Half Off Dream Dresses: Is a Bargain Worth the Terror?

Last year, on Valentine's Day, I learned a hard lesson about humanity.

People suck, people are mean, and people want to take advantage of you.

Not since junior high school had I experienced such a harsh reminder.

To celebrate Cupid's day of overpriced prix fixe dinners and low self-esteem wallowing, I decided to surprise my then-boyfriend, now fiancé, with tickets to the Lakers/Clippers game. Unfortunately the game was sold out, so I turned to Craigslist and Stub Hub in search of cheap second hand tickets.

When I found a pair that seemed too good to be true, I should've known they were too good to be true. Just off the backboard, on the second tier, for $400 bucks, these seemed like a godsend. $400 isn't chump change but, for LA basketball tickets, it was on the inexpensive side. I met the girl who was selling the tickets, who fed me a whole story about how she had to go to Vegas for the weekend and she wished me well as she whisked my cash away, never to be heard from again.

My fiancé was wary from the jump. "How do we know the tickets are real?" he asked skittishly as we made our way toward the klieg lights of Staples Center.

I'd brought a friend, a ticket broker, along for the exchange, I assured him. She'd verified them. It was all good, I insisted as we walked up to the turnstiles, only to have security turn us away for fake tickets inches from the arena.

Burn!

On the bright side, that was probably the moment I realized I had to marry this guy, as he hugged me, told me it didn't matter and insisted we have a fun Valentine's Day anyway. On the flip side, it robbed me of my belief in the good in people.

Today, my trust is being tested again.

I spent today driving to a bridal shop an hour and a half away, where I found two pretty but not memorable dresses.

Standing on the pedestal, the saleswoman said, "Just know, your wedding dress is in this room. Rivini who?"

Rivini is the designer of my unicorn gown. The moment she said is, my heart fell out of my chest. These dresses were fine but the Rivini is The One That Got Away. I drove home trying to convince myself that either of these dresses would be just as good as the Rivini.

And then I found it, y'all. I found my unicorn dress!  I found my unicorn for just under half the retail price on PreOwnedWeddingDresses.com!

It's being sold by a store in Australia where it's only been used on the mannequin and has a tiny one inch hole (which is nothing compared to what I'll probably do to it on the dance floor on my wedding day). My heart is racing at the possibility.

Is this it? Is this my wedding dress? Is this the perfect ensem that I will be photographed in more than anything else I will ever wear in my existence? After all the searching and hunting and trying on and sucking in, is my dress Down Unda? And, if it is, can I trust these people to take my thousands of dollars and send me the real McCoy?

Finger crossed, faith in humanity teetering toward restored, I just read my credit card numbers aloud to a woman I've never met 7,932 miles away. In about a week, I'll either have my unicorn in my hands, or another sad story about how people like to rake me over the coals around Valentine's Day.

Bridal Gown vs Bathing Suit Shopping: Which is Worse?

Bridal gown shopping is like bathing suit shopping, but bathing suit shopping if you had to try everything on in a communal dressing room with really terrible florescent lighting right after Thanksgiving dinner when you're PMSing. 

Oh, the pressure! The pressure of The Gown. Finding it, fitting it in, financing it. All of it enough to make even the most composed of brides lose their ever lovin' minds.

As I said earlier, I already have a dress that haunts my dreams, but I can’t afford it. So now I travel from store to store, trying on fit-and-flare mermaid tails and cake topper princess ballgowns, sheaths and A-lines, satin and lace, tulle and chiffon, until my ankles are chaffed by crinolines and my rib cage carries score marks from corset tops tugged too tight. It's brutal, and this week I had one of my worst experiences to date.

It all began when I called a Beverly Hills bridal boutique to specifically inquire about a gown I’d seen on all mighty Pinterest, my online savior and tormentor. The site that reminds me all that my wedding can be; and probably never will be because I’m either A: Not that crafty or B: Not that wealthy.

It went against my better judgment to call the 310 in search of this gown as I’ve been extremely leery of Beverly Hills in our planning process. Any bride or groom will tell you, you say “Wedding” and people automatically double their price. You say “Wedding” in Beverly Hills and I fear I will have to sell a kidney on the black market just to finance a veil.

But this store had the Pinterest dress. I had to risk it.  

I call, request the gown and, they assure me, they have it in stock and ready to set aside whenever I’d like to come in to try it on and plunk down my hard earned scrilla.

Great!

I make an appointment for the coming week, when both my mother and godmother would be in town, so I could go try this bad boy on and lock down the dress of my dreams.

