Wedding Disasters: Chicago

I didn’t spend my childhood fantasizing about my wedding day.  Instead, I spent my adolescence trying to get as many chemicals up my nose as possible.  This type of behavior didn’t align with daydreams of meeting my husband and being treated like a princess on my big day.  Due to my debaucherous lifestyle, I instead spent every waking hour envisioning my funeral.  It was gonna be great.  I was gonna play The Beatles White Album and you were all going to feel so horribly about the way you had treated me.

In a cruel twist of fate, I got sober instead and decided to live.  Since my formative years had been spent racking up D.U.I.s and attempting to catalog my STDs, marriage still hadn’t piqued my interest.  My time was split between relentlessly chain-smoking and trying not to drink.  That was how I spent the bulk of my twenties.  Ultimately, I ended up marrying my junkie ex-boyfriend and he too could not have been less interested in the minutia of our wedding day.  We were so happy to be alive, we just wanted to make it legally binding before one of us relapsed or died.  It was super romantic.

Since I had “insisted” on having a “destination wedding,” I was forced to also have a Chicago Wedding, Chicago Shower, and Chicago Bachelorette party.  This was in addition to LA Wedding and LA Shower.  The entire thing was ludicrous but, inevitably, if weddings don’t interest you, you will be bombarded with wedding hysteria.

Despite the knowledge that Chicago Wedding was on the horizon, I had paid no attention.  Aside from agreeing to physically be in Chicago that weekend, I had offered no additional help or guidance.  I figured our parents could run the show and that I would just show up and eat sausage.  LA Wedding = Cheeseburgers.  Chicago Wedding = Sausage.  Beyond that, I cared zero about what was going to transpire.

But once again, I got hoodwinked by my family.  I say “small wedding,” they invite 250 people; I say “casual BBQ,” they hire a staff of 17; I say “I don’t drink alcohol anymore so none of this is fun for me,” they concoct some sort of magical boozy lemonade drink that I cannot partake in but turned out to be the centerpiece of Chicago Wedding. 

It wasn’t until the week before Chicago Wedding that it occurred to me that I’d need an outfit.  Los Angeles Wedding Dress did not go well and I ended up looking pregnant.  I had a new strategy this time.  I’m not skinny BUT I have a huge ass and monstrous breasts which people seem to be into.  For Chicago Wedding, I figured I’d just work with what the Good Lord had given me.  So I bought a dress that basically made me look like street walker.  Husband was very concerned by this approach.  I had a mini-fashion show prior to leaving for Chicago and he was basically horrified:

Me: So what do you think?

Husband: Um…

Me: OMG, you think I look fat.

Husband: Nooo…I didn’t say that.

Me: Do you not want to get married anymore because I’m unattractive?

Husband: We already got married.  This is just a reception.

Me: So you hate me?

Husband: Alison, I don’t hate you but that dress is too short.  As a matter of fact, all your dresses are too short.

Me: ARE YOU SAYING I LOOK SLUTTY?!

Husband: You literally always do.  I don’t even know what to say anymore.

But it was too late.  That was the dress I bought and we were leaving the next day.  At this point, I started to panic.  Perhaps I should have put some thought into Chicago Wedding and how it was all going to shake out.  I started thinking about all the things I should have done.  For starters, my mother-in-law was hosting this fiasco and I probably should have contemplated thanking her.  I immediately called actual mother and put her on the case.

Me: I never bought anything for mother #2.  Is that bad?

Mimi: Why don’t we get her some flowers?

Me: I assume “we” means “you.”

Mimi: Fine.  I’ll put something together and you can bring it.  What kind of arrangement would you like?

Me: I don’t care.  I trust your judgment.  See ya tomorrow.

Note to self: Do not let Mimi go rogue when it comes to flower arrangements.  My plan upon arriving in Chicago was to get my hair and makeup done and then pick up the flowers Mimi had orchestrated.  Needless to say, what should have been a simple task resulted in a full-blown suburban meltdown.

