wedding

Nuptial Nuttery, Don’t Wanna Be a Bridesmaid, Don’t Wanna Be a Bride(zilla)

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At least someone’s getting some.

Nothing gets young twenty-and-thirty something women’s undies in a bunch like a wedding- especially their own, or God forbid, that of a family member or close friend.  I got railroaded into that mess exactly three times- once for my first ill-fated wedding, mostly courtesy of my mother, and twice for my sisters’ weddings- and I refuse to go through that noise again.  As far as I’m concerned if you must get married, then have the sentience of mind to just go the courthouse and let the Justice of the Peace du jour do it.  You can clue me in about it after the deed is done and I might be nice enough to score you a Target gift card or a free pizza or something.

  According to Steve-o, “If your pants are bigger than mine, I’m not getting in them.” If you see something like this on your wedding day, run like hell. Need I say more?

I wore a tie-dyed Toyota t-shirt, black shorts and shower shoes for wedding #2.  I’m glad I didn’t blow the scratch for high faluting clothes.  It was August and it was bloody hot.  I sincerely hope that the illustrious Steve-o and his daughter’s mother do actually get married- that would be nice- but I hope that they have the good taste to keep it simple and tasteful and most importantly, frugal.  Everyone knows it’s extremely rare these days for anyone to make it to his/her wedding day with his/her virginity intact, but let’s just say it would be a bit on the tacky side for the bride to blow all kinds of money on a bright white gown and to force her friends to buy fugly dresses they’ll only wear once, especially when the couple’s kid’s a year old or more.

 See what I mean about fugly dresses?  However, these may gain a second life, either as curtains, the covers for cushions that go in the dog crates, or upholstery of some tacky sort.

I don’t mind being the spectator and making commentary on the frightening (not to mention bloody expensive) fashion faux-pas I observe from others’ weddings.  That’s fun, as long as I don’t have to be involved in the party planning, I don’t have to make an extended road trip to be there, and I’m not stuck buying a fugly dress I’ll only wear once.

 This is not a fugly dress, however, this is not my mutant-troll proportioned body either.  My face is about 14 shades whiter than the model’s too.

I don’t believe in fairy tales and princess brides and all that happy horseshit.  I don’t think I bought that line of crap as a kid either, if only because I was awkward, ugly and proportioned like a mutant troll as a child too.   Plus ça change, plus c’est la méme chose…

Anyway, watching other people’s elaborate weddings fail to go according to plan does have some entertainment value, which is sad.  There’s a bit of the schadenfreude element there too, as I can’t help but to enjoy seeing the beautiful people get screwed over.  I get screwed over every day. That’s my “normal,” so I do enjoy a little bit of that sinister glee in observing a high dollar outdoor wedding getting rained out, or someone’s wedding pics suddenly taking on a whole different dimension when complimented by dog humping.   But I fail to see the wisdom in thinking that it is actually possible to engineer a “perfect day.”  The only person guaranteed to show up at your wedding is the one person who you’d never dream of sending an invitation: Mr. Murphy.

Any kind of staged event, from a graduation to a speech, to a concert, to a play- anything that involves a number of people and processes that have to work together correctly- is a guarantee that somewhere in that process Mr. Murphy will show up.  Murphy’s Law is alive and well, and nothing contributes to Murphy’s Law playing out than a number of people and processes that have to come together at the right time and in the right way.

Then there are people who are just plain touched in the brain.  I like venison as much asmost other rednecks, and I admit with some trepidation that I do know how to make deer meat taste good, but this cake draws the line:

Something in my visual cortex will not allow me to eat this cake.  That, and knowing what cake and sweets do to my blood sugar- I’ll have to pass.

I have to wonder about a wedding in which the bride is doing a keg stand too.  I know people get drunk and stupid at weddings, but one would think the happy couple would stay sober long enough to do the nasty later?

Sometimes we need to see the guys through beer goggles too!

I can’t really say I ever had any better luck getting lucky back in the day when I did indulge in a lot of binge drinking.  The last time I ever really got shitfaced, as in forgetting what planet I was on, etc. I woke up in a motel room alone.  That’s not a terribly good commentary  on my self-control, but at least I didn’t get friendly with the toothless truckers who were trying to hit on me earlier in the evening.

For some reason when I used to enjoy going to bars (?) which seems completely foreign to me now because I don’t like crowds and I can’t drink due to medical issues, the fugliest dude in the place always seemed to be compelled to talk to me.  I’ve tried to figure this out but can only come to two conclusions:

I was a target because I was just as fugly as the toothless truckers and/or lard assed bald dudes, and/or I was a target because the only things they picked up on were my boobs, as in boobs=female, usually.

One of the beautiful things about being my age is that there are no more worries about the “biological clock”- ’cause that dude’s been dead for a number of years now, and by the time a woman hits 40 she (should have) come to the blissful realization that while men are enjoyable, you don’t need one, and you don’t need to take their shit.

Woman to Woman Cruelty and Other Wedding Insanity

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Woof.  I don’t see any bridesmaids though, which means this chick either a. Didn’t have any female friends, or b. Was kind enough to her female friends to refrain from asking them to be bridesmaids.

