Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Mother-of-the-Bride: Post #2

The penultimate shopping extravaganza ended in tears:  mine, not the bride's.

Out the door and away at the crack of dawn, we sallied forth, seeking adventure and at least one dress.  Our spirits were high despite the ominous clouds threatening heavy weather to come and the hour long drive to get us there.  Adventure found us sooner than we expected.  Wow!  the passenger-side windshield wiper went West without us.  

Pulled over on the side of the 6 lane highway, we studied the enclosed instructions for installing the new one Bridie-Dear had on hand.  Wonders never cease.  Next step was to stand in the gutter over-flowing with run off and the fattest, longest, most disgusting worms I've ever seen, lean against the wet car and fiddle with the thing until it snapped in place.  Success.  Now we were proud of ourselves and ready for more.

We hit the Mall a mere 20 minutes after they opened the doors.  Being a holiday weekend, the weather forcing people indoors, and 250 stores to filter, we joined the hoards, the milling throngs of those worshipping in the 
Temple of Want.  
Now this was serious shopping!

In almost the very first store, we found a treasure-trove of fabulous gowns and dresses.  
Encouraging. 
Hopeful. 
All smiles.  
Yes!  A decision.  
After lunch and debriefing, we bought the dress, we bought the shoes, we bought the accessories and a hundred and one other essentials.

Achievement and happiness spread grins across our weary faces.

Back in the Trans Canada Highway rush-hour, in pouring rain and encroaching fog, we were 96 km. from home when we got a flat tire.

What?  No spare???????


It wasn't until Bridie-dearest had departed in the taxi with the car keys (or at least, I thought she had) that I decided it was time to lessen the load behind my brimming eyes.  Yes, we had accomplished an amazing amount in two weeks time, and yes, the Bride was ecstatic, 
but I was:

Hungry:  do pizza deliveries come to the side of highways?
Tired:  my feet hurt and I wanted my bed?
Needed to pee:  where's a porta-pottie when you need one?
Wanted to go home:  not just in Alberta, but all the way home to where Hubby is.

Please, now?  Sniffle, sob.  
This is where I fade out to the strains of "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" playing in the background.
Being Mother-of-the-Bride has it's dark moments.



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