For starters, I don’t pretend to know where one should get their wedding styling done in the suburbs so, again, I left this to Mimi.  I was slightly concerned when I walked into the “salon” and all the styling stations had been fashioned with tool boxes.  It looked like this had previously been an auto-shop dedicated to NASCAR and that these broads had just taken over and opened their salon “as-is.”  In addition, there was a lot of suburban fashion happening in that place.  The trend in Los Angeles right now is to dye your hair gray-purple — grayple, if you will.  While we can all agree that grayple is ridiculous, at least it’s fashionable — to some degree.  None of these suburban broads had heard of the grayple trend that was sweeping the nation.  They were still locked into the Kate Plus Eight buzzcut and blonde highlights.  Clearly, I’m not attractive — but I knew enough to know you should not mirror yourself after a woman who had a small army rip their way through her vagina.  No one can think rationally after such an event and she did not strike me as the fashion idol everyone in the suburbs found her to be.

After spending two hours in the salon, I had a headache from the 500 bobby pins that were used to fasten what was essentially a Toddlers-and-Tiaras-style bun to the side of my head.  I was miserable.  It wasn’t until I arrived at Chicago Wedding that I realized how dire this situation actually was.  My friend Laura pointed out that I looked as though I was about to enter the Ice Capades.  She was right.  Instead of looking like Kate Plus Eight, I looked like Nancy Kerrigan, and quite frankly my heels were too high and I was wobbling so I was channeling Nancy post Knee-Gate.  It was regrettable.

It was in this state that I walked into our local grocery store, Jewel, to pick up the flowers real mom had ordered for mom #2.  I was already suspicious since Mimi had chosen to order flowers from the same organization that brings us corn dogs as opposed to ordering flowers from, say, an actual flower shop.  But it was too late.  I walked in and was presented with what can best be described as an ornate funeral arrangement.  I was horrified.  I slowly toppled out of the grocery store, leaving the funeral flowers where they were and headed home to meet up with my friend Morgan.  She took one look at me and understood that I had reached full levels of mania.  Chicago Wedding was not going well.

Me: I’m falling apart.  We need to cancel Chicago Wedding.

Morgan: Just relax.  What is happening?

Me: I can’t feel any portion of my skull and Mimi bought funeral flowers. 

Morgan: I’m sure they’re fine.  Is that what you’re wearing?

Me: YES, IT’S WHAT I’M WEARING, MORGAN!  Oh God, how bad is it?  Do I look slutty?

Morgan: I mean…no more than usual.

Me: MORGAN!

Morgan: What?!  It’s sort of your thing.  Just embrace it.

Me: I hate everyone.

Morgan: Listen, we’re going to go back to Jewel, pick up the funeral flowers, go to Chicago Wedding and have a great time.  You look adorable.  Get in the car.  We can smoke there.

Those were the sweet words I needed to hear.  Morgan took control from there.  And just as I was beginning to feel like everything was going to work out, I entered Chicago Wedding and was faced with the realization that I am always right and that I have every reason to believe that nothing in my life will ever work out.

Here’s the thing.  I shouldn’t have been wearing a short dress nor are hooker heels an appropriate choice for anything beyond sex for money.  But Morgan had made me feel so confident that I completely forgot what was happening.  She had at least talked me into wearing underwear instead of a thong and I will be forever grateful.  Because as I was greeting my guests, I embraced my friend Charlie for a big hug and realized that something was pulling at my dress.  Of course Charlie didn’t know what was happening, thought I was trying to get out of hugging him and therefore just held me tighter so at this point I was basically in a choke hold.  I had a hard time escaping his grip and when I did, I turned to see my brother-in-law behind me.

Me: What the fuck are you doing?

Brother-In-Law: What are you talking about?

Me: Someone just lifted my dress.

Brother-In-Law: Alison, you’re barely wearing a dress, I’m sure it was the wind.

Me: HOW DARE YOU!

At this point, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlie’s son, smiling like the devil and grasping a handful of leaves.  Apparently, because he’s a small child and therefore a literal monster, he had seen my ice-skating dress, walked up behind me, lifted my dress from behind, and tried to stick a handful of leaves in my underwear thereby having me flash the entire Chicago Wedding.  It was the equivalent of wrapping dollar bills into a stripper’s G-string and who could blame him?  Despite my attempts to look quasi-attractive, I once again looked like a hooker.  And clearly I couldn’t spank the future sex-offender toddler because then I’d be giving him what he wanted.  Sicko. 