The cruelest thing that one woman can do to another (and believe me, we bitches can be sadistic) is to ask a “friend” or unfortunate relative to be a bridesmaid at her wedding.  There are many reasons for this.

Traditionally the bridesmaids have to pay for their own dresses.  Now if I had the audacity to ask someone to be in my wedding, I really can’t justify requiring her to buy something that she probably can’t afford and probably will never wear again.   Considering what some bridezillas expect their “friends” or unfortunate female relatives to wear, just having to wear it one time is punishment enough without the pain of actually having to buy it.

Give me a break.  One would think you wouldn’t want your wedding pictures marred by Big Fat Bertha’s meaty arms and that overall overstuffed sausage casing look that large women lend to slinky no-sleeve dresses.  It’s no crime to be large, but if you want large girls in your wedding, please find dresses that will flatter ALL your bridesmaids’ figures.  Dresses with sleeves!!! Dresses that will restrain the “puppies” at least enough so that they don’t fly out the top of the dress every time the wearer bends over!

I like pink.  I really do, including hot pink.  However, this dress is only suitable if you are four years old and playing with Barbie dolls.  It will only fit properly on those with the proportions of a Barbie doll too, so please remember, Big Fat Bertha is going to look like a tarred and feathered giant pink whale in this monstrosity.

This is the absolute WORST dress on the planet for many reasons. I didn’t think in all my trolling that I could find a dress this bad, but I did.  I don’t think I’d like it even if the President pictured on it were to be the late, esteemed Ronald Reagan.  I particularly abhor sleeveless dresses of any kind because they are only flattering to the Calista Flockhart set.  Women like me who are all upper body and are proportioned like mutant trolls look really horrible in sleeveless dresses of any sort.   They bring attention to our meaty arms and ample chests.   However, the worst thing about this dress is the most obvious.  Anyone who would even think for one minute that I would wear, much less buy, a dress with Obama’s picture on it, can shove it where the sun don’t shine.  ACCK!

Thankfully I am old enough now that it is highly unlikely anyone would want me to be one of their bridesmaids (given that most of my female friends and acquaintances are either married or happily divorced already) and I would have to vehemently (though politely) refuse due to poverty anyway.  The last time I was strongarmed into doing the bridesmaid thing was when my oldest sister got married, and that was only because Dad wanted her to shut up.  That cost me $300 for a dress I never wore again, and $800 in car repairs from damage inflicted to my suspension on the road trips to and from the lovely Detroit area.  I don’t think there are shittier freeways than in the Detroit area anywhere. Never again.  My sister got her last sadistic laugh on that one.  I don’t understand why she just didn’t substitute a far prettier, more affluent and more photogenic friend.  That was pretty stupid on her part, but I think she got a certain satisfaction just in getting her way, and in the delicious knowledge that it was a major hardship for me to play her game.  When she got married I was in the process of arranging my divorce and needed every dime I could save to get away from my ex. 

There is, however, no arguing with a bridezilla.  My pleas of poverty and desperation fell upon deaf ears.  I expected my Dad to defend me, but even he couldn’t stand up to her incessant whining about it, so I got roped in and acquiesed to keep the peace with my Dad.  I will NEVER allow anyone to do something like that to me again.  It would have been different if I could have afforded it and/or my situation in life would have been different, but it’s pretty damned cruel to expect a woman in an abusive marriage who is trying to get out and get a divorce, to take her freedom fund and blow money to be in someone else’s wedding.  It may have been a happy occasion for her, but to me it was just another pointed reminder of what a dismal failure my life up to that point was.  I know I should forgive and forget, and I do try, but the sheer insensitivity and cruelty of  it made me feel like a bad puppy getting her nose rubbed in shit.  Having to pay for that fugly dress was hard enough, but having to deal with all the car repairs on top of it really added insult to injury.

Then again, asking someone who is on the brink of divorce to be in your wedding is pretty damned callous to begin with, and I don’t care who you think you are.

The things that bridezillas will do. 

I can’t see the logic in the big behemoth weddings anyway.  I see it as a huge waste of money and time.  I am grateful for one thing about Jerry and my wedding- we simply went to the courthouse, paid the county their $50 fee and got married by the justice of the peace du jour who was a Methodist pastor filling in for one of the judges.  No special clothes, no extensive travel, no fanfare, and it was just fine by me.  Of course we did not make any mention of it until after the deed was done so my mother couldn’t barge in and turn a wedding into an all-you-can-eat free for all for all her friends, most of whom I don’t know from Adam’s housecat.  Jerry does have his good points, and in this his frugality was a huge advantage.

Admittedly most women are not as minimalist as I am, and most women have more female friends than I do.  Even so, expecting one’s “friends” and female relatives to put up huge outlays of cash just so they can be there for you on your “big day” is a bit much.  It’s different if they are invited and can decline gracefully if circumstances don’t allow them to participate. 

I think people should remember that marriage isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.  There’s no such thing as a knight in shining armor or a woman who is perpetually a celestial vision, even if you plow through thousands of dollars to maintain that illusion for one day.  I say you might as well jump into reality.  Prince Charming he ain’t, she’s no prize either, so you either want to deal with that or not.  Romance is dead, and there is no such thing as true love.  If you can get by from day to day without throttling the son of a bitch, you’re doing good.

Of course it is always possible to simply live alone with the dogs.