Ah…The Search! My first marriage was a Nevada quickie affair. I wore a dress purchased with slot machine winnings. Some 25 years later, when I met the man of my dreams, a well raised southern man (a treasure, ladies, if you can find one) he insisted that we have a “real” wedding and that I wear a “real” dress. I was hesitant, a second marriage…shouldn’t I just wear a suit? Keep it simple? No, he was insistant…so off I went with my Matron Of Honor. I fell in love with the first dress I tried on, but tried on ten more to appease my friend. In the bridal salon of Macy’s I was a girl again! I was fitted for the dress, spent a thousand dollars more than I planned, happily picked out a matching tiara! I felt like a Princess on my Wedding Day…and the dress? My practical side decided it would not reside in a box in the attic…I have worn it now for two Halloweens…the first year I was a glamorous witch, last year I was an angel, complete with white glittering wings! Not sure what I will be this year, but I get a real kick out of fitting into it each year!

I really don’t care for the dresses these days. They all seem to be strapless. The last thing I would want to worry about on my wedding day would be weather my dress is going to stay up.

Looking for a dress is part of the magic! It makes finding “the one” that much more special. I will never forget shopping with my mom for my dress. Best wishes!

Yiikkeess~~ What happened to picking out a pattern, fabric and a very good seamstress and having the dream dress truly be yours by design? Buy three patterns if you have to and get what you want~~ Daughter number one found a beautiful lace wonder and looked the beauty she truly was to all of us..old fashioned and feminine..Daughter number two did the pattern, fabric and very good seamstess route and was beautiful beyond belief in her off white satin portrait collar sheath dress that flattered her 5 foot 10 inch body~~Daughter number three fell in love with a Jessica McLintock wedding dress in a bridal salon while living with her Purdue fiancee and kept it in her closet for almost a year unseen by him..sweetheart neckline but with sheer short sleeves and a soft skirt she swept down the aisle after stepping from a horse drawn carriage to her prince who was proudly wearing my great grandfathers gold railroad watch in the vest pocket of his wedding tuxedo ..it is what you make it..we all know that, so make it your own, unique and heart felt for long~~ Good times ahead and love to all the brides and their fearless mothers~~

Thank you for reminding me of that memory of shopping for the special dress with my mother. In taking care of the daily things over the years, those sweet memories sometimes get moved to the wayside. I’ll smile all day because of your post Ms. Martin.

Well I don’t envy you that job or expense. Why put so much importance in a dress that you will never wear again and spend all that money. We live in a I want it now society. A woman should not be allowed to marry until she can make her own dress. Sewing teaches you appreciation and skills. My niece made the most beautiful wedding dress for herself. So beautiful that after the wedding she landed a job as a professional seamstress for a theater group.

Our family (dad, mom, sister) made a day of wedding dress shopping when daughter Christine was planning her walk down the aisle. Went to five different shops, which she lined up before our visit, and tried on everything she even remotely considered. Lots of anticipation, excitement, laughing, cooing. We had a BLAST! And became completely invested in her wedding plans.

Remember the “I Love Lucy” episode when Lucy tries to make her own dress? I’ve tried sewing and I’m terrible!

My first wedding, I was the traditional princess bride with the big off-white dress, long train, long veil. The second time it was a dress that I fell in love with at Nordstrom but couldn’t justify the price…I found the exact same dress in the previous season’s color (new with tags) on e-Bay. I got the dress I wanted that was appropriately modest AND felt comfortable with the price!

Why should a bride limit herself to white? Remember the gorgeous green dress Elizabeth Taylor wore in “The Taming of the Shrew”? White is a difficult color for many brides’ skin tones. It supposedly signifies the bride is a virgin, and frankly, I don’t think speculating about a bride’s sex life ought to be encouraged. I think Miss Manners’s daughter ought to choose or have made for herself a dress that makes her feel beautiful, and the heck with what the bridal magazines and “shoppes” are pushing.

