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June 05, 2006

Goldie Hawn?

Wedding season is upon us.

Well, if you live on Long Island like I do, wedding season is more like up on your ass, up in your face, all up in your business at all times. As a matter of fact, discussions of weddings began creeping up on me before I even boarded my flight to move here from Los Angeles. And this wedding talk was all new to me. I’d never really discussed weddings before, ever. Does that mean I never dated anyone worthy of being called marriage material? Hmm. Let’s see – the 20-something dude with the really small bladder (which led to all kinds of issues), the guy that didn’t “believe in” deodorant yet didn’t have any luck with that stupid stupid crystal – let me stop. I guess the answer is a resounding NO. Sorry guys if you’re reading this blog. It’s my life too, you know.

Anyway, like I said, before I moved here to “be with my boyfriend” I’d say with a gigantic smile, everyone would lift my ringless left hand in shock and go, “But…” And then I’d have to go into the big long explanation of why I must go to New York to be with this person that really gets me because he really does. And that he’s smart and talented and honorable and funny and cool and eccentric and musical and … I could go on and still The Gays and my one singular girlfriend would be like, “But girl, you need a ring!” Do I though? Did I, I mean? I’m still here. Still happy. And still ringless for that matter.

Apparently, everyone (not including me), thinks that I did in fact need to be proposed to before uprooting my entire life to go “run around with some crazy dude in a band.” I quite disagree. It’s a testament to how much I actually enjoy his company that I moved here without the platinum band with the pretty GIA certified diamond in the middle. And besides, he is not in a touring band because his singer suffers a terrible intestinal disease and gets sick before tours begin, the drummer lives in North Carolina and the bassist is a crazy Star Wars fan in a different (and touring) band so all I’m left with is, essentially, my one-man band. Alone in his basement studio, tinkering for hours on end on drums, guitar and bass because he writes all the music like that with his fine ass. I find this both adorable and hard to endure. God damn, it’s loud in here!

After re-reading the last paragraph back to myself, I realize that I might sound like I am justifying the fact that I am living in sin (but happily so) to somehow convince myself that I did the right thing. However, I did do the right thing because I just plain really like him. Furthermore, I love him and I need not prove that to anyone but myself I suppose. And him, I guess. But he ought to know since I quietly sit through marathons of Headbanger’s Ball at 7 in the morning on a weekend. I mean, if that’s not love I don’t know what is. Do you want to hear guttural screams and “sick guitar riffs” while he taps out the percussion on his thighs at that hour on a weekend? I didn’t think so. I can report though that at night he likes to fall asleep to smooth R&B so there is some redemption.

But this is not the point. I got sidetracked (sorry).

The point is – it’s wedding season and I have to get gifts and sign cards and find dresses and study Jewish ceremonies so that I don’t say or do anything stupid. For example, everyone should know this but I did not, in a place of worship you have to have your shoulders covered! Guess that means I won’t be wearing my sparkling neon pink stripper gown with mermaid ruffles to the temple next month. I kid, but still how can this be logical? Covered shoulders at a black tie traditional Jewish summer evening wedding? I mean, do people really own jewel-encrusted lace and velvet shawls for actual use?

What am I going to wear?

They say you can’t wear black as it’s a sign of mourning. But I really don’t want to be standing out in green or yellow or blue. Besides, I just want to blend in to all those tuxedos anyway because weddings are usually where I deal most with the awkward Real World scenario.

Go ahead and roll your eyes about the fact that I’m going to talk about Real World – again. It really does affect my life every day, I swear. It’s weird but it’s true. Besides, you’re the one that’s reading my site, you know. Anyway…

Usually it’s like, “So how do you know the bride?” or “May my wife and I get your picture because we loved you on that naughty woman’s show…” If someone says anything about me being “naughty” or having been on a reality show, that’s hard to explain away to someone’s white-haired and bejeweled Aunt Gladys who may be seated next to me. Plus, I do not want to appear to get ANY attention whatsoever. Ooh, look at that gorgeous wedding gown, I usually say and off to bar I go where in my head I am chanting, “Don’t get drunk. Don’t get drunk. Don’t get drunk.” I’ve been known to dance a little nasty with someone’s mama named Connie at a wedding. Connie had just had hip replacement surgery too. Oops. Well, shit, that red wine was talking to me! Sometimes to avoid attention, at every given moment I am shoving food into my mouth so as to appear that I can’t really talk right now. That works well too, except for the time we were on that boat and I ate 897 shrimps during the six hours at sea. Whoa.

