If you thought you heard Michelle Lynn Buckley this morning on the Adam Carolla Show, you were correct! Michelle was live on the air dishing out wedding advice for Teresa Strasser and filling in the hosts as to the pertinent items in a coordinator’s emergency kit (nylons anyone?). While denying Adam’s belief that all coordinators wear pearls (we all really should, though), Michelle impressed Danny Bonaduce with her list of tried and true wedding items causing him to state with confidence, “This lady’s a pro, she really knows what she’s talking about.” Thanks, Danny!
Originally published in the Fall, 2005 Edition of BrideWorld by Michelle Lynn Buckley
The whirring escalator stairs move up with aggression as my mother calmly waits for just the right one to step on. “Hurry Mom,” I accidentally let out between sniffles, hoping there was just as much sympathy in my voice as anxiety. I see the weariness in my face as I ascend past the escalator mirror, not only because it hurts to swallow and my nose is beginning to run, but because this is our 8th trip to a bridal salon on our quest for the perfect dress.
After becoming officially engaged a year ago, I crowned my sister “maid of honor” and we headed out to the only bridal store I knew of at the time: David’s Bridal. I didn’t realize that David’s is really the McDonald’s of bridal shops—quantity over quality. After literally running away from the sales girl, I was introduced to haute couture bridal and made a few trips to Beverly Hills for some designer try-on sessions at Monique Lhiullier.
I soon fell off my taffeta cloud when I had a vision of all the wedding guests sitting on the floor, eating Chinese take-out while I stood in the center in my $9,000 ball gown. “It’s not worth it,” I concluded, “I’ll just have to have the dress made.” With those words uttered, the eternal fits of crying began from mom—a voracious consumer whose only wish in life is to buy me a wedding dress, or actually just to buy something…anything. She has always regretted having a plain wedding gown with no “embellishments” and has attempted to make up for this pitfall ever since. “Please let me buy you a dress,” she sobbed, “it’s so cheesy to have something made. What if you don’t even like it?” You should know my mother uses the word cheesy very loosely. I put my foot down and decided the economical thing to do was to have it made. And that was that.
That was that until today. I’m on my way to a sale happening at Saks Fifth Avenue. My outward motive for going is to study the fabric and styles then have a seamstress whip up something marvelous. My inward voice wonders: is there a tiny chance that I will find something so beautiful and tempting and in our budget? “Remember, we’re just looking,” I say with firmness to my mother who has a sneaky smile on her face.
My doubts, weariness, and even my cold slide off my shoulders as we alight on the third floor of Saks, right in front of the bridal department. “I just want to see the fabrics,” I force out as my last ditch effort towards defiance of my natural instincts. You see, this isn’t your average trip to a bridal shop; this is a sample sale. Like puppies in the pet store window, representatives of the biggest names in bridal-wear hang in a circular room with flattering lighting, each begging to be touched. Every dress sits cozily between another in a never-ending circle of white, cream, and ivory. All of the dresses are marked down; some up to 70%. Not to mention that most of the dresses are in pristine condition. This is an undeniable paradise for the shopoholic, a warm meal for the starved bargain shopper.
We quicken our pace as we enter through the portal of all things girly. We are drunk with excitement and blinded by the possibilities. I quickly toss my bags down and command my mother to do the same. Here steps in my evil twin, the aggressive psycho shopper who doesn’t put up with any funny business. I honestly can’t help it. While we are the only two people in the room besides Kelly, the motherly saleswoman, I act fast and start by the door, rifling through the first section. I’m suddenly lost in the crunch of crinoline; the splash of buttery satin; the glitz of sparkling sequins; the swish and sway of chiffon.
I yank any and all dresses that strike my fancy, even slightly. A-line, ball gown, sheath, ballerina; it’s all up for grabs. Kelly enthusiastically pulls a cap-sleeved sheath with ruching down the middle, saying with all sincerity, “I’ld love to see this on you.” My mom dreamily handles a strapless gown with an eternity of white tulle sprouting from the bodice. ‘There’s no time for goofing off,’ I think to myself as I grab two sleeved ball gowns, one strapless, sultry mermaid dress, an empire number with eons of lace (very 1960’s), a heavily beaded A-line and a v-neck sheath with gorgeous detail.
