Wedding Disasters: Venue

In a shocking turn of events, a person asked me to marry him.  What followed was horrific.  I was bombarded with the lineage of wedding tradition that has been suffocating us for years.  I attempted to break the mold and was thwarted at every step.

Everyone lied to me about weddings.  I repeatedly heard people say, “Just remember.  This is your day.  It doesn’t matter what anybody else wants.”  Well it turns out it does matter what everybody else wants…this is particularly true when it comes to Mimi Royer, the matriarch of my family.  Mimi was not impressed with my wedding plans — nor were her sisters.  Honestly, they tried to kill me.   I will never forget the first conversation I had about my impending nuptials and how it was all going to shake out.  I was with Mimi and the brood when I first broached the concept I was envisioning:

Me: So I’m thinking we rent a house, throw a pool party and serve cheeseburgers.

Mom: *silently sobbing*

Aunt #1: Alison, do you really think people will fly 2,000 miles to eat a cheeseburger?

Me: I can’t think of a better reason to fly 2,000 miles.

Aunt #2: But where’s everyone going to sit?

Me: I mean…it feels like we could rent chairs?

Mom: And where will this “pool party” take place?

Me: Los Angeles?

Aunt #1: So you’re having a destination wedding?!

Me: Um…no.  Cause I mean…I live here.

Aunt #2: Where are the tables going to go?

Me: Tables are stupid.  I want nothing to do with them.

Mom: But then where will we put the flower arrangements?!

Me: Not having any.

Aunt #1: So you’re throwing a white-trash BBQ?!

Me: YES!

Mom: *silently sobbing*

Needless to say, they were not on board.  They felt so strongly, in fact, that they tricked me into touring a wedding venue in the suburbs of Chicago, where I grew up.  This ended with me having a full-blown panic attack. Every time I see a round table, I have a meltdown. I actually think I suffer some type of P.T.S.D. where weddings are concerned because 10-top tables and name cards give me hives. Swear. After the suburban-wedding-venue-tour, it was obvious that a traditional wedding venue was not going to work. 

I wanted my parents to be happy, but when I started conjuring potential wedding locales, I tried to be inspired by all the things I like to do, but all I could come up with was sleeping —  so I decided to go with that.  Ultimately, I did end up renting a house in Los Angeles with a pool and a lot of pool furniture… i.e. lounge chairs… i.e. sleeping.  It felt like the best decision — but like most wedding decisions, it was wildly expensive and at the end of the day, literally no one was happy.

The truth is if you honestly attempt to do what you want for your wedding, you will spend all of your extra time convincing The Royers that everybody likes burger trucks and that chairs aren’t actually all that important.  And when you have the gall to point out that throwing a wedding in the city where you live does not actually constitute a “destination wedding” their brains will literally explode and they will finally know, unequivocally, that sending you to a liberal arts college was a terrible idea.

Despite my best efforts, many things did not go well on my wedding day.  I tried to keep these issues hidden from my parents.  I didn’t want Mimi and Jim having the satisfaction.  Certainly, I wanted them to be happy but in the way that, at the end of the day, they would profusely apologize for being so short-sighted and then repeatedly tell me how smart I am.

Basically, I was bamboozled by a rich person.  Motherfuckers get me every time.  I rented the house from a woman who seemed very nice, initially.  I can see now that she was being very nice because she wanted to take all my money… which she, in fact, did.  She was real cagey leading up to the wedding.  I had literally only seen the house once or twice and each time she rushed me through the venue, told me everything would be wonderful and then kicked me out. This trend continued when we finally checked in on the day of the wedding.  This bitch had her house security system decked out Fort Knox style but seemed to have no idea how to use literally anything.  My friend, Heather, and I were following her around the house trying to keep up, to no avail.