A few days later, just north of Rodeo Drive, past Cartier and Chanel and all the other brands that inspire the Forever 21 clothing I can actually afford to buy, we arrive for our appointment. The bridal salon is all cream marble, a white grand piano that has surely never been played, sits in the window next to mannequins dripping in Swarovski crystal bodices and feather skirts. It’s Dubai meets Liberace.  

My mother coos, certain my dress is hiding on one of these racks.

Just through the front door, a woman stands ready to greet us. She seems to have learned all of her customer service moves by watching the shopgirls in “Pretty Woman” who give Julia Roberts the stank eye when she's still wearing hooker gear. 

"Can I help you?" she asks, nose in the air as if we've tracked dog doo into her shop. 

"Yes, hi, we have an appointment," I smile. 

Uh, no we don't. The girl I spoke to on the phone didn't make the appointment. 

But not to worry, they're not busy (--and never should be because THEY ARE HORRIBLE PEOPLE!!!! Sorry, I will try to refrain from the caps lock screaming--) so we can still shop. 

I explain I'm there to see the particular dress I'd been promised they were setting aside. 

Nope. You don’t get that either. Along with my appointment, they don't have the gown I've been promised. In fact, they don't even carry that dress or that designer.

Ummm, then what am I doing here?

But we are here; me and my out-of-town mom and godmother, so let's try some dresses on and salvage this experience. Maybe my mom was right, maybe somewhere on these illustrious racks in the perfect confection I’ve been waiting to find.

We settle in and I tell the oh-so-warm woman who greeted us my budget. Before I get “...ousand” out, she gets that same dog doo look on her face and walks away. No explanation, no apology; she just turns her back and gets to steppin'.

A few moments later, a frazzled, twitchy, overzealous newbie sales girl walks up and announces she'll be helping us now. Because apparently the thousands of dollars I was looking to spend aren't ENOUGH thousands of dollars. I've been Beverly Hills bridal budget shamed. 

At that moment, we should have left. But we kept a good attitude and start looking at the merchandise. With each dress we liked, we very explicitly asked, "Is this in our budget." We were repeatedly reassured, yes, it was.

I try on eight or nine dresses, including one that is basically the bridal version of the dress Brenda and Kelly both wore to prom:

...and find two I think I might love. One Madonna circa Material Girl...

and one massive princess poof party...

At a certain point, everything just gets to be pretty and white but either of these could be The One. Time for the big question: how much are they?

They don't have price tags and the sales girl doesn't know. It's getting late in the afternoon and we have another bridal appointment so we're told they'll get the prices and we can just come back in three hours to try the two dresses on again and make a final selection. 

We go off, try on some other stuff...

...but nothing stands up to the two dresses we've fallen in love with at Liberace’s Bridal Palais. We return three hours later, ready to throw down the plastic and purchase my dream dress. But how much are they?!?

Our twitchy sales girl, three hours later, still doesn't know. The manager doesn't know. The super rude fat lady behind the counter who also has a dog doo face doesn't know. 

Whatever. It’ll be fine. They promised it was in my budget, lemme get those beauts back on m’body so we can figure out which one is the best one!

I head back to the dressing room.

Twenty minutes, two try-ons and a few bridal tears as I prepare to Say Yes to my Dress later, the prices arrive. 

Both dresses are, literally, double my budget.

The salesgirl twitches a little extra as she sees the storm cloud of wrath pass over my face.

Inside, I’m seething. “What is this used car salesman bullshit?!?!” I want to scream. “I told you how much I had to spend, you made me feel bad about how much I had to spend and now you've got me entranced and think you can force me into spending all this extra dough?! That is UNCONSCIONABLE!”

I peel off the dress with the last shred of dignity I can muster, even in my horsey print boy shorts, and leave it in a massive heap on the floor, hovering there like a midget in a snowstorm.

This place has wasted my time and broken my heart. For shame!

A few hours later, still stinging, I look back at the photos of the dresses I’d loved so dearly standing on that hostile 90210 ground. No longer blinded by the gleam of the piano or feeling the intimidation of women who made two months salary seem like a pittance, neither dress seems that great. Neither will haunt my dresses as my unicorn dress continues to. Neither is worth all this commotion.

I can do better. And I will.

Venue Hell, Just Off Skid Row

One of the most important aspects of wedding planning is finding your venue. Once you have that, everything else, seemingly, falls into place (or so I'm told). In our journey to the altar, the venue has been a major source of frustration and contention. I can proudly report I have only had one Bridal Meltdown, replete with tears, mucus, stomping feet, et al, and it was caused by our hunt for the perfect venue.

The first place my fiancé and I visited was Calamigos Ranch in Malibu. 

