuscule hook-and-eye button closures with machine-like speed; she was able to fill my mom’s and Molly’s champagne flutes with little more than a threatening glance. Finally, when I tho
ught I had been through every ball gown the store had to offer, Brigitte opened the door to my dressing room. “I saved the best for last,” she breathed, a glint in her eye.
With the wily skill of a crack dealer, she produced a breathtaking whisper of couture for me, reverently placing the cloudlike garment on a gilded hook on the wall. She whisked aside my privacy curtain without so much as a “Hide your eyes” to Molly or my mom. “You’ll want to see this one, ladies,” she said.
I tried to pull a Venus-on-a-half-shell maneuver with my hair and my hands, hiding my lady bits as much as possible, but my pathetic attempt at modesty was unnecessary as all eyes in the dressing room were on the silk tulle layers of the gown. As it swayed on its hanger, I noticed subtle crystals peeking through the folds in the voluminous skirt. Swoon.
Employing a device that looked like a giant crowbar, Brigitte forced me to pour my pre-wedding-diet hips into the size 0 and had the buttons fastened down my back before my flesh could burst free. I was disconcerted. Vaguely humiliated, even. I felt like a sausage whose casing was too small.
I turned, disappointment on my face, to Molly and my mom. “I look like a joke, don’t I?”
Molly’s eyes were like saucers. “Oh, Wiggs,” she said, her eyes full of emotion.
