Unique New York

Just like a regular woman, only crankier.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Brutal Bride

This weekend, I ventured to bridal fairy land. It's called Kleinfelds. When you walk in the door, a bunch of other brides are there waiting in an ornate lobby. They have mannequins everywhere in gorgeous gowns and formal wear. It's like waiting in line for Pirates of the Carribean at Disneyland: You're sure most of the people there (the moving ones) are animatronics but you can't help but ogle them for their realism.

Women are there with their mothers, their friends, and whoever else is there promoting the starvation that occurs before the gown trying-on. I went with my mother in-law-to-be. For everyone else who has horror stories about their in-laws, I couldn't be happier with mine. She's awesome and I was happy to have her there with me, especially since my own mom is in Oklahoma.

They initially seated us in a fitting room that I'm pretty sure was above the boiler room. It was hot as hell. It had multiple mirrors, and a little platform so I could admire myself from up on high.

My consultant asked me my tastes, and I told her: Deep V, spaghetti straps or tank, A-line,but not ball gown, and sheath is okay as well.

She proceeds to bring in Strapless mermaid, strapless bubble and all in the sample size 10. For those of you without lady parts, bridal gowns run small. So just when you need to wear white, the most revealing color on the spectrum, on the day when you will be photographed more than Brittany's newborn baby, they make you feel fat. Some say it's sadism, I say designers are in it with the TrimSpa people. I know everytime I take one of those pills I pretend I'm in Valley of the Dolls.

Anyway, so she keeps bringing me these things that I have said I do not want, and then is surprised when I tell her that it's not really my style. So then here's what she does...
She goes out, grabs a 6,000 gown, in my size, not sample size 10, and acts all astonished when the f*cker looks good on me.

I'll tell you why it looked good on me.

6,000 of anything will look good on me. I should know. Money is very flattering.

Then, the evil bitch says, "The gowns you wanted are nice, but well, they're not very forgiving."

You know what's not forgiving? My satin gloved hands around your neck.

If you want to say, "Honey, charmeuse makes my chihuahua's ass look big. What in the name of god do you think it's going to do to you? You're going to look like you've collided with an iceberg."

That would be fine. But bullshitting me because you think I'm too big for your Amy Michelson and your Vera Wang, then just f*cking well say so.

Tell me the truth when I actually look good in a gown because you gave my ideas a chance, and I will be eternally grateful, and my mother's ever-powerful Mastercard will be commission in your hands.

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