If you do a "Wedding Venue Los Angeles" Google search, it's one of the first options to pop up. I'd seen a fair number of photos of it on Pinterest and I was immediately sucked in the possibility of having a wedding with a ferris wheel in the background. Bitchin', right? So carnival love a la "The Notebook."

My fiancé loved the idea of a Malibu wedding because he's a surfer, he digs that drive and, as he constantly reminds me, he wants to make sure wherever we get married isn't in a neighborhood that's sketchy or ghetto. After ten years in Los Angeles, his mother and father have never seen where he lives and he wants to give them the nicest possible impression of the place their son chooses to call home. Smoke and mirrors time, y'all.

We drive up to Calamigos and it's lovely; winding roads, the sea in the distance, a horse here and there, nothing to make out of towners wish they'd packed a Glock in their carry-on. Pulling down their entry road, we noticed a marquee announcing one wedding in one direction, a second wedding in another direction, and The Biggest Loser Resort immediately on our right.

Wedding, wedding, fat camp. It makes sense. Perhaps populated by brides shedding for their wedding?

Arriving at the main reception area, we take the place in for the first time. It's sort of woodsy, there are loud water fixtures everywhere making me really need to make a Number One, and it smells a little of cafeteria food, specifically gravy made from Knorr mix. Not really my cup of Folgers, but, let's see.

As we're ushered into the consultation area and around the grounds, I realize this place is a wedding conveyor belt, one couple arrives, they insert Parts A, B and C, and down the line they go. Next! It feels impersonal and harried.

And that doesn't even speak to the look of the place. My personal hell is dark wood, low ceilings and cruddy carpet. This place has all of that. Perhaps inviting for some, but I'm ready to bolt.

We look at all the available spaces, my anxiety level rising with each, thank them for their time and exit, stage left even. 

In the car and out of earshot, I instantly start to unravel.

"That was awful!" I shriek. "AWFUL!"

"I mean, the last one wasn't terrible," Fiancé offers.

"The one that was like an Old West reception hall? With the barrels on the wall and the waterfall over the windows? It was like janky Big Thunder Mountain Railroad at Disneyland. I would die!"

"It wasn't that bad, babe. There were some nice..."

"Don't you dare defend that place! I am not getting married there," I squeak as tears begin to flood my face.

Fiancé puts his hand on my knee reassuringly. "We'll find something, babe."

"I just want it to be cool and modern and us," I whimper. "I want it to have style and be some place we're excited to show our friends. I want it to be...I want it to be...Oh my god! I want it to be this place my friend got married a few years ago!"

Lightning strike! Marvimon! Yesssss! This was perfect.

The "friend" who got married there isn't a close friend nor on the invite list, so no toes would be squashed, it has exactly the vibe we both love, and they have an all-inclusive wedding package that includes everything from DJ to dessert, for about $200 a person, and you get to eat tacos. PERFUCKINGFECT! I love tacos! And  and they have a super cute bunny statue in their garden that's their mascot. I love bunnies! I even took a photo with the bunny at the barely-my-friend's wedding.

I dash off an email to Marvimon asking for dates of availability in 2014 and cross my fingers they say something rad like, "Any Saturday in June or August." I have it. I have my dream venue. The tears began to flow again but, this time, they're tears of joy.

The next day, Marvimon responds:

"Thank you for contacting us. Currently, we are only accepting private event clients at SmogShoppe, our green venue near Culver City."

What?! NO! WHY? 

With trembling hands and quivering lips, I write back, "That's such a bummer. I had my heart set on Marvimon. Is there a chance you might open up dates for 2014? If not, is there any availability in 2015? Date is very flexible."  

They respond: "Unfortunately, Marvimon will not open up dates moving forward. The good news is that our owners are planning on opening up a brand new space sometime in 2014. Let us know if you become interested in SmogShoppe! Our rates are $8000 Friday/Sunday and $10,000 on Saturday."

Bitch, if I wanted SmogShoppe, I woulda asked about SmogShoppe. And whatchu talkin' about ten thousand dollahs?!? Are you outside of your mind? Don't make me get Oakland Bridezilla up in the piece. How the hell is that "Good news"?

Dreams: crushed. I write a sad/angry Yelp review and whimper.

Back to Pinterest and Google I go, typing in "Wedding Venues," "Los Angeles Wedding Venues," "Cheap Wedding Venues," "Cool Wedding Venues in Los Angeles," "Unique Los Angeles Wedding Venues," "Wedding Venues in Southern California that don't suck"...