After greedily stuffing my choices into the dressing room, I take one last survey of the front room. A mother and her two daughters, all clad in jeans, scurry in. “Oh no,” my alarm sounds, “what if they pick something that I didn’t see?” I remind myself that I quickly but efficiently looked at every dress on the rack. I hurry to the dressing room and realize that I’ve forgotten one thing: my mother.
Of course, I find her running her hands over a few frilly gowns. “Mom, come on!” I yell hysterically. I slightly twinge at the realization that I’ve morphed into the most feared of all monsters: Bridezilla. I’m determined. I’m on a mission, so instead of analyzing my questionable behavior, I rush to the spacious changing room while my mom saunters in behind me. I pause for a moment to enjoy the lack of a saleswoman in our room. No offense to Kelly, but each of our previous bridal endeavors involved a busybody sales associate who tried to convince me that a Titanic-inspired dress looked like 1940’s glamour. Thanks, but no thanks. Today, I have the privacy to strut, pose and speak frankly with my mother about whether or not my hips look flattering in a princess cut.
Dramatic creature that I am, I save the most desirable dresses for last and immediately wiggle into a strapless mermaid number with a sweep-train. My mom snaps a picture (another perk of being unsupervised). “It’s cute, but I don’t think I can dance in this,” I reason. Hey, my guy and I aren’t spending months in dance classes to have our routine foiled by my constricting gown. On to the next one. I quickly throw on the long-sleeved ball gown with sweetheart neckline and just as quickly toss it off. My mom takes pictures of the next three while I habitually strike a model’s pose. Kelly peaks her head in every so often to say, “How lovely,” and “Which ones do you want me to take out?”
So far, my favorite is the first dress. “Maybe I’ll just have to learn to leap with my knees together,” I think as I shrug my shoulders. But we’re not done yet, there are still two more gowns to try on; an ivory A-line that looks very 1920’s with its v-neck, beaded detail and elegant train. The other is Kelly’s pick; a cream sheath with a wonderful lace overlay, ruching down the bodice and flowers delicately placed at the cleavage.
I go first for the ivory Badgley Mishka, assuming Kelly knows her stuff and I’ll walk home with ruching in hand. I hungrily pull it on and my mother fastens the back. I turn towards the mirror and am instantly blinded by the sparkle and dazzle of the intricate beading and the delicate v-shaped sheer overlay on the chest. Of course it will have to be altered, and the skirt raised to look more 1940’s than 1920’s (I’m picky when it comes to era representation). “This is it, I love this,” I say with amazement at my own assertion. Kelly comes in and her eyes light up, “That is a gorgeous dress.” My mom claps her hands in glee while I give the dress the last test: I close my eyes and try to imagine the gown on the wedding day, moving about, gliding up the aisle, swirling on the dance floor. The picture comes in crystal clear. I still have one more dress to try on, but you can’t plan everything perfectly. “We’ll take it!” I shout, and the chaos ensues. Kelly and mom chatter and fawn over the details while I remember to look at the price tag. “How much is it?” I ask my mother, who rolls her eyes at me for ruining her fun and pulls the tag out. “It was $4,900 and now it’s…$1,400!” The sweet victory of such a deal raises goose bumps on my arms. “Let’s take it before they realize what a steal we just got,” I whisper as Kelly wraps up the dress and gives us an additional 10% off since her manager said “it was okay.”
I’m looking through the pictures in my palm pilot from our dressing room shenanigans when my mom says, “Look,” showing me her empty day-planner, “I put ‘Bought the Dress’ for today’s date.” She’s pleased as pie, and you know what? I’m glad she’s happy. Her appetite for embellishments is satisfied (if only momentarily) and she can nod her head with approval when I sashay down the aisle. “Now I really feel like a bride-to-be,” I offer up to her moment of glory. Reality soon sets in though, and I sigh with a twinge of sadness, “To bad I only get to wear it once.”