Ultimately, everyone at Chicago Wedding saw my ass.  This is not the type of grace I was hoping to exude, but who was I kidding.  Even when I spend every waking moment trying to be appropriate and demure, I end up with an ass full of leaves and unwanted propositions for sex — it’s who I am.  It took everything in me not to start pounding the lemonade concoction and eventually I just changed into pajamas.  I had tried and failed to be wedding appropriate.  At the end of the night, my family spent over an hour getting all those God damn bobby pins out of my hair.  I slept like a motherfucking baby that night.  It could have been because my blood was finally circulating after removing all of those pins; or because I had just made the most I’ll ever make as a stripper; or because I had found my One True Love and married the shit out of him.  But mostly I slept a beautiful, restful slumber because all wedding festivities, all trying on of dresses, all vendor hiring and food ordering and pining after alcohol-infused lemonade concoctions was finally… over.

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.

  

Bridezilla

As previously mentioned, I’m getting married and it is unequivocally the worst life experience I have ever faced.  It’s one of those horrible things wherein literal strangers feel justified in sharing unsolicited advice.  Apparently there are a lot of rules where weddings are concerned that I had not previously been privy to.  A few examples:

EXAMPLE 1

Horrible Person: So where are you going to register?

Me: Oh I’m not going to do that.  We don’t need anything.

HP: Oh but you have to register.  People like to have options.

Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize that since I’ve decided to spend the rest of my life with Boyfriend and have invited people to this event that I now also have to throw away all my worldly belongings so that some woman that my mother shared a dorm room with in college can buy me a $400 steak knife.  Does that seem reasonable to anyone?  I LIVE IN A FUCKING STUDIO FOR FUCK’S SAKE!  At this point if anyone buys me dishes I’m going to have to move.  Also…I fucking registered.  It was terrible. 

EXAMPLE 2

Horrible Person: That’s so cool that you’re getting married.

Me: Whatever you say, Jane from accounting.

Horrible Person: No, seriously.  That’s so exciting!  How much weight are you trying to lose?

Um…Jane.  I don’t know if you’re getting this but you literally just called me fat.  Is there some rule that requires me to become a significantly smaller person upon agreeing to marry someone?  Is this so that when the wedding approaches no one will be confused and wonder why Boyfriend decided to marry such an obese lady?  Is it so that I can look awesome in my wedding pictures and then stare at them longingly for the rest of my life and ask myself repeatedly how I could have let myself go after relentlessly attending all of those Bridal Bootcamp classes?  My boyfriend has seen me, Jane.  He already agreed to marry a regular-sized person so I see no reason to slim down for his sake.  Also, do you think there’s some scenario wherein I knew how to lose weight my entire life but just thought about actually applying it now?  I’VE BEEN TRYING TO LOSE WEIGHT SINCE I LOST MY VIRGINITY, JANE!  DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FUCKING LONG AGO THAT WAS?  I DON’T EVEN THINK I HAD A DRIVER'S LICENSE YET, JANE!  IT DIDN’T WORK, OK?!  THERE’S NO MAGIC ANGLE WHERE I BECOME ENGAGED AND THEN BECOME ATTRACTIVE.  LET IT GO, JANE!  YOU ARE BEING A TOTAL BITCH RIGHT NOW!

EXAMPLE 3

Horrible Person: So what does your dress look like?

Me: It’s short and it’s pink.  It was on clearance.

Horrible Person: *Just slowly backs away*

Ugh…the wedding dress.  I knew that process was going to be a nightmare.  When I went home for Christmas, my mom set aside an entire day that was dedicated to finding “the dress.”  I knew we were in for an arduous experience — particularly after she informed me that our first stop would be David’s Bridal.

I don’t pretend to know a lot about weddings, but I knew enough to know that David’s Bridal was the bottom of the barrel as far as wedding boutiques were concerned — yet I played along and tried to keep a brave face.  When we arrived, a teenager was standing at a podium and asked whether or not we had made a reservation.  Um…you’re David’s Bridal lady, not Chanel, so no…we did not make a reservation.  I’m not sure if you noticed but your entire store is covered in plastic.  It’s disgusting.  Let’s not try to pretend that this is luxurious.  You’re located in a strip mall and the carpeting here is more stained than a preschool’s so just relax.  Needless to say, they were able to work us in. 

