Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

If the Dress Fits…

I may be a bit tangled in the layers of Cinderella’s ball gown, but I think every bride-to-be wants to feel as though finding her wedding dress is like sliding on the glass slipper. A perfect fit in every way. Destined. Meant to be.

For those of you new to the Archives, I am getting married this November (surprise proposal story here). This love affair with the Bohemian has been rather unconventional, our decision to wed, untraditional. So it makes sense that our wedding would be a bit outside the gift-wrapped box, as well.

A simple celebration, full of love, with a small group of close friends and family is our vision. But it seems even the most modest of affairs can quickly turn complicated. Or at least involve some planning.

Being that it’s often hard to find time just to file my fingernails, wedding prep’s been taking a back burner. Most recently, we’ve opted to take a pause on the nuptial project, get through the summer and resume most planning in August (which the calendar says begins today).

But one wisping constant in the wedding realm has not subsided. It’s floated, veil-like, around me, coaxing with fairytale promises, cajoling the ultimate quest. Yes, it’s the search of every bride-to-be. Looking for The Dress.

It started in March when we found ourselves, ever-so-briefly, in Los Angeles. My best girlfriend and I left the Bohemian in downtown Santa Monica, while she and I hit the freeways. We wanted to cover our bases. We shopped specialized bridal boutiques where I tried on poofy layers of tulle, satin ruffles and beaded bodices. Cinderella’s fairy godmother shopped there!

We went to a funky warehouse of second-hand vintage clothes, where there was no fitting room, just a chair and a mirror, where I slipped into a Gunne Sax dress from the seventies. We shopped Nordstroms’s evening gowns and sampled Betsy Johnson couture. We drove into to a Spanish-speaking district packed tight with retail shops. Hidden beside the storefront window where Quincenera gowns sparkled in fuchsia fluff, and cheesy pop music pumped stale love songs into the street, was the discount bridal spot. Its no-nonsense shop-keeper zipped me in and out of about 15 bridal dresses, remaining unphased when I didn’t warm to a single one of them.

As the sun set, we reunited with the Bohemian who had in his possession, one single, simple bag. Within in it, a sharp pair of neatly folded, cream-colored, Armani pants and a stylish white shirt.

“Where’s your dress?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. As if he thought that one could just go shopping in a single day and instantly return with The Dress.

Did he not understand that there was a search afoot? Things of this import, well, they took time…and effort.

But the Bohemian is a simple man who often defies convention. So he modeled his easy finds for us, and we agreed – he had done well. And done it in a single day. Handsome as ever, in his wedding clothes. His search was over.

Mine had just begun. But it made me wonder. Was this all in my mind? Was my quest for the perfect dress only has complicated as I made it?

In the proceeding four months, woven between dinner dishes, laundry loads and Jeb’s summer vacation schedule shuffles, there’s been my persistent attempts at bridal online shopping.

The Bohemian, he shakes his head with a smile, “Another one?” as multiple boxes arrive.

I’ve done Saks Fifth Avenue, J. Crew, Bloomingdales and Neiman Marcus. One by one, ever-hopeful, I have unwrapped tissued packages and zipped myself into their contents. Almost always too big, or simply unflattering, every dress has gone right back on the hanger, as I’m left to read the small print of return instructions, adhere appropriate labels and ship back.

Though I hadn’t given up, I took a break. I knew the clock was ticking (more Cinderella-esque pressure of time) but I needed a pause. Until one day I was feeling rather casual. Almost no expectation. And I simply navigated to a website and noticed that there was this one dress. Maybe. On sale for half off. Only one left and it was in a size 2. Most likely too small (previous dresses had been an 8, a 6 and a 4 – hadn’t tried a 2!) I added it to my virtual cart and clicked to purchase.

And then I left my house. Went on retreat to a remote locale and was reminded – yet again – of how little one really needs. In the midst of our sparse campsite, I reflected on the three tubes of toothpaste in the bathroom back at home and shuddered at the clutter. I did a virtual gutting of our household cupboards. Vowed to simplify our lives even more as soon as I got home.

Later that afternoon, a setting sun with the Bohemian. We sat together surrounded by a mountain panoramic. We were misted by rain in golden light, an arc of rainbow close enough we saw it touch the earth. I fell in love all over again. Knew ever-sure, this was the man I wanted to be with the rest of my life.

