In preparation for my mom's visit early next month, I've been running around trying to find wedding dresses that I like. The first thing I learned is that the bride wears a gown, not a dress. What's the difference? A couple thousand dollars.

After much ado, I found five dresses that I liked. Some personal reflection combined with the vocal opinions of others lead me to admit that my favorite dress doesn't look as good on me as the others, knocking the list down to four. Then I decided that there is no way in hell I am spending $5000 on a dress to wear exactly once. Maybe if I was going to wear it every day for a year, but the odds of that occurring are fairly low. Ergo, down to three! A nice, prime number. Unless I can have a custom dress made that is similar to the first eliminated. Make that three and a half dresses.

I was not so subtly told that if I posted pictures of the dresses, especially ones containing me, the world would be ripped apart and I'd fall into an abyss containing burning dresses. I mean gowns. So no pictures for you. Just use your imagination and then assume that whatever you are picturing is completely wrong.

Now that you know exactly what gowns I am considering, I can move on to the exciting part of the story.

I visited two of the shops on my own. Everyone else had to work on a Friday morning! The nerve! Oh, and they were NOT shops, they were salons. Wedding gowns are sold in salons. Anyway, the second shop has parking in the alley behind the store. At the time of my arrival, it was completely blocked by a large moving truck with its hazard lights on. The car in front of me pulled all the way up to the truck and honked. Nothing happened. I left about 20 feet between myself and the car. If the truck continued to show no signs of intelligent life, it would be nice to have some room to turn around. Another car pulled into the alley behind me and immediately started honking. I had this crazy idea that he was honking at the truck-shaped impediment, for which I didn't really blame him. Now I was extra glad for the breathing room, since now I was about to take advantage of it to get the hell out of there.

Someone knocked on my passenger window just as I was about to plot my escape. I rolled down the window and my car was immediately filled with what I can only assume was Russian profanity. Huh? It dawned on the lunatic that I don't know Russian and he switched to English. The gist of his tirade turned out to be that I'm a stupid moron and why hadn't I pulled up all the way yet? I had enough room to pull up, so he wasn't blocking the sidewalk. I tried to explain that I left the extra room on purpose so that escape would be possible should the truck fail to move. I doubt he heard a word I said since he was too busy ranting about how this country was so stupid for giving driver's licenses to little girls.

I raised the window and reassured myself that the doors were locked. I faced forward, ignoring Mr. Nutjob, who continued to stand there screaming. I didn't feel like pointing out to him that if I did decide to pull forward, as he demanded, his feet would be quite squished afterward.

Thankfully, the truck driver finally appeared, sending the mad Russian back to his commmie mobile. The truck moved, the car in front moved, and I was more than happy to put distance between myself the last car.

I was a bit shaken inside the store, but I was fine by the time I left. After leaving the parking "lot," I realized I had no idea what my next destination was to be. I parked in front of a house on a side street and consulted my phone. Suddenly, there was a knock on my passenger window! After narrowly dodging cardiac arrest, I glanced over. It turned out to be a lady who was waiting for a delivery truck, and would I mind pulling back about 10 feet so the truck would have enough room to park? I told her that I was just trying to figure out where I was heading and would be gone momentarily. She smiled and offered directions! Maybe it wasn't the Russian disguised as a housewife after all. Either way, I decided that maybe it would be best if I ate somewhere closer to home, such as my kitchen.

The moral of this story is that you should never, ever go gown shopping by yourself in Studio City.