Several anxious, wrought weeks later, I stumble upon an industrial space in Downtown LA whose exposed brick walls and vaulted 30 foot ceilings speak directly to the little girl inside of me who dreamed of growing up to live in a SoHo Loft like the one with the trampoline in "Big." Clean, elegant, modern and cool. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. I make an appointment and count the days to the unveiling: January 30th.

Last night, I could barely sleep, too amped with anticipation. When my iPhone chimed at 7am, I bounded out of bed, fairly certain the birds where chirping a little louder this morning. Why? Because they were singing a happy song to send me off to see what would be my wedding venue. 

And I carried all of that hope and promise with me, until I took the GPS-instructed exit off the freeway. 

Hello, Sketchy Ghetto, nice to see you. Good morning, homeless man pushing a shopping cart toward a shanty town by the river. G'Day, prostitute resting her...his (?)...heels on the side of the road. Oh, turn left in 100 feet? Perfect. Thanks. 

I park my Prius and question if I should wait in my car for the SWAT team to escort me inside or not. 

Naaaah, I grew up in New York in the 80s and Oakland in the 90s; I can walk the streets at 3am and not be nervous (the backwoods with a flashlight is another story entirely). I got this. 

I step out of my car, over three mounded piles of what I hope to be dog feces, though that would be a really large dog, walk past the razor wire fence into a parking lot where five white dudes who look like rejects from Slipknot are hanging out, and into an industrial warehouse. Dark greenish florescent lighting flickers, the walls are brownish tan, the place feels like it's caked in filth. 

Keep an open mind, I tell myself. 

Into the space--the $6500 space--I go. The windows which shone so brightly in the photos are covered by black plastic tarps, a Red Bull bar sits to my left, a plywood skate ramp just behind it. Magical. And then the warehouse's owner informs me nothing is included in the bargain price of almost seven thousand dollar. Not tables, not chairs, not a kitchen, not even lighting. 

"There's a plug there," the owner says, pointing to a wood beam about 20 feet in the air. "People rent a scissor lift and string their own lights up."

I have a vision of my 5'6 Jewish father cackling as he haphazardly throws a string of festival lights across the room to Fiancé, outfitted with a T-Square and a look of consternation, a few hours before the ceremony. This can't end well.  

For $6500 I get a room with brick walls, the possibility of everyone needing a tetanus shot, but the convenient purchase of crack rock as you leave the reception. Radical. This is not the dream venue photos promised it to be. 

As I drive back toward the freeway, I see someone being arrested. It's 9:07am. 

My search continues...

Down the Wedding Gown Rabbit Hole...To China

If you are anything like me, you know all too well that Friday is Bride Day on TLC.

Long before I had a ring--please, long before I had a man--I would find myself inextricably drawn to my TV each week, like a moth being sucked into the vortex of the glowing blue light of a bug zapper on a bayou porch, to relish mothers and daughters fight over organza vs. satin. I knew it probably wasn't the best thing for my single lady psyche but watching women searching for their dream dress unlocks something deep in the Pleasure Center of my brain, fulfilling all of my lady desires:

Pretty dresses
Shiny things
Weepy people
Bitch fights over silly nonsense
Stories of love and devotion

It's the peanut butter and chocolate of television.

Now I have a ring and a man and it's time to find my very own dream dress. Without Randy to rescue me or Monte and Lori to jack me up (which, let's be honest, is kind of a gross catchphrase) it's up to me to find some confection that's enough to bring everyone to tears.

On my first shopping outing, I decided to be savvy. I've learned from my repeat viewings of Say Yes that the way bridal gown sales people cinch the deal is to put a veil on you. In a pretty white dress, you're in a pretty white dress. In a pretty white dress PLUS a veil, guuuurl, you're a bride. And that is when the tears start.

So, NO VEILS, I decreed. I want to be levelheaded and sensible.

Also, NOTHING OUTSIDE OF MY BUDGET. Why? Because the expensive one is the one I'm gonna want and then I'm either going to be heartbroken or walletbroken, neither of which are good.

And, lastly, NO TEARS. I get it, it's exciting but keep your shit together, ladies; it's just a dress.

These were my rules.

They were all swiftly and mightily broken.

For my first day of dress shopping, a day meant for "fun" and "browsing," I went with my mother and posse of godmothers to Marina Morrison in San Francisco.

Located on the 4th floor of Gump's department store, I should've known I was in trouble. Gump's is a store that sells 3 inch tall porcelain dog figurines for $250 bucks. This is not the kind of place that caters to the thrifty.

But I figure, this is all for fun, let's stuff on!