Enter Andrea.  Andrea was an overweight black woman who seemed to be in her mid-30s and was feisty as shit.  She had more energy than I could process and she was asking a lot of questions about the “big day” and how “he” proposed and how much weight I was planning to lose, and then she asked to see the ring at which point I realized I was holding a stranger’s hand again which is not my favorite, and this time it was worse because I was standing in a dusty David’s Bridal.  It was clear that Andrea needed to be reined the fuck in. 

Andrea: So what are we looking for today?!

Me: Andrea, calm down.

Andrea: Are you thinking white, ivory or nude?

Me: Andrea, listen to me.  I’m from Los Angeles and I am not impressed.  I want a short dress and I want to spend zero money.  I don’t need any bridesmaid’s dresses and renting a tux is gross so just keep it together.  Short.  Dress.  What are your thoughts?

It was clear that I had thrown Andrea, but she would not be deterred.  It took her fifteen minutes to find three dresses she thought might work.  One of them was long.  I could tell she was playing me for a motherfucking chump.

The first dress seemed to literally just be a tutu she had found in a dumpster out back, the second dress was long and I almost broke my neck trying to get out of the fitting room (which of course Andrea insisted upon entering with me so now, not only are we holding hands, I’m naked) but the third dress…worked.

I was shocked.  I had planned for a day of screaming at my mother and driving for hours around the south suburbs of Chicago.  But when I tried that third dress on, I thought, “Shit, I think this is it.”  My mother, Mimi, thought it was it, too.  At this point we didn’t know what to do and Andrea was just standing there, smug as shit, and asked, “Do you say yes to the dress?”  Well we did and then all hell broke loose.  Before I knew it, I was being whisked to the front of the store.  Andrea insisted that I close my eyes and then she put a bell in my hand.  She started screaming to everyone in the store as if it were my birthday and we were at TGI Fridays:

“Here at David’s Bridal we have a tradition.  We wish you all the happiness in the world as you embark upon your beautiful marriage.  Once you ring that bell, all that happiness will come to you and we want to thank you again for saying Yes to The Dress.  Now Alison, ring that bell and open your eyes.  YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED!!!!”

I don’t know if it was the smell of a burned vacuum motor, the sight of streak-stained mirrors, or the sound of crackling plastic, but something had obviously fucked with my senses because when I opened my eyes and rang that bell, I. Was. Bawling.  Not only was I bawling but I was bawling in a David’s Bridal, wearing a wedding dress, embracing Mimi and Andrea while screaming, “I’M GETTING MARRIED!”  It was fucked up.  Weddings are stupid.

    

I Literally Do

I’m getting married and it is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  I thought abortion was a hot-button issue, turns out it’s weddings.  I was pretty careful about announcing my engagement to literally no one because of this reason.  I even wear my engagement ring on my right hand as to not draw attention to the fact that a wedding is happening.  This is not because I don’t want to marry my boyfriend (say fiancé and I’ll beat you); he’s wonderful and anyone who knows him knows he’s singlehandedly responsible for keeping me alive.  It’s because weddings turn women into animals and I’m trying to live my motherfucking life over here.  Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, shit has gotten insane and everyone I know is literally falling apart.

Boyfriend moved from quaint Frankfort, IL to terrifying Los Angeles, CA over a year ago.  He has been my boyfriend on-and-off since I was 18 years old, so once he made the move it was pretty obvious that we were going to get hitched.  As I am not one to wait around, I decided to check out a wedding venue in July when I was home in Frankfort.  Many people found this to be alarming and pointed out that I was not engaged (he asked me in November).  Regardless, I headed over to what had previously been a brewery to stake out the potential venue for my wedding.  I brought my mother and Boyfriend’s mother along with me.  This was a huge mistake.

My mother is a reasonable woman.  She has never pushed me to get married and, unlike the rest of the world, seemed to think I still had value even as a 34-year-old single woman navigating a large city with almost no skills to speak of and an overall inability to wear pants.  I thought for sure my mother would be the voice of reason as we embarked upon our first wedding venue visit.  I could not have been more wrong.  As we entered the Frankfort wedding venue, I was greeted by a wedding planner (what a bullshit job that is) who was wearing a bedazzled wife-beater.  Despite her wardrobe, both Boyfriend’s mother and my own mother seemed to think this bitch had a lot to offer.  After 30 minutes with this monster, she had ultimately described exactly what I didn’t want.  10-top tables, cold-chicken dinners, overpriced flower arrangements, a DJ, and wedding favors wrapped in tulle.  I was having a full-blown panic attack and needed to get the fuck out of there.  When we left, I turned to both mothers and instead of having panic attacks, they were suggesting that I sign the papers, not worry about the fact that Boyfriend had yet to ask for my hand in marriage, and ultimately just plan an entire cold-chicken dinner wedding behind his back.