Not that I’m that fucking famous – I’m just saying. Wow, imagine what lengths Jenna Jameson must go to negate attention from her. I suppose she’s not really invited to very many weddings. I mean, how does that conversation go down with your bride-to-be?

“So you’re saying you want to invite a woman who fucks on film for a living to the wedding? Should we seat her next to Uncle Smitty since he hasn’t seen a pair of tits since Aunt Cornelia passed? Huh!? Hello! I’m talking to you!”

Ah, the stupid (but totally real) stuff I have to prepare for.

What was my point again?

Right. It’s wedding season and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this at the ripe old age of 29. Everyone seems to think it’s okay to constantly harass me about my upcoming (phantom) nuptials. Luckily for me, J’s mother is a really cool lady and nipped that conversation in the bud the second week I lived here. We were walking J’s dog Paco and she said to me, “I know my son very well. I know exactly how he is so please just tell me this. If you DO elope, will you at least let me know? It would just break my heart to not know.”

I assured her that she’d be the first to know. That was a lie because really she’d be the third or fourth to know behind Shorty and Mercy, my sister and Coral.

Also luckily for me, my mom doesn’t seem to really be that moved by the fact that I am not married. As a matter of fact, she is more concerned with babies. Babies with or without the sanctity of marriage, you see. The other day when I was complaining and simultaneously trying to put a good spin on the uncertainty of trying to write for a living, she blurted out, “Why don’t you hab dat baby den dat way iss not boring…”

“Have a baby out of boredom, mama?” I screamed, incredulously.

“Yeah, you know, dat way I can see dat baby bepore I go blind wit dis damn diabetes,” she grumbled before switching the conversation to what size shirt J wears. (?) Who is this woman?

OH GOD. You see, this is how she is going to slyly use guilt to manipulate my huge life decisions. In passing remarks about her perceived failing health and even more demoralizing (read: self-involved), in what I perceive to be backhanded comments that equate simply to “just give up on your dreams of writing…” Yeah, yeah. She’s really not saying that but to the fragile ego of a person who wants to be able to clearly answer the question, “What do you do for a living?” with the three simple words “I’m a writer” and to be telling the truth when saying such a thing, that is precisely what is heard.

Ugh. This is getting way too personal.

I intended to write about how hard it is to find a black tie dress that’s suitable for what I think will be a somewhat conservative Jewish wedding of my boyfriend’s business partner. How -- I am this random size between a 0 and a 2 but that this size does not actually exist in the expensive world of evening gowns. For some reason I get hate mail when I talk about clothing size. Is that really fair? Everyone relates and is happy when, say, Kirstie Alley talks about how difficult it is to find clothes. But be abnormally small and talk about it and all of a sudden, you’re a real asshole. So it is with hesitation that I was going to write about the difficulty of finding a dress my size and ultimately decided against it and now you’re here with all this other rambling. Therefore, this is all your fault and not mine.

How -- all gowns are destroyed by asymmetrical hems and oddly placed beading and sequins and polyester. How young girls that will be wearing THIS SHIT to their proms are headed for nothing but trouble in the form of an unwanted STD (or a developing zygote in their nether regions). That's so not PC to say. I know. Anti-fem and fucked up to say. I know I can't say that but that dress does conjure up images of vaginal boils to me so sorry. On the flip side though, a person that wears that is probably not of sound mind enough to even know what or where condoms are purchased anyway so whatever.