Rich Bitch: Mmmmkkkk…if you want to open a window, just type 47839 into this box or the police will come.  All the doors are on the same system.  In order to open the big glass door, you just push this button, turn the knob, unlock the bottom lock, push, pull, unlock the 2nd window, push, and then re-lock into the ground.  If you need the air conditioning turned down, just page 736 to this number and if the pool overflows, just go into the garage (there’s a lock for the garage outside under the tree) and then type 98456 into the system near the garage door.  OKGREATHAVEFUNBYE!!!

I mean…obviously I wasn’t listening to any of that because I was focused on how my parents weren’t going to be able to enter the building without the police being summoned.  It was a disaster.  I was literally trapped in that godforsaken house and sure as shit I found myself needing the garage key.  I spent the majority of my wedding morning looking under every tree on the property.  I never found it and the pool overflowed.  It was a great start to the day. 

Rich Bitch was relentless on the day of the wedding.  She kept stopping by because she “forgot” something.  I’m pretty sure that’s not how house rentals work, but I was busy trying to miraculously get skinny in the five hours I had before walking down the aisle.  The Rich Bitch stop-bys did not prevent her from additionally calling and texting me with “helpful reminders” throughout my wedding day.  It seems unreasonable that she was so dead-set on contacting me directly seeing as she had assigned us a Site Representative, who was tasked with being on hand to “fulfill any and all last minute items which might need tending to.” 

What a fucking crock of bullshit that turned out to be.  The Site Representative turned out to be Rich Bitch’s bumbling 21-year-old son who parked himself on the couch and watched Netflix on his laptop the entire time.  I fucking hate the youth.

Me: Um…Stu?

Stu: (Removes excessively large headphones) Yea?

Me: I’m so sorry to bother you.  You see, I’m in the middle of a wedding and there are 150 people here.  I just heard the toilet is broken.  Do you happen to have a plunger?

Stu: (Nonchalantly shrugs) Don’t know, bro. (Replaces headphones)

This was the motherfucking coup de grâce. 

I AM NOT YOUR BRO, YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT!  WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU TRYING TO EMBARRASS ME IN FRONT OF MY PARENTS, STU?!  I AM TRYING TO SHOW THEM THAT A WEDDING AT A HOUSE IS A REASONABLE OPTION, AND YOU ARE JUST SITTING THERE LIKE THE OVERPRIVILEGED MILLENNIAL THAT YOU ARE.  HELP ME THE FUCK OUT, COULD YA, STU?  I HAVEN’T HAD A DRINK IN 10 YEARS, MY ENTIRE SPINE IS FUSING TOGETHER, MY PARENTS LITERALLY HATE ME, AND YOU ARE SITTING THERE LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING CHUMP WHILE A TOILET IS CLOGGED AT MY FUCKING DESTINATION WEDDING!  DO YOU GET THAT, STU?!  A PERSON MARRIED ME, AND YOU ARE RUINING IT!!!

Eventually, I had to be pulled away from Stu by my friend Amanda because I was about to throttle him.  All of my life experiences to date had culminated in the moment that most perfectly represents my miserable existence.  I spent the next 15 minutes, in full wedding regalia, unclogging a toilet, because the God damn youth couldn’t get their ass off the sofa to help a bitch out.

I suppose, in retrospect, I can see why my parents were alarmed.  I’m young(ish), irreverent, unwilling to help anyone with anything at anytime and completely self-obsessed.  But I am 35 God damnit and needed to pave my own path.  Was it a disaster?  Absolutely.  Do my parents continue to always be right?  Yes.  Do I prefer being stalked by a Rich Bitch and unclogging a toilet to eating cold chicken at a 10-top table in a suburban barn?  You bet your motherfucking ass I do.

Wedding Disasters: Dress

When it comes to weddings, basic brides are consumed by one thing and one thing only – The Dress.  The thing that’s weird about that is can you remember the last wedding dress that made a major impact on you?

Basic Bride #1: OMG, I got the most AMAZING dress!
Me: Oh, cool.  What does it look like?
Basic Bride: Well it’s white and it’s long and it’s strapless and it cost $2,500.

Basic Bride #2: My dress is fantastic.
Me: Is it white?
Basic Bride #2: Yes!  And it’s long and it’s strapless.  It cost $7,500.

