Wedding Season Woes

Ah... June. The month sprang upon us in a very hot and humid way about a week ago here in Philadelphia, but the heat has been on for months. Several people in my immediate life (whether I choose them to be there or not!) are getting married, and the semi-endearing chatter of January has turned to incessant rambling and bemoaning. I used to feel bad about having such a piss-poor attitude about the whole thing, but lately I've been accepting my role as the "Wedding Scrooge." If you were in my shoes, you'd realize this side of the fence is a much better place to be.

Take, for example, my co-worker Kimetra (note: names have been changed to mock the guilty as opposed to protecting the innocent.) This girl's wedding has turned into a full-on mental disorder, which is merely an addition to her psychotic traits already. It's bad enough that her fiancé, whom she has known for a whopping 8 months, is an employee at our company also and they never miss an opportunity to act like mutants around one another. It's equally annoying that this colleague, a graphic designer, designed and created her own disgustingly pink wedding invitations, rife with corny love quotes and pictures of herself and Fugly hubby-to-be. Don't let me forget to mention that over the past year, she has committed several wedding faux pas, make that CRIMES, of etiquette. The most major offense was probably listing six stores/travel agencies she's registered at. She also invited everyone in our department, but rudely told us on the invitation and in person that we were not allowed to bring a guest. This cheap clause was extended to everyone, including people that have been married for decades.

The whole department got together and threw Kimetra and Fugly-hubby a wedding shower. I, and a fellow intelligently snarky colleague, stayed clear of the planning since we try not to celebrate the existence of people we hate. Since Kimetra is one of the biggest attention whores I've ever known, the shower was a verbal and mental affront to the only two credible human beings there, myself and aforementioned co-worker. It was absolutely sickening to the point where we both left early to update our resumes and send out. Our major, and actually, ONLY screening process was that the companies we applied at did not have Kimetra as an employee. One of my favorite things about this entire ordeal is the way that the "blushing" bridezilla blames everything that goes wrong on the fact that she is "PLANNING A WEDDING, FOR GOD'S SAKE!" How dare the weather be rainy, she is planning a wedding! How dare an ad need to be created for a charity golf outing, because she is planning a wedding and doesn't have time to do it! (Never mind that making ads is her job, not planning weddings... I think they have jobs where you plan weddings... In fact, I think it's called a Wedding Planner! Imagine that.) The past 6 months have been utterly ridiculous in this department because of this bombastic wedding. To somehow make up for the rude insanity I've been exposed to, I did not RSVP until the last day, and used a giant black sharpie to "X" off the "Not attending" space. June 30^th, and the subsequent week of freedom when these losers are celebrating their most unholy union in Mexico, clearly cannot come soon enough.

As if the requisite 40 hours a week plus the 15 extra I spend, unpaid, at my job are not enough to be inundated with such absurdity, my diva cousin Armandina (this time the name actually ISN'T mocking the guilty... it's her real name) is getting married this upcoming weekend. Since we hadn't talked in years at the time she comprised her small invite list, I was not invited (*cough* blessing in disguise *cough*.) My problem lies in the fact that she has been leaning on me, mentally and physically after a few drunken nights, as though I'm her maid of honor as opposed to an uninvited second cousin. Contrary to popular belief, I spend almost as much time helping people as I do knocking them down, so this didn't bother me much... in the beginning. First let me explain something about most women in my old-school Italian family: the young ones are beautiful, which in turn makes them bitchy, and the old ones are wonderful cooks, but frighteningly reminiscent of Doris Roberts' character on Everybody Loves Raymond. A common trait among all ages of these female family creatures is their passion for dramatics, and I don't mean that they love to take in a play. The past few months of playing shoulder-to-cry-on for the dramatic Dina have been nothing short of exasperating. I've taken to strapping a flask to my thigh to nip at, or chug from sometimes, while having encounters with this bride-wreck.

Besides the nightly phone calls, which include Dina crying that she doesn't know if getting married is right (READ: fishing for me to convince her it is) and then arguing with me viciously when I take her bait, there was the issue of the Bachelorette party. This party took place on Memorial Day weekend, a weekend that most Philadelphians are headed to the Jersey shore for some fun and sun. Although I was given a whopping 4 days notice, or shall I say DEMAND, to attend this feminine debauchery, I was practically grilled on a spit when I mentioned that I was going to the shore as I have for the past 24 of my 24 years of existence. After hours of whining, pouting and general guilt tripping, I tricked Dina by simply telling her I would attend. Cruel and evil when I knew I would not attend? Certainly. Only solution when I'm backed into a corner by a malicious diva? Indeed. Luckily, the wild gals that did attend the party got Dina drunk enough that she did not miss me... but I'm still wondering if I'll ever get the 16 hours of my life back that I spent hearing about the whole thing.

In conclusion, as I waste yet another hour of my life writing this tirade, I sit back smugly and vow to never be the people I mentioned above. Although my boyfriend and I have been dating for almost 3 years, 24 is an age where I care to attend (and not attend as the case is turning out to be) weddings, not be the star of one. At least for this summer, I'll be the drunk guest gorging on mini quiche and mocking those not in my shoes. And for now? Let the wedding bells ring and the good times roll... I'll be in New Jersey.