With days left to my second wedding I persuaded my younger sister to help me find something sleek not frothy. Mimi lined-up Beverly Hills and Newport Beach shops, “You’ll have the perfect confection tomorrow.” The next day, outfitted in pristine white pique I pick-up Mimi up in a shiny convertible ready to zip this task off my to-do list. “Slight detour,” Mimi hops in wearing a pink shift, her long blond hair in a ponytail. “Dad’s dog died and we have to pick it up at the vet’s and bury it in Nana’s backyard.” She slams the car door. “It shouldn’t take too long.” She pushes in a Beach Boys CD to California Girls. “What?” She shrugs. “He had a long spoiled life,” she surfs her hand out. “Go.” At the cinderblock building, a teenager with greasy hair pushes an aluminum cart to the car. Buddy the dog is on the cart wrapped in visquine, stiff as a silver drinks’ tray. The fellow angles the dog onto the small back seat then gives us a half-salute. We enter our grandmother’s house with the shrink-wrapped dog. “Don’t you girls look lovely,” Nana eyes our package. “We’re off to Beverly Hills to find Suzanne a wedding dress. And, Buddy died.” Mimi says. “Since I don’t have a yard, thought we’d bury him here.” “Don’t you dare!” Aunt Simmie rockets up from the sofa, “Animals will dig it up!” she screeches. “Simmie.” I use the reasonable coo reserved for crazy people and men. “We can’t drive around with a dead dog in this heat.” “Oh, let them, Sim,” Nana’s tone underscores it’s such a trifle. But then she’d let us bury a football team if our dresses subtly referenced Jackie-O. “The dog will dissolve into the water table! Is that what you want? Bits of Buddy floating in Father O’Reilly’s scotch when he visits?” Simmie realizes she’s outnumbered. “Shovel’s in the garage.” An hour later dusty and faintly scented with formaldehyde we stop for pasta in Westwood. Mimi buys a Movie Star Map and studies it at the restaurant table as the waiter brings our wine. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” she giggles. “Hmmm. Cher, Barbara Streisand, Robert frickin’ de Niro!” She turns the map over and knocks red wine across our dresses. Across from us Jacqueline Smith from Charlie’s Angels offers me an empathetic grimace. Back in the car, with bright red splashes of wine across our bodices we weave through Bel Air as Mimi navigates from the map. “James Stewart’s house on the right, hmm. Oh, my god. Oh, my god, turn here. Blast! Turn around. I have to get a picture in front of Liz Taylor’s.” “Liz Taylor? The Gloved One’s number one amigo?” “Oh, yeah, smirk now but when they roll the obit,” she holds up one finger after another. “National Velvet. Father of the Bride. Cleopatra, Cat on a frikin’ Hot Tin Roof! I’ll have a photo of me at La Liz’s place—one of the truly greats.” We park down the street, Mimi poses in front of the iron gates. “Don’t get the wine stain. Drat!” We trample the flowerbed seeking her contact lens until a security cruiser pulls-up and advises us to move along. A citation waves in the car windshield. “Bel Air Street Sweeping Day,” Mimi reads. “Whoa,” she whistles. “$227 bucks.” We head to Beverly Hills. The salesclerks of Rodeo Drive have savant ability to calculate your probable net-worth concurrent with their own commission potential—faster that you can clear their threshold. If your self-presentation includes formaldehyde, garden dirt and red-wine it’ll earn a sniff that says, “I’d frown except for the Botox.” After zipping, lacing and fastening myself into thirteen dresses at six different locales, I offer, “You know, Mimi, this is a garden wedding not a Debutant Ball.” She rolls her eyes and we’re back in the car for the 90-minute drive to Newport Beach. We stop at Jolly Rogers on Balboa Island to refortify ourselves with burgers, fudge cakes and Pinot Noir. Then with our optimism restored we hit Fashion Island in Newport Beach. Mimi storms the shops like Generalissimo. I think if my son weren’t in Catholic school I could just live in sin. I’m shivering in the dressing room in bra and panties when she rushes in a semi-frothy ecru number in her arms. She slips it over my head, smoothes it down, then turns me to the mirror. A chorus of angels sings Hallelujah. Golden light breaks through the sprayed ceiling. Bluebirds fly in bowers of baby white roses. Fairies curl up my hair. “A miracle!” sighs Mimi. “You need a bustier,” says the sales lady. Wedding day arrives. My bustier went MIA, we all had to pitch-in after the florist flaked-out, the first guest arrived an hour early to heave-up on an antique rug. Still, my parents’ park-like backyard was ‘Father of he Bride’ perfect when the violins and flutes began to play. Dad and I strolled past guests in white chairs toward a canopy of flowers. I look up at my betrothed. He smiles at the dress, “Elegant,” he says. Then I realize in this tenuous world that festivity and celebration are always worth any effort. I pledge allegiance to the Froth Brigade as the audience leans forward to share a dream. “I do,” I say. “I do.”

My sentiments, exactly. Fashion today seems to be primarily in the mouth. Fabrics are just as poor…take a look at the cable show that does fashion make-overs on poor unsuspecting woman. But, for myself, other than finding something perfect at Filene’s, or Pricilla of Boston, as a student that wasn’t going to be possible in the early 1960s. I sketched my dream-gown, in 3-pieces so each could be worn again, yet lavish, and formal for my wedding, then set off to visit a few seamstresses. The once I chose did not need a pattern. The incredible small-business expert from Portgual wrapped me in French peau d’swate, and trimmed out appliques and a bolero-mandrarin collar “jacket” from Chantilly lace, in many fittings. After the affair, ‘Pricilla’ phoned me regarding my news photo, and asked if they could purchase my 3-pc gown. It was unique but could not ever be reproduced without my consent. Like a fool, I declined. The 2nd mistake I made. It’s still hanging in my closet, perfect as that day back when.

My wedding, fifty years ago next January, was a rush affair due to the fact that I was three weeks pregnant. We had already completed preparations the previous summer to marry in the Catholic Church, because my husband is of the Protestant faith. I had only one week to get blood tests, marriage license, bridal dress, etc. To add to the confusion I had recently had major surgery on my foot and was using crutches and had a cast up to my thigh. We shopped in NYC on fourteenth street, which had many bridal stores and specialty shops back then (1959). I found a dress on the rack for $29.99….it was cocktail length and luckily didn’t require any alterations. The rest was a piece of cake….veil with princess crown, perfect gloves etc. Of course, I had to wear one flat shoe and couldn’t carry a bouquet due to the crutches…..but all in all things worked out and the only problems that day, beside the snow on the ground, were my moments of morning sickness that lasted the entire day.