Basic Bride #3: Wait until you see the dress.
Me: Did it cost more than $7,500?
Basic Bride #3: Obviously, but it’s incredible.  It super long and white and instead of putting straps on it…
Me: *puts gun in mouth, pulls trigger*

First they get a long, white, strapless dress and then they spend the next several months rejecting all food and actively attending bridal boot-camp classes.  None of this was for me.  I wanted a short dress and I wanted to spend zero dollars. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking, “You wanted a cheap dress cause you’re poor and a short dress cause you’re slutty.”  Alright, just take it easy!  Though, sadly, you’re not wrong.  Luckily, I immediately found what I was looking for at the impeccable dress boutique, David’s Bridal.  It seems they cater to destitute streetwalkers, so I’m clearly their target market. 

Also, I had no unrealistic desires to become magically skinny before I walked down the aisle.  I knew the real star of my wedding would be cheeseburgers and that no one could honestly expect me to be more attractive than usual.  I wasn’t going to fall into the anorexic shame-spiral the rest of America had fallen into.  THIS IS MY BODY!  DEAL WITH IT! 

Unfortunately, after the food debacle, I was literally falling apart and could no longer tell what was important.  My defenses were down and I really started to let these women get to me.  Men, you may not know this but here’s how a typical conversation goes with another woman if you’re an engaged lady.  I want it to be noted that I didn’t even wear my engagement ring on my left hand because I was trying to ward off all Wedding Maniacs – but those sons-of-bitches will find you.

Wedding Maniac: That’s so great that you’re getting married!!!

Me: Ok

WM: George and I had the best wedding.  It was at a children’s museum.  I’ll send you the number!

Me: No thank you.

WM: How much weight are you trying to lose?

Me: Excuse me?

WM: For your wedding.  I remember only eating almonds and oranges the six weeks before my big day. 

Me: Is that a thing?

WM: LOL.  Hang in there.  I’m sure your dress will fit!

Now here’s the thing.  I bought my dress in December, my wedding was in July.  I tried it on prior to purchasing it, so I just assumed it had fit me.  What I didn’t realize is that when brides say, “fit” they mean that the dress hangs off your skeletal frame and you look like you might faint at any minute.  By the 500^th time a Wedding Maniac asked if my dress fit, I started to panic and think that maybe I should have taken it out of the David’s Bridal bag instead of leaving it in my trunk for months on end. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t have this epiphany until two weeks before my wedding – even though I was constantly being called fat. And shocker of all shocks, that fucking thing didn’t fit me under any circumstances.  And I’m not talking about the Wedding Maniac version of “fit” wherein you’re five pounds away from your baby weight and you can’t let go of your husband’s hand during the ceremony otherwise you’ll fall over.  I’m talking about the fat person version of “fit” wherein that motherfucking thing wouldn’t even zip up. Oops.

I was panicked.  I knew that no one in the world had ever suffered more than I was suffering in that moment.  I called my friend Jonas and informed him of this code-red situation.  He reminded me that his father and sister had just passed away within six months of each other and I wondered why I couldn’t catch a motherfucking break.  It was clear Jonas would only be able to help with funeral problems and this was a wedding crisis so I hung up with him and called my friend Dana over, ‘cause I knew she would be brutally honest and that no one she loved had died recently.  I tried the dress on for her and she was not impressed:

Dana: Are you concerned that your dress doesn’t fit?

Me: I forgot to lose weight.

Dana: Didn’t your tailor mention anything when you went to get it altered?

Me: Shit.

Dana: You forgot to get it altered?

Me: I CAN’T DO EVERYTHING, DANA!  HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO ALTER YOUR DRESS?!  I THOUGHT I WAS SUPPOSED TO LOSE WEIGHT!

Dana: I mean… that would have been fine, but you didn’t even do that.

Me: Listen, you are my best friend.  Be honest with me.  Does this dress kind of fit?

Dana: No.

Me: DANA!