While some dresses could be dismissed for reasons of pouf or cut, ie: the below gown which all the godmothers loved, as did I, until I noticed it made me look like a cupcake with dolphins on my boobies:

Or those which make me realize just how much I need to invest in Spanx to knock down my FUPA:

Or some that were beautiful but simply not quite "Me:"

There was one, one that haunts my dreams. One which I won't post here just in case I win the Lotto and can actually afford to wear it on my wedding day, this way it won't be spoiled for my groom.

The dress was perfect, a trifecta of all the Wants and Likes I mentioned to the saleswoman when we walked in (lace, tulle, sleeves). Perfect expect for one major detail: If I buy this dress, I have to get married at Denny's because I won't be able to afford anything else.

Heartbreak!

To add insult to injury, I even tried the damn thing on with a veil, and, wouldn't you know it, there I was a bride with a lump in her throat.

I slunk out of the store a few dresses later, fixated on my unicorn gown. And that's when my Googling fingers took over so I scoured every pre-owned dress site in the vain hope of finding a cheap version. But that was when I stumbled upon the nefarious underbelly of Bridal Gown shopping, the Chinese knockoff trade.

Now, there's nothing wrong with a knockoff, I love Canal Street as much as the next girl, but for my wedding dress? Do I dare trust a website to whip up a $478 Chantilly lace ballgown? Is there even the slightest glimmer of hope that I won't end up hating it, myself and mourning the $478 I've thrown down the internet toilet?

I google on. Most brides seem to share my fear of internet sites to be trusted with the attire for Your Most Special and Important and Monumental Day Ever. But one bride took the plunge and offered fair warning, saying her dress arrived, a shadow of what she'd expected, and was too cheaply made to be altered. My concerns exactly.

China seemingly off the table, I decided I needed another solution; something inexpensive and easy and fabulous.

So I went to David's Bridal at the mall all by myself. No entourage, no one to tell me I had back fat (thanks, mom), no one to harsh my mellow when I found something I dug, and no one to coerce me into spending more than $1800 on a dress. This was a genius solution.

Or so I thought.

In the cramped, florescent lit dressing room, something synthetic scratching against my legs, I realized the horror of the truth: You get what you pay for. Poorly fit and awkwardly pinned, I emerged in each dress looking chubby and crumpled and miserable.

It was as if David was screaming to me, "RUN! GO, BABY! GO BUY THAT OTHER DRESS! THE EXPENSIVE ONE! NOW!"

After a dozen dresses, I finally found one Vera Wang option that seemed to have some potential. I took a photo and sent it to my mother. I even put a veil on for the full effect.

I called to get her feedback but she didn't say anything about the dress. She couldn't, actually, because she was laughing too hard to form words. I took that as my answer and slipped the dress off. As I waded out of it, I caught sight of a tag: "Made in China."

My unicorn dress still haunts me. I dream of her, stalk her on OnceWed, pray to find someone selling her at 57% off. And, sometimes, on dark lonely nights, I think of China and wonder, "Would it really be that bad?"

Am I The Only Bride Having Heart Palpitations?

It started the moment we announced we were engaged, people would look at us, eyes twinkling, and coo, "Have you set a date?"

No, motherfucker. I got engaged eleven hours ago. Give me a second to let it sink in.

But then time passed, the newness wore off, my ring--which, I began to notice, I fiddled with constantly--wore a tender pink crevice into the skin on my fourth finger, as if it were something I'd worn for decades instead of weeks, and the question persists: "Have you set a date yet?"

Filled with excitement and joy, my answer never living up to their bloated expectations. "Not yet," I offer, apologetically, as I watch them deflate like a whoopee cushion under a fat kid's ass. They wheeze out a supportive, "You have time," or, "Just enjoy being engaged," but I can smell their dissatisfaction.

Am I the only one whose heart is racing at the idea of planning such a massive event? It's not the I don't adore my fiancé, I'm addicted to him like love smack, but I'm having a really un-bridal time of wrapping my mind around the excitement that comes with spending $35,000. On a single day. There have been entire years of my life where I haven't made that much money.

Still, I spend my days and nights on Pinterest, compiling lists of DIYs I will never endeavor to tackle, ogling dresses I can't afford, and being made to question if my diamond is big enough. Seriously, who are these dudes bequeathing nine carat crazinesses? What is this? The NFL? But I'm addicted, I can't stop. I Pin myself to sleep most nights, dreaming of a wedding only Kanye can give Kim. So what's a savvy, semi-broke bride to do?

We soldier on!

There are cruddy venues that smell like soup and/or old people to visit! Caterers who charge $15 a plate for cake they just have to slice to contact! And favors no one will want to DIY! Let's get this wedding rollin'. It's gonna be a wild bride.