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. 

Good Grief

I have a disease called Ankylosing Spondylitis and the last four months have been intense.  The first two months, I became riddled with lupus and was forced to go on short-term disability.  The last two months, I have returned to work and little else.  Prior to all of that, I spent ten glorious days in Cedars Sinai hospital and then several months and years after that trying to come to terms with a disease I can’t even be really sure exists.  I certainly can’t pronounce it, and that strikes me as half the battle.  If I can’t pronounce my disease, how can I be expected to overcome it?  

Having a crippling spine disorder is confusing.  One day I was watching the Superbowl and the next day I was in the hospital after which I was told that my spine was fusing together.  My first reaction was denial.  I believe that’s one of the five stages of grief, but in my case in seemed like practicality at its best.  I mean…you can’t just believe someone when they tell you your spine is fusing together.  Even after seeing pictures I thought, “Oh please…that could be anyone’s spine.  Who’s to say it’s actually mine?”

The next stage is anger which was easy for me to pinpoint as anger is the only emotion I have an actual grip on.  I was angry when my doctor told me that the solution to spinal fusion is a weekly injection. I told him that he should Suck My Dick©, reminding him that I had spent my entire life not being a heroin addict and wasn’t about to start shooting up now.  Even more enraging was his insistence on these needles which eventually just resulted in me getting lupus. 

This is where bargaining came in.  I reasoned that if my doctor could find me an injection that didn’t give me lupus, I would stop insisting that he Suck My Dick©.  This worked!  I now get two non-lupus inducing shots (so far) once a month and take 10mg of Methotrexate (actual chemotherapy…let’s not even get into it) once a week.  16 pills and 2 shots a month doesn’t seem all that bad.  It was just enough to launch me into the stage of grief I enjoy the most called depression.

I love depression.  If you’re me, depression means you eat as much pasta as you want while catching up on all your favorite TV shows.  To me, depression is akin to vacation, and I have loved every second of it.  When I first got diagnosed with my fake disease, I insisted on working through it.  I made lots of proclamations like, “I AM NOT MY DISEASE!” and “I HAVE COURAGE!” and “I’M NOT GONNA LET SOME WEIRDO SPINE DISORDER KEEP ME FROM LIVING MY LIFE!”  Right around my last proclamation is when I got lupus at which point I stopped living my life…Literally. 

Depression is hard to climb out of BECAUSE I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!  What’s better than sitting around thinking about yourself all the time and listing the ways in which you have been wronged by the world and more so the medical community?!  The only thing that could make this better would be copious amounts of drugs and alcohol, but I’m totes sobes meaning I don’t drink or do drugs meaning I have more to be depressed about!  Woo-hoo! 

But it’s time.  Acceptance is the last stage of grief.  I’m depressed just thinking about acceptance, and I can see how this might be a backslide for people.  It’s time for me to rejoin the living.  It’s time to refocus my energy on my old problems.  What’s the point in focusing on fictitious diseases when I could be obsessing about my weight?!  I’ve wasted so much time focusing on Ankylosing Spondylitis that I almost totally forgot about my morbid obesity!  I should start trying on pants!  Nothing pulls me out of Disease-Depression© like pants.  Or my acting career!  Why spend precious time concerned about the bevy of auto-immune disorders I have when I could be gripped by the hopelessness of being an actor in Los Angeles!  I mean it is terrible!  Or money.  I literally have zero money.  Yet I’m squandering my time focusing on how tired I am from having lupus!  It definitely seems like acceptance is the key.  I miss my old problems.  I pray to God my car breaks down on the way to work tomorrow so that I have something new to worry about.  If God cares about me at all, I’ll soon be faced with an unwanted pregnancy or the death of a loved one.  If history is any indication, I’ll probably have a new disease by the time I’m done writing this.  But I’m not going to let that get me down.  I have to focus all my energy on how I’ll likely always live in a studio apartment and will never, ever be thin enough to wear pants. 

I Have Legs

Let’s review the facts:

Fact No. 1: God hates me.

