Friday, July 12, 2013

man, i can't fucking wait to get married.

somebody bring me something borrowed, please. because, if these dummies i call my friends are to be believed, your wedding is the perfect opportunity to make a wishlist of all the fancy shit you've ever so much as glanced at in the housewares department at bloomingdale's and somehow never managed to buy even though you are FORTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD. then you get to send that shit to bitches you've known for eight months max with a straight fucking face? FUCK OUTTA HERE. your cousin invited me to her wedding in a few weeks, and here are my choices for what's left on the registry, all courtesy of our friends at tiffany.com (fuck this bitch oh my god): elsa peretti bone candlestick in crystal, $250 apiece; leaf platter in bone china, $175; the riedel ultra decanter, $240; lotus cake serving set, $335; jardin bread and butter plate in hand-painted limoges porcelain, $400. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. you read that right. four hundred dollars for a plate the size of my palm that you serve motherfucking butter on. i am obviously in the wrong business.

LAST TIME I ATE AT THIS BITCH'S HOUSE SHE SERVED ME A HOT DOG IN A PLASTIC CUP. bun and everything, because this trifling motherfucker didn't have a single usable bowl or so much as a goddamned paper towel to offer me. so now all of a sudden you need something called a “bread and butter plate?” and that goddamned plate is going to set some poor, unsuspecting well-wisher back four hundred goddamned dollars?! this is why i’m not nice. because nice people want to see you happy. nice people like to imagine the incandescent smile spreading across your glowing newlywed face as you lift the robin’s egg blue lid from the box containing your delicate plates, worth a staggering $1600 for a set of four, to gaze upon their lovely, hand-painted surfaces. nice people will be satisfied with that tiny scrap of cardboard you scribbled on and called a thank you note. but not me, because i am just not that nice. bitches like me need to be invited over the minute you crazy kids get back from bali or wherever you spent your honeymoon so i can watch you use that sferra duvet i had to spend two weeks selling my ass to be able to buy. bitches like me need to wipe our asses with toilet paper from that $135 chrome toilet paper holder we had shipped to your apartment from europe because we couldn't afford that and the plane tickets to your destination wedding in hawaii.


now don't get me wrong: I LOVE FANCY SHIT. i also love wasting money. so fucking much. and if i knew i could get somebody else to waste theirs buying me a bunch of dumb shit i would've married the first dude i ever slept with. and we would totally be divorced by now, but at least i'd have a $375 set of simon pearce dover flutes to keep me company in my custom italian bed linens. MARRY ME, SOMEONE. i need a car and a new computer and i'm tired of my towels. i need to make an appointment with the dentist to get a cavity filled (i can register somewhere for that, yes?) and a new piano. i have been holding out on getting internet at home but if i send you an email with the details you have to pay for it for me, correct? because after a long and arduous debate i've finally decided to start paying some cow for her curdled milk? that's worth a pair of orthotic inserts, easy. i have pretty bowls from anthropologie and four matching sets of silverware from CB2, so you ain't gotta worry about all that. i don't need a sterling silver cake server, nor do i have use for a tea press or a juice extractor. what i need you to do is order me a merry maid or pick up the bill at the laundry service.

i grew up poor, so all of my wedding fantasies were depressingly realistic. when i was a kid i wrote a short story about a prince charming whose only special characteristic was paying the goddamned light bill on time. my childhood was fucking bleak, bro. if i ever try to make a dating profile on the internet ever again that shit is going to say, "looking for: some who enjoys allagash black and isn't forced by poverty to mix water into the dregs of the handsoap bottle. also, BUYS HANDSOAP." ugh, can i just throw a wedding for myself? i'm still poor, my dude. sort of? basically whenever the thought of a wedding crosses my tiny little brain i am flooded with anxiety thinking about how bitches spend $20 a person on place settings alone and how there are 3,279 people i would be salty if i couldn't invite. my parents got married at the justice of the peace and then threw a tasteful dinner party afterward; couldn't i just make an amazon wishlist then have you dudes meet me at las cazuelas for a garden party taco and gift exchange? seriously, i promise to register at walgreens and target.


