Jul 01, 2013, 08:52AM

Little Shop of Bridal Horrors

Is there a secret cult room where brides are programmed in the absence of mothers?

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My daughter is getting married this summer. Saying that wedding planning is overwhelming is a colossal understatement. As my daughter and I are not pragmatists, we decided to set our priorities straight and start with the most important element: bridal gown shopping. There are only two local bridal shops so we decided to get our toes wet before heading to the city, where the boutiques can be quite posh.

We were greeted at the door by a young salesgirl who escorted us to a cushy loveseat and said she would inform our “personal assistant” that we had arrived.

My eyes looked over the white fluffy clouds of white organza and chiffon hanging in rows around us. I smiled at my daughter. I thought, “This is going to be a very special and relaxing foray into the magical world of brides and love.” That thought was short-lived. We heard a loud thunking noise coming toward us from behind. I looked back and saw a woman in tight jeans and cowboy boots dragging her stiff leg across the floor like a pirate with a peg minus the eyepatch.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m very empathetic when it comes to peoples’ problems, but for some reason this threw me. She expelled a loud “Umph” and plopped herself in a chair, appendage spiked out like a broken spoke on a wheel.

She asked, “What kind of wedding do you envision?” When my daughter replied that she wanted something simple and classic, PegLeg questioned her, “How many bridesmaids?” When she answered six, our assistant rolled her eyes in the air and loudly scolded my daughter saying there was no such thing as a simple wedding with six attendants. Immediately afterward, she excused herself, saying she needed a glass of water since she was having a hot flash.

Red flags were popping up but we were already captives. PegLeg returned and let out another exasperating sigh before sitting down, ugly beads of sweat rolling down her face. I asked if she was all right. She informed me that she had hurt her leg a few days prior and was in a cast from her hip down. I really felt bad, but why couldn’t she have kept her sorry ass home, popped some pain meds and not micromanaged and ruined our special time?

During her questioning she never made eye contact with me despite the fact that the moolah would be coming from my wallet. Finally, she looked at me and said, “Mother, I am taking your daughter to another room and we will be out shortly.” First, I am not Norman Bates’ mother and second, is there a secret cult room where brides are programmed in the absence of mothers?

Anxiety set in. I finally see nutcase assistant limping out of the cult room. Door closes behind her. I instantly text my offspring. Me: “I’m scared. Are you okay? My Daughter: “Freaking out, Mom. I’m naked in here and she asked me if I’m pregnant!”

Before I can burst into the room, PegLeg hobbles back in, gown in tow and slams the door. Minutes later my daughter emerges looking absolutely stunning and I am momentarily breathless. My breath comes back in short, hyperventilating spurts when I’m told the price. Reuters recently reported that the average wedding gown in America today is $1900 and can shoot upwards of $5000. Does merely saying the word “wedding” add dollar signs to a price tag? Are plastic sequins from China a hot commodity?

Anyway, PegLeg excused herself for another glass of water and I took a quick cell pic of the dress and decided to make a gracious but timely exit. I don’t really know how to be a mother of the bride but you would think with wedding gowns being next to the price of gold, I would be given a bit more consideration. Next week we have another appointment in a different shop.

This time, I better be served champagne, and no limping allowed.


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