The other night I became caught up in watching the 1950 Spencer Tracy/Joan Bennett/Elizabeth Taylor opus, "Father of the Bride." Spencer Tracy's harried title character cannot believe the trials, tribulations, and expense involved in giving his daughter the wedding of her dreams, although at times the audience is given a glimmer that perhaps the bride would have settled for less had things not gotten so quickly out of hand. The wedding is a snowball rolling downhill, and by the time the final frame showcases Tracy and Bennett dancing in their wrecked, flower-strewn living room, it has become an avalanche. At one point, Tracy grabs his son by the shoulders, looks him in the eyes and declares that when the young man marries, he, Tracy, is only going to have to contribute the groom to the situation.

Well, it's not quite that simple. Pardon me, but Mr. Tracy had never shopped for the Mother of the Groom, or MOG, dress.

Not that I won't be successful--eventually, even if I have to drag out the sewing machine and do multiple trial runs of muslin. But I'd prefer to buy an appropriate gown, make better use of my time in the pursuit of my son's December wedding, but first things first, and the MOG must be suitably attired.

To this end I set out on a rainy Saturday morning to a bridal/formal wear shop in Dallas. Entering the door, I was promptly handed over to a young salesclerk who asked all the appropriate questions: when and how formal was the wedding, did I have a style/color in mind, what was the mother of the bride (MOB) wearing? December, very, I'd know it when I saw it, and I didn't know because she too was still looking.

Hummm. She was young, she was sweet, and she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. Perhaps a tour around the place, see if something caught my eye? And, by the way, they had very little with long sleeves.

From that point on, I believe we both knew this leg of my mission was futile, but she was game if I was. I picked out a lovely cranberry sheath with a 3/4-length-sleeved jacket, and disappeared into a dressing room that had no mirror. (This must be the coming thing. Can't tell you how often I have encountered this come-out-in-public-and-humiliate-yourself-in-front-of-everyone phenomenon.) Trust me, I could tell this dress didn't fit and if the place hadn't been what it was (virtually empty), I'd never have left the safety of the dressing room. But I still had hope (barely), and I emerged. Let's just say the jacket fit and the dress was made for people with normal shoulder to waist lengths, not abbreviated like mine. She smiled politely, said the only other things they had were dowdy--and I was not dowdy, she could tell (didn't I say she was sweet and perceptive?) --and suggested I try a department store, which she named.

Said store being one exit down and at a mall, I thanked her and scratched this entry off the MOG sweepstakes.

Said store would have been fine if I wanted to go as a dowdy matron--or a hooker. I scooted down the mall to the next appropriate store. Much better. Bigger selection, more middle ground between the two options than at the other place. I was circling each rack, feeling everything, sizing it up, looking at the price tag, when I noticed I wasn't alone.

She was my age give or take, blonde, casually dressed. We met each other at the end of each rack, circled the rounds together. Finally, we came to a standstill and she spoke first.

"What are you?"

No explanation was needed; the proper code words had been spoken. "Mother of the groom. You?"

"Mother of the bride. When's yours?"

"December. You?"

"September."

I quirked a brow. "You'd better hurry."

Over the next fifteen minutes, I probably found out more about her and her wedding than I know about some relative's. Come to find out, she did have a MOB outfit, a black skirt with a top that picked up the bride's accent color of purple. But she was still looking for something better--and she didn't see it. On the other hand, her daughter's future mother-in-law was still looking for her dress. But over the last year she'd helped friends find the perfect MOB/MOG outfits, and she shared the names of shops and boutiques I had either forgotten about or never knew. I filed the names away. She certainly understood my dilemma between dowdy and immoral and was thinking a future business venture might find her opening the kind of bridal wear shop for women like we were.

The conversation ran its course and we wished each other luck. Just as I turned to another rack, she swooped back in with a possible MOG candidate I had already admired. Convinced I was on the right track, she was gone.