if i ever get married i am going to wear high-waisted relaxed fit pants and a pair of broken-in new balance 574s. and giant, giant underpants. big cotton panties that cover my whole ass and can be pulled all the way up to my tits and don’t rip my pubes out every time i take a motherfucking step. i’m going to wear all black, because i’m 33 now and not a virgin and there will be some sort of liquid cheese spread or dip at this motherfucking wedding and white stains too goddamned easily. i will not wear any sort of structural garment, because you can't fit cake in a motherfucking spanx. there will be a top shelf open bar, bags of chips on the table instead of centerpieces because all people want to do at a wedding is dance and fucking eat, and 90s JAMS ONLY. if you can't tell me who teddy riley is, you are not allowed to come to my fucking party. please deposit my $280 faux leather clothes hamper at the gift table then kindly see yourself out. THE REST OF US HAVE CHEESE SPREAD TO EAT.

i'ma have to be RUL RELAXED and ENJOY MYSELF at my vagina's retirement party. because i don't want to teeter around all night starving half to death with my stomach bound like chinese baby girl feet at a fancy soiree that cost me half a year's goddamned salary, and then spend the rest of my life teabagging the same salty pair of balls. i mean fine, whatever, it's what you have to do, but i just can't imagine doing it the day after i had to dip my chin(s) and smile for 742 corny staged photographs while all the rest of my friends got drunk and giggled. i'm not getting a photographer, and there will be no video. you hoes better do what you can trying to instagram this sweaty meatbeard, because i am going to have a hoodie on and i will be avoiding you. you can take a picture of this lobster roll as it enters my face, then put your fucking phone down and meet me on the  dance floor.


so i officiated my first wedding a few weeks ago, and it was amazing. amazing-ish, as i am a dumb ox who is incapable of properly holding a thing together or being prepared in the least fucking bit. as you can tell from the picture, the weather totally cooperated and i didn't do anything really fucking stupid like drop something and spill my tits all out of my dress while trying to pick it up. i also didn't almost ruin the whole thing by forgetting the fucking rings, nor did i struggle to figure out how to properly set the glass on the ground so ted didn't dislocate his fucking ankle while stomping on that shit for good luck, and i really really didn't write my speech the morning of and print it out at work so i could read it off totally conspicuous white copy paper. what a goddamned mess.

you can't be mad, though. okay first of all, in my defense, i was a little drunk. i had a small glass of old wine that had been sitting on my counter for a couple weeks to take the edge off before i left the house. then when we got to the place someone handed me a whiskey and refusing proffered alcohol is downright rude. second, i was really fucking nervous. because bitches is all, OUR ENTIRE MARRIED LIFE'S HAPPINESS DEPENDS ON THIS DAY BEING ABSOLUTELY PERFECT and that is a lot of goddamned stress for one idiotic person. and i couldn't eat because i didn't want to shit, so that booze went unfilitered right into my bloodstream. also, so much sweating in my overpriced formal dress. GAH, fuck summer in the butt.

and i know what you're thinking: someone let your salty, single ass officiate the most loving, joyful day in her life?! and i thought that shit, too. seriously, the first draft of my speech was like "hate hate jealous hate fuck you everyone goodnight." fortunately for them i decided not to go with that. in the end, here is a part of what i said, try not to keel over with lovefeelings: 


it is an honor to be here to serve these two amazing people in this capacity, and i am humbled at having been able to bear witness to love that exists in this way. we all are incredibly lucky to exist in the presence of such aspirational love. cara and ted have taught me both how to receive expansive, unconditional love and how to give it in a way that makes the recipient feel like the only star in the sky. the way they love me makes me want to be a better person, and the way they love each other makes me want to burn down the houses of every person i have ever dated. (HUGE, UPROARIOUS LAUGHTER AT THIS LINE) i’m totally serious. i have sent quite a few nasty text messages after listening to these dudes cooing at each other all day. if you think it’s an act, which i thought at first because i am a hater, i want you to know that i stay at their house for weeks at a time because my apartment is hot and i refuse to pay for wi-fi and these jerks really are writing love notes on the toilet paper and feeding each other salad and all sorts of other gross romantic shit. their love is generous, and accepting. it is formidable, yet yielding. their love is nurturing, and indelible. it is a warmth that envelops you from the first second you feel it. their love is passionate and sexy and all-encompassing. it is a joyful, beatific thing; an inspiration to anyone fortunate enough to be touched by it. their love is a house, and that house is a home. and once you’re in it, they keep you forever.


well look at me not being the most terrible little shithead. so sweet it makes your fucking teeth hurt, right? OH GOD I KNOW. and just in case you think i've gone all mushy and romantic, i need to reassure you that i am still a motherfucking G: even though they registered at target, I DIDN'T BUY THESE ASSHOLES SHIT.