The fairy tales, they detail the quest for destiny. You know, kissing all the frogs until the prince is found. Or how Cinderella’s evil step sisters try wedging their swollen feet into the glass slipper, to no avail.

It’s not right, until it’s right. And when it’s meant to be, it is. Or something like that.

And that size 2 dress was waiting for me at the door when I got home. And when I put it on, it fit. It’s simple, beautiful. And yes, I love it.

That quest, I am so pleased to say, complete.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Karate Chops, Big Rock and a Wedding

The Bohemian and I step away from domestic home routine. Pack some snacks and a beer and head to the beach to watch the sunset. Look at seaside vacation rentals and dream of wedding locations.

We look for that one house he went to – the one where they had a DJ on the deck and a dancing bride and groom. We find the big, dirt square in the lawn where the house once sat, and realize that now, it’s simply gone. Vanished.

We set out our blanket, eat our tortilla chips. Watch the family nearby practice martial arts moves on each other. Head butts that stop just short. Fake karate chops to throats. They go on like this for an hour.

We wander up the one lane road that winds along the ocean. Watch the sky turning pink. Round a corner and see one table set out on a seaside point. Eight chairs, tiki torches and photographers. Looks like a simple wedding. A small group sitting among lava rock and lapping waves. The caterer’s parked nearby with a barbecue grill on the back of her pick up truck.

Our feet trace the road. Ocean on one side, lush cliff side on the other. We find a big rock by the water and sit.

Then we hear the rumble. Look up to see the movement in the grass along the mountain. The earth shakes.

We go towards the sound and find a good size boulder has landed squarely in the road.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

The sky is not falling, it’s the mountain that is crumbling to the sea. And we’d been walking in the fall-out zone only moments before.

Demolished houses, martial arts and rolling boulders. A wedding banquet off the back of a truck.

These are just the sights we see on one evening when we dare to shake routine, adventure out our own front door.Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Driftwood Wedding Plan

As we play with planning some kind of wedding party (noting that I continue to add “party” to “wedding”, as if this somehow lightens expectations of myself or invitees) I continue to chant the ‘simple’ mantra.

One can search online for guidance with phrases like “rustic”, “homespun” or “do it yourself wedding”. I’ve even found a niche of “Bohemian” weddings I never knew existed. But these cyber shots often showcase lavish spreads featuring nature-inspired props that probably totaled $10 – $20 grand, easy.

Talk to the Bohemian about a wedding menu and he’ll say “rice and goulash for everyone!” Guaranteed, none of the featured brides and grooms I’ve seen online have had that much paprika on their breath.

One of the Bohemian’s many talents is working with what he’s got. He can build one bicycle that works from the skeleton of two that don’t. He’ll repair the weed whacker gathering cobwebs in the corner long after the owner gave it up for junk. And it’s downright scary what he’ll throw in the Vitamix as a ‘smoothie’ just trying not to let any leftovers in the fridge go to waste.

Wedding planning is no different. Some Sunday time on the beach turns to talk about the number of invitations to the party. As we count down names, his hands begin crafting some make-shift diorama out of driftwood twigs. In a short time, there is an aisle, seats with attendants and an archway where we, the stick people, are standing with the officiant.

“Yes, something like this,” he says.

And I agree, as I lie down closely to peer at the scene. I wish I had my camera to zoom in on the intricacies of this little stick world. But again, we use what we have. At my request, the Bohemian grabs his cell phone (no high-res pictures from his intelligently simple, non-smart phone) and snaps a shot.photo courtesy of The Bohemian

The image here may not be as sleek as I would like. But perhaps that is the point when you’re working with what you’ve got. It’s real. And that’s where beauty lives.

You know, maybe somewhere people would pay extra to meet a wedding planner on a Hawaiian beach and have their festivities mapped out in 100% all-natural driftwood. Hmmm…maybe.

All I know is there’s a wealth in what we’ve got (and I suspect this is true for most when the time is taken to consider their abundance).

I’m thankful for a soon-to-be husband that makes something out of nothing.

This wedding may be small and barefoot. There may be goulash served on the unfinished dish sets of my grandmother. It may be mapped out by seaside twigs, but we know its humble origins are great.

We make the most out of what we have. And that’s love, and only love, at the root.