Dana: Alright, get yourself together.  I’m taking you to Nordstrom and you’re going to learn about Spanx.

Fucking Spanx.  I ended up paying $100 for nude underwear shorts that prevented me from breathing.

Here’s the deal.  I looked fat at my wedding.  And more embarrassingly, my friend Lionel found my dress unattended at one point, tried it on, and looked better than anything I could have possibly imagined.  I have attached photographic evidence – so feel free to decide who wore it best.  At the end of the day, I didn’t even care anymore.  I had bigger fish to fry with my horrible venue choice. 

Wedding Disasters: Food

I’ve heard many a bitch complain about her wedding over the years.  I’ve had to endure several lunches where I was forced to hear the babblings of some mother-daughter standoff involving the color of flowers, the number of guests, or the type of cake, and all I could ever think was, “um…most people don’t have jobs so this isn’t striking me as an emergency.”  Now you can’t say something like that to a bride without being murdered.  But I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my wedding would be different.

I had categorized my wedding into three important parts: Food, Dress, Venue.  I hurried along to make sure all of these categories where underway and organized.  I don’t want to blow anyone’s mind or anything, but it was a fairly simple process. 

Food.  That seemed like the place to start.  Wedding food is garbage and I wanted mine to be edible.  I don’t know a lot about appropriate wedding cuisine, but I do know a lot about cheeseburgers, so my first order of business was to rent an Umami Burger truck, because trucks are cool and burgers are delicious.  Fuck this shit, weddings are eeeeaaaassssy.

I felt vindicated.  Weddings are stupid.  I knew it!  After hearing bride after bride complain about wedding minutia and thinking, “God, this just does not sound hard.  What are these shrews so stressed about?” I could finally revel in the fact that I had done the “impossible wedding planning” and, shockingly, IT WASN’T THAT HARD!  I was elated.  And just as I was patting myself on the back, Umami Burger called.

Those.  Mother.  Fuckers. 

Umami Burger: Hello Alison?

Me: Yep.

UB: Hey!  It’s your pals over at Umami Burger!  Bad news, hun.  We actually decided to disband our food trucks effective immediately.  You’ll see the credit to your account within 48 hours.  Good luck with your wedding though!  I’m sure it’ll be great.

Me: *silent sobbing*

UB: Alison?

Me: *loud sobbing*

UB: Are you ok?

Me: YOU. RUINED. MY. WEDDING!

Seriously, I said that.  I cried and told a burger place that they had ruined my wedding.  I was bereft.  I didn’t give a fuck who had jobs or not, or who was being physically tormented by their captor, or who was facing an unwanted pregnancy.  This felt like a motherfucking emergency. 

I tried to keep myself together.  Sure, I didn’t have a burger truck, but I still had a bunch of catered food for the rehearsal dinner, wedding appetizers and brunch the next day.  My parents were just about to roll into town for a tasting, so I tried to focus on the food I actually had.  The tasting was a huge success!  At least I had that going for me.  We finalized the menu and I emailed the caterer.  I received the following message:

“After 60 years in business, Powell’s has decided to close its doors.  As of yesterday, I have opted to retire.  Thank you all for your support over the years and we wish you the best of luck on your future endeavors.”

I figured this was a joke.  I had just talked to this guy the day before to set up the tasting.  And over the last several weeks, I had established what I believed to be a pretty tight relationship with Mr. Powell so I felt confident that he wouldn’t let me down.  I would sort this all out with him and everything would be fine.

Mr. P: Hello?

Me: Mr. Powell!  Hey, I just emailed you our final order and I got the weirdest message.

Mr. P: Yea, I retired.  After I get off the phone with you, I’m going to disconnect this line.

Me: M’kkk it’s just that you literally delivered a bunch of food to us today and we liked it.

Mr. P: Great.  Have a good day!

Me: No wait!  I was just wondering, do you intend to follow through with your existing orders?

Mr. P: I’d like to but I’m retired now.

Me: Right, but you weren’t yesterday.  I just don’t understand how this happened so quickly.

