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.