On Saturday, pre-glass-slinging, my recently-engaged sister and I went shopping for wedding dresses part II. We drove to some fancy place in Lincoln where they told her they don’t make appointments, just come on in. We got there and had to take off our shoes. Strike one for me. I hate being brought down to my normal unshoed height. And don’t even get me started on the shit that is on people’s carpet that is way worse than whatever was on my sole.
The front desk girl told her it would be 2 1/2 hours until a room opened up. So we sat outside on the curb and zipped our knee-high boots back up. “What snobs! Making me take off my shoes then telling you it’ll take two and a half hours!” one of us complained. Amber’s friend was along as well, and her GPS told us of a bridal outlet within ten miles. We got excited thinking of a clean and organized outlet with Vera Wang and Monique Lhuiller dresses priced at $200 in perfect condition except for a gold line through the tag.
Yes, we dream unrealistically. Instead, we were greeted with this:
“Atleast they won’t make us take our shoes off in here,” I muttered. I was wrong. We had to take off our shoes and let our socks soak into the church fellowship hall carpet sweat-stained by countless discount shoppers in a place where wedding dresses were covered in face makeup and pit stains and kids’ jam hands. I snapped a bootleg photo of the inside because I know a blog op when I see one:
After laughing manically at the selection, we left for some lunch and waited for the normal place to call us. The snobby ones with a 2 1/2 hour wait. Neither one is our people, we’re somewhere in between. But given the choice, we both prefer a place without hypodermic needles under the racks. But Amber couldn’t leave until she tried on a dress: