And not in the literal sense. Well, it depends which weddings I'm counting. But it has been my experience that being a bridesmaid 7 times hasn't exactly launched me into the arms of the love of my life. Mind you, this is my own doing. I usually score 1st place in my all time favourite game of "Be The Drunkest One There." This game is not just exclusive to weddings...I do Bat Mitzvahs if you need to detract attention from drunk Uncle Moshe. *I charge extra if you want a Lindsay Lohan-esque distraction.
And certainly my guy friends who are at the wedding/in the wedding that read this blog, aren't going to tickle me with their pickle or snatch me off the market to knowingly face the following challenges:
- 1. They have to get me out of 3 layers of Spanx which are holding in my FUPA (fat upper pussy area). I rise like dough outta those lycra miracle workers.
- 2. Once they remove the Spanx, they know they are gonna be hitting up some serious 70's porn bush accompanied by leg hair as thick as a Sasquatch...they may as well fuck a brillo pad.
Ugh, when I think back to the shit I've done at weddings, I make myself uncomfortable. In one wedding, I ordered a bridesmaid dress 4 sizes too small thinking I couldn't possibly still look like Precious by the time the wedding rolled around...but of course I did. I had to get a new dress made for 250 bucks... only to spill an ENTIRE bottle of perfume oil from the Body Shop down the front of that 250 dollar hand made gown.... minutes before walking down the aisle. Silence fell over the room when it happened as I locked eyes with the photographer which looked at me like I just killed her puppy.
All of a sudden there was a dramatic burst of panic from the bridesmaids and mother of the bride as they carted me off to the bathroom. Grandma was trying to frantically blow-dry the perfume right into my dress while the mother of the bride was on the phone with the dry cleaners. I sat on the toilet sobbing looking a little Tammy Faye Bakker-ish as the mascara rolled down my cheeks.
(This is Tammy...RIP Tammy)
Sadly, it was too late. Blackhawk down. There was nothing we could do. This dress was to be laid to rest in the bridesmaids graveyard, after the wedding of course. The bridesmaid's graveyard is a place I created for all things bridesmaid-y that I wish to never see again. This includes but is not limited to;
- fake eyelashes that spontaneously whip off during pictures or land in my meal,
- pictures I've been ripping out of magazines for months of what I wanted my hair and makeup to look like for the wedding, but it never happened,
- copies of a speech that I find HILARIOUS but is far too dirty to share amongst the bride's family...meaning Aunt Rose won't find your teenage pregnancy scare nearly as funny as I did.
- anything with lace or bows on it, enough said
- fake acrylic nails which caused me to not be able to open doors, write my own name, start a car, hold babies, open lids
and masturbate effectively.
BTW-no bride ever tells me I have to get lashes or all this nonsense, I choose to do it myself in the spirit of trying to not look like an unkept slut in photos. Wedding photos seem to rome this earth forever.
I remember when the church doors opened and I stood at the top of the aisle looking like a baguette soaked in olive oil, there was a slight gasp... I heard it and shit my Spanx. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, only to open them and discover my Mother in the very back of the church. She took one look at me and mouthed "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU?" then keeled over silently scream laughing in the pew as any good Mother would. We're super religious.
There is an obvious bitter tone to my post as per usual, but it truthfully is an honour to be a bridesmaid, I'm just putting my own spinster spin on the process.
Well, I must go as I more stuffed up than my cha-cha in University. Nasty cold.
But first I must leave you with some parting wisdom: Tomorrow is Halloween, don't handout raisins. Only assholes give children raisins.