Fact No. 2: I have a fucking weirdo, made-up disease called Ankylosing Spondylitis which is also known as Bamboo Spine because your spine inflames and then fuses together...exciting.

Fact No. 3: I have to give myself a shot every week (actual needle that I’m forced to jam into my thigh) to cure this fucking monstrosity.

Fact No. 4: The shot accidentally gave me something called Drug-Induced Lupus.

Fact No. 5: I started a new shot.

Fact No. 6: That shot gave me Drug-Induced Lupus too.

Fact No. 7: I’m on disability until I can get my fucking act together.

Fact No. 8: None of this is making me skinnier which is typically the silver lining when becoming ill.

Fact No. 9: I literally hate everyone.

I guess the good news is I don’t have any money.  Wait…no.  That’s not right.  I have legs?  I think it’s important to review your appendages when faced with life’s challenges.  Every time I come back from a doctor’s appointment I like to check-in with my senses and appendages as a sort of self-help routine.  “I have legs, I have arms, I can see, I can hear…”  This placates me until I remember that lots of people have those things and none of their spines are fusing together.

I recently had to meet with my doctor again.  He is a literal monster.  Like many doctors, he doesn’t seem to fully understand the emotional ramifications of the things he says.  He sticks to the facts with no regard for how a recovering alcoholic, chubby Midwesterner with no life skills might misconstrue those things to mean “you’re going to die.”  He says things like this:

“The solution is simple.  You’ll just give yourself a shot of painfully burning medicine every week.”

“Weird…you have Lupus.”

“Don’t be scared, but we’re starting you on chemotherapy.”

You can imagine how I reacted to that last bit of information.  “I have legs, I have arms, I can see, I can hear…”  The new drug I’m starting is called Methotrexate.  He keeps calling it chemotherapy which makes me think I might finally get skinny in which case I take back everything I said about God.  He’s a delight and answers prayers.  But this theory has yet to be proven.  I’ll believe that God cares about me if my ass gets smaller.  My doctor wrote down the name of my new medicine and then wrote beside it in all caps: DON’T GET PREGNANT.  I have to admit, I was alarmed.

Me: Don’t get pregnant ever or while I’m on this medicine?

Dr: While you’re on the medicine.

Me: Why?

Dr: Methotrexate is often used to induce abortion.

Me: Um…

Dr: And to treat cancer.

Me: Um…

Dr: You might experience some nausea.

Me: Because the drug you’re giving me is looking for the fetus to kill?

Dr: It’s nothing to be alarmed about.

Me: Really?  Cause it seems like you’re just prescribing me abortion medicine at this point.

Dr: Don’t be scared.

Me: Right.  Nothing scary about cancer and abortions.

Dr: You’re doing great.

Me: I hate you.

There are only two things I’ve managed to do correctly in my life 1) not be an intravenous drug user 2) not accidentally get pregnant and then abort unwanted fetus.  In a gripping twist of fate, I’m now forced to shoot myself up every week and am just blindly taking abortion medicine despite not being pregnant.  I MEAN IS THIS A JOKE?!  How fucking dare that doctor tell me not to get pregnant!  I MEAN…I GET IT!  I’VE BEEN NOT GETTING PREGNANT SINCE I WAS 15!!!  YOU DON’T HAVE TO TELL ME NOT TO GET PREGNANT.  IT’S THE ONLY THING I’VE BEEN DOING RIGHT UP UNTIL THIS POINT YET SOMEHOW I’M STILL BEING FORCED TO EXPERIENCE THE EPIC STOMACH PAINS OF A SHREDDED UTERUS!!!

So that’s where I’m at. It clearly makes sense.  I don’t have cancer yet am taking chemotherapy.  I’m not pregnant with any of my horrible ex-boyfriend’s children yet am taking abortion medicine willy-nilly.  And I’m still too fat to wear pants...obviously.  It’s times like these that I like to think about my appendages.  They bring me great hope.  "I have legs, I have arms, I can see, I can hear.  I have legs, I have arms, I can see, I can hear..."