I was horrified.  I ran back to Los Angeles and told Boyfriend that I could not, under any circumstances, get married in that godforsaken brewery.  He reminded me that he had yet to ask me to marry him and I felt a lot better.  I think the moms knew I was upset because no one spoke of weddings again until about two months ago when I got actually engaged.  My strategy was to just tell them nothing and hope for the best.  Eventually, I called them and calmly explained that I would be renting a house in Calabasas where I would be having a BBQ/wedding.  They were horrified, but they also lived in another city, so I thought I was safe…until I had to go home for Christmas and see them face-to-face.

It was total mayhem when I went home for the holidays.  I had managed to keep all wedding talk off the table in Los Angeles, but when I was home – surrounded by my girlfriends from high school and all my family members –  the wheels came off.  Because of the holidays, I was forced into a lot of events with my parents’ friends and Boyfriend’s parents’ friends and a slew of other people that I see once a year.  Inevitably the wedding topic arose and everyone lost their shit.

So many confusing things happen once people find out you’re getting married.  First of all, literal strangers will be elated for you and I find that to be upsetting.  Was my life of singledom so sad for people that they just couldn’t wait for it to be over?  I mean…not once have I been at a dinner party and said, “Yeah, I’ve lived alone for ten years” and had someone jump for motherfucking joy.  Instead they just ask why I’m eating so much cake and then demand that I be available to babysit. 

Secondly, everyone insists upon seeing your ring.  I can’t conjure another scenario wherein strangers are allowed to scrutinize part of your wardrobe while you’re present.  Also, I feel like that shouldn’t be the first thing we talk about.  I mean…these are strangers – acquaintances at best – and now they’re just holding my hand and telling me what a good job my boyfriend did.  I mean…he’s not retarded.  Any asshole is capable of buying a diamond ring.  Shouldn’t you be asking if he beats me or not?  Or if I’m pregnant?  Or if we like each other at all?  And why are you still touching me?  And no I don’t want to see your stupid ring I didn’t actually approve physical contact in the first place and now you’re just trying to trick me into holding your hand again.  GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME! 

Finally, these wedding mongers start peppering you with questions about the details of your wedding and then feel compelled to tell you what a stupid idea that is followed by what they did for their boring weddings.  For instance, I’m getting married in Los Angeles and people keep warning me about the potential issues I might face when having a destination wedding.  I FUCKING LIVE HERE YOU PSYCHOS!  THIS JUST IN, I HAVEN’T LIVED IN CHICAGO FOR A FUCKING DECADE AND WHILE IT MAY NOT BE CONVENIENT FOR YOU THAT I’M GETTING MARRIED IN THE PLACE WHERE I LIVE, I’M GETTING MARRIED IN THE FUCKING PLACE WHERE I LIVE!!!  THAT IS NOT WEIRD AND IT DOES NOT CONSTITUTE A DESTINATION WEDDING YOU LITERAL LUNATICS!

Ugh…after that all happens, people just start offering to throw parties for you.  At this point, I’m having like five weddings and something called a shower.  I wish I was dead.

Listen, everyone’s excited and that’s very nice.  I just wish they were this excited when I was moving by myself for the fifth time or filing my own taxes.  I can’t wait for this godforsaken thing to be over.  Ultimately, weddings are epic wastes of money that turn well-meaning people into barbaric psychopaths.  Luckily, I’m real into Boyfriend.  Weddings are bullshit but as far as marriage is concerned, I literally do.

Relax

Upon realizing you are literally riddled with auto-immune disorders, it’s important to take care of yourself.  I believe Oprah calls this “Self Care.”  It’s when you shirk all normal obligations, i.e. going to work, in the interest of say taking a bath.  I’m real into Self Care for this reason.  So when my friend, Ilya, suggested we adventure over to a Korean Spa, I was interested.