Mr. P: Business, am I right?

Me: That doesn’t even make sense.

Mr. P: Ok great.  Have a good day!

Me: WAIT!  MY PARENTS FLEW HERE TO HELP ME WITH MY WEDDING.  THE ONLY THING I HAVE TO SHOW FOR MYSELF IS YOUR STUPID FOOD.  THEY FINALLY LIKED SOMETHING AND I DEMAND THAT YOU GIVE IT TO ME!!!

Mr. P: Listen, here’s what I can do for you.  Why don’t I email you all the things that you ordered and then you can have a guideline for what you want to pick.

Me: Oh.  Ok.  So you’ll still do the catering for my wedding.

Mr. P: What?  No.  I’m retired.

Me: WHY THE FUCK WOULD I NEED TO KNOW WHAT I ORDERED THEN, YOU FUCKING LUNATIC?!  YOU RUINED MY WEDDING!

I can’t.  I want to even but I literally can’t.  At this point, I had no food for my wedding.  One of my friends pointed out that he had ALS and couldn’t drive or work and I wondered why he was making this about him.  COOL STORY RONNIE, BUT I DON’T HAVE ANY FOOD FOR MY WEDDING!

I started calling everyone I knew and letting them know how hard my life was.  They all said they would pray for me.  #blessed 

I was finally able to find yet another burger truck.  This one was called Farmer's Belly.  Based on the name, I was concerned that their food wouldn’t have enough fat and calories but desperate times called for desperate measures.  I organized a tasting and started to get excited about the food again.  They were going to bring three different types of burgers and three different types of fries.  I even ordered a vegetarian option because I care deeply about other people.  One of their fry choices was pesto fries and that excited me to no end.  Things were looking up!

On the day of my wedding, I was elated.  I was so happy to be with all my friends and family and was feeling triumphant since I had pulled it all together.  People are so nice to you if you have your makeup professionally done and put on a white dress so I wasn’t that surprised when my friend, Richie, asked if I’d like something to eat.  “Yes!  Would you please get me some pesto fries?!”  Everything was going wonderfully.  I continued to greet my guests and mingle, and then Richie returned with some piece-of-shit french fries that I was horrified to see in my presence.

Me: What are these?

Richie: French fries

Me: Where are the pesto fries?

Richie: Oh, they don’t have any.

Holy shit those motherfuckers screwed me.  I’m not stupid, so I had made binders which included all of my email correspondence with each vendor as well as all of my final orders and receipts.  I walked away from all the guests, raced into the dressing room, grabbed my binder and went storming out to the burger truck with fire in my eyes.

Luckily I was waylaid by my maid-of-honor, Jenny.

Jenny: Alison?

Me: Yes?

Jenny: What are you doing?

Me: They didn’t bring pesto fries.

Jenny: Alison, ya know what no one wants to see?

Me: Regular fries.

Jenny: Noooooo, an angry bride running with a binder over her head.

Me: Oh.

Jenny: I will take care of it.  People are having fun.  No one cares about the food anyway.

Me: Take it back.

Jenny: Don’t you have other things to worry about?  You’re married now!  How does it feel?!

Me: Empty and void of pesto.

Jenny: You’re awful.

Jenny eventually climbed onto the burger truck to see what the fuck the problem was.  Turns out that even after a tasting and a specifically placed order, Farmer's Belly just decided to bring whatever the fuck they wanted.  I emailed them a few days later and pointed out that they hadn’t brought any of the right food.  They basically told me how lucky I was to have food in the first place and honestly, after what I had been through, they weren’t wrong.  I asked for as much money back as they could give me and then opted to never eat from anywhere that was associated with a farmer ever again.  That has proven to be difficult….obviously. 

Weddings are terrible.  If I wanted to have a dick shoved up my ass by every stranger I encountered, I would have stayed single.  And this was just the food element of the God damn forsaken wedding festivities.  Dress and venue were equally horrible.  Ugh…the dress.  What a nightmare that turned out to be.