Yeah, there’s nothing to wear. The dress I finally settled on is pretty but backless – oh the shame. And I only settled on it because J was standing at the register and mouthed, “You’re getting this fucking dress, yo…” as I was hmming and hawing in the belt clearance bin. Now I’m in a world of buyer’s remorse! It wasn’t even my money and I have buyer’s remorse! I kept saying it’s just so expensive! J said it would be a gift to the both of us because I’d stop whining about finding a dress. Something about “shut up insurance.” I have a totally pretty BCBG gown that I’m scared to wear because it will require topless tanning and doesn’t it make me look a little hip-y? And with that, I am feeling like an unappreciative asshole. See, I can’t win here!

My point is that it’s wedding season and I’m totally stressed out with my un-engaged ass.

***

It’s one day after I wrote all of the above. Last night, I attended the bridal shower of the fiancé of J’s business partner at this really nice country club. I must say, that the fiance’s future mother-in-law Francine was as stunning as ever in a sea foam green silk pant suit. Yeah girl, I was feeling you and I know you’re scanning this for your name so there it is. Hi Francine.

Anyway, at the bridal shower I encountered a woman who is about to be married in exactly two weeks. Just in casual conversation, I learned very much about the process of planning a wedding. She said it’s like a second job. Did you know that there is such a thing as a “hair trial” where you take your veil to all different hairdressers and they each charge you to compete to be the one that creates your up-do for the event? A hair trial! That’s insane.

I hate up-dos so that won’t be an issue for me. But will any of this be an issue for me? Do I really want an extravagant wedding? Am I that hippie that doesn’t believe in the government intruding in my personal affairs thus I will settle for gallivanting on the beach eating seafood kabobs and just confessing my love in front of my friends and family, drunk out of my mind on Trader Joe’s Two Buck Chuck? Or does hippie in this case really just translate to cheap?

I do have a mean case of buyer’s remorse, shopper’s bulimia and retail anxiety, you know.

I don’t know. There’s something rebellious in me that doesn’t think I want to conform to Long Island’s ideal wedding extravaganza. I don’t want that second job, I think. And yet, I rather enjoy being on the observation deck of that second job well executed. I mean, this wedding I spoke about above is going to be a super duper extravaganza. My most anticipated event this summer. The reception flowers alone will be a beauty to behold (and take to the car afterwards). We’re talking major planning. We’re talking smoke machines, people. Okay, maybe not smoke machines but it’s going to be a big event. Rabbis, Vera Wang gowns, millionaires, ball room dancing, ice sculptures in the shape of swans. Okay, not swans either. But still, like, the band is going to be off the chain and they do play Usher’s Yeah where the lone white man in the band does the Lil Jon “Yeeeah” part. (So excited for that!)

What was most peculiar is that the nice woman who was about to be married spoke to me with this level of camaraderie, with this assumption that I too would be embarking on this wedding planning journey soon enough. Rather than suffer the awkward position of being that inappropriate girl that so doesn’t belong in this here country club (only I and the workers were brown), I just went with the conversation! I didn’t want to respond with, “I’m thinking more of a soul train line actually” when she asked me about the formalities of wedding planning. True, I am really wanting a soul train line specifically to see my daddy get down get down but would this North Shore lady in the pin striped suit understand that? Soul? Train?

It did all get me to thinking though. J, every now and then but not often, talks about court houses and eloping and using the money we’d otherwise spend on a wedding on building another section to the house. I snub my nose to all of this, of course, as is my duty as the girl that has grown up in the American culture of the big ass wedding, as a girl that does watch TLC's A Wedding Story to get ideas of what not to do. I can’t really just 100% agree to eloping just yet.

But with each episode of We's Bridezillas, I think, maybe eloping and then tanning and jewelry shopping in Thailand for a month isn’t such a bad idea. And with the money we save, maybe I can get a new computer and some Gucci stilettos and I could replace J's iPods and get all new linens. Do I want that more than the white dress and the memories that come with it?

Or am I, too, programmed to think that I must have a wedding or else I’ll regret it? Are weddings just an extension of prom or homecoming? Everybody says you must you must you must and then you do and you don’t even win the “Wittiest” superlative when you so should have and it’s like, this punch isn’t even that good.

Weddings, man.

Like with everything else – college and growing my hair out specifically – I’ll probably do it for my mom.

Posted by melissah at June 5, 2006 10:53 PM