Korean Spas are an LA institution…well, technically they’re a Korean institution but just like everything else, LA stole this idea and now it’s ours.  Fuck you, Korea.  I’m very familiar with White Person Spas.  This is where you spend gazillions of dollars to be treated like royalty despite the fact that you live in a studio and drive a 2001 Daewoo.  I’ve frequented White Person Spas by borrowing money from my parents and reminding them that my spine is fusing together.  I didn’t realize how different a Korean Spa would be and I was not prepared for my experience.  I’m gonna be honest, they tried to kill me.

There were several red flags I should have taken into consideration upon entering the Korean Spa but I was so excited by the prospect of being naked and rubbed that I ignored my finer instincts.  For starters, the entrance to this hovel was adorned with plastic flowers.  Nothing depicts cheap unsophistication like a plastic flower.  They’re horrifying.  Next, they made me pay up front.  Not a good sign.  After stealing all my money, these clowns gave me two towels reminiscent of those found at a homeless shelter and a hair net.  A HAIR NET!  I went to college for one reason only, to never have to wear a hair net in my daily life.  I should have turned around at this point but this particular spa was said to have the only natural hot springs in LA, known for its restorative powers and I had just been on disability for two months so restorative powers definitely seemed to be in order.  I continued on with this process and I regret it.

I walked into the locker room (disgusting…obviously) and got naked.  Typically this would be the point where I wrapped myself in a fluffy robe but instead I draped myself with a scratchy towel that barely covered my jadge.  I decided to keep my underwear on in the interest of being modest.  I didn’t have a robe but I still had my dignity.  Next I was greeted by an old Korean woman wearing a black bikini with a skirted bottom.  I was alarmed.  She clearly didn’t speak English but I was able to quickly determine that she was yelling at me and now I was scared so I got in line and followed her to what can best be described as a horse stable.  I entered an all tiled room that was divided by glass walls but had no doors.  Each stall was adorned by a plastic table, several shower heads, and what can only be described as a mop bucket.  I was panicked.  At this point, my new Korean friend and I had a little chat:

Terrifying Korean Woman: Gimmie your towel

Me: Aggressive

TKW (pointing at my underwear): What are those?

Me: Underwear.

TKW: Take them off

Me: No

TKW: Do it.

Me: Ok

TKW: Lay down.

Me: I’m naked and scared and you’re being very rude

TKW: *maniacal laughter*

I laid down and tried to wrap my head around the fact that I was nude in a horse stall and had just handed my underwear to a stranger.  I had expected pampering but instead received physical brutality.  Ilya was in the stall next to me and the entire thing was reminiscent of Schindler’s List.  I thought I might never see her again and started to recall all the good times we shared.

 

I was face down at this point and had to use my other senses in order to determine what was happening.  I heard a lot of water and finally the terrifying Korean woman placed a towel over my bare ass.  I thought that was nice until I realized that she was literally beating me to death through a surreptitiously placed towel.  For the next hour, she randomly placed this towel all over my body.  Occasionally, she would dip the towel into the mop bucket and it would be soaked with what I have to assume was the water she used to launder her bikini skirt. 

In the meantime, I was getting sporadically splashed with water from the stall next to me where Ilya was getting a “scrub.”  At the time, I thought she was drowning.  This was not the intimate experience I had anticipated.  I have never equated an intimate experience with hoses and mop buckets.  Also, my intimate experiences typically have a door and lack an aging Korean woman. 

As I was imagining my happy, intimate experience place, I realized I was being slapped by the Korean.  Apparently she wanted me to turn over so that I would be face up.  She wasn’t even pretending to massage me anymore.  She was just hitting me.  When I tried to speak up, she put a mask all over my face.  I believe this was an attempt to blind me so she could focus on rubbing my boobs for the next 20 minutes.  It didn’t even feel sexual.  It felt like she was trying to remove them from my torso.  Finally, she washed and conditioned my hair.  It seemed to me like this was her apology for beating me and then ineffectively fondling me.  I started to like the Korean woman at this point and then worried that I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.  Just as I was envisioning how happy the Korean and I would be together, she ripped me off the plastic gurney, handed me my underwear and sent me on my way.  I was crestfallen.

The thing that’s confusing about a Korean Spa is that you may end up inadvertently falling in love with your captor.  Also, it’s not as relaxing as they say it is.  Also, my spine is still fusing together.