God help me.

Reader, I have been through a lot in my life. Loss and betrayal, heartache and infirmity. But right now I’m facing the greatest challenge yet. I have to be Matron of Honor in a Deep South wedding.

FUCK!

The only thing more bizarre than me having to be Matron of Honor in a Deep South wedding would be if Left Hook had to be Matron of Honor in a Deep South wedding. But then, that would indicate that we had entered the Last Days.

There are many ironies here, but the greatest is that the bride–Mr. Pistol’s baby sis–kind of hates me. She made me cry! Twice!

Well that’s all right, because here’s what I hate: weddings, wedding dresses, wedding vows, wedding cakes, wedding receptions, veils, churches, bouquets, and brides. I’ve said it before: I’m a brat, okay? When the bride dances with her father and the groom with his mother, all I can think about is incest. When somebody says, “All brides are beautiful,” I have to stick pins into my head to keep from saying something nasty. I hate engagements. I hate honeymoons. I hate how my Long Island aunt says, “Everything changes when you get married. It’s wundaful.”

When Mr. Pistol and I got married, nothing changed, and that’s how I wanted it. Mr. P is such a commitmentphile, it’s cute! We were just as good as married long before we marched up to City Hall. And nothing miraculous happened in the 10 seconds or so it took our state automaton to do the hitching.

But I digress.

When you are the Matron of Honor, you apparently have to do a lot of things. Like:

• wear a floor-length dress and “silver strappy sandals.”
• give a speech at the rehearsal dinner.
• fix the bride’s dress and hold her bouquet at the altar.
• give the best man a bj (least that’s what Firecracker says!)
• throw the bridal shower.

It is the final item with which I am currently embroiled. I, Pistol Whip, hater of weddings and lifelong not-exactly-a-real-girl type of girl–hence, a complete wedding illiterate–have to plan a bridal shower that is to take place 1000 miles away. Luckily I’ve got Miss D___ to help me. Miss D___ is my mother-in-law’s coworker, and she apparently enjoys throwing showers for young ladies. She has a special candelabra. And a special tea service. A special crystal punch bowl! Special tablecloths? Check! And a whole set of special china. All for the showers, and the young ladies. I’m not even being bitchy here. It’s more just confusion and disbelief.

In our first email exchange, Miss D___ asked me if I wanted our shower to have a theme.

Huh?

I brainstormed. Here’s what I came up with:

• bj tips for the bride-to-be theme (I bet the older generation has a lot to offer!)
• sexy co-ed slumber party turned slasher movie theme (via “Rory”)
• let’s all pierce our clits! theme (via Firecracker)
• suicide pact theme

So I wrote back, No ma’am: no special theme!

Next, Miss D___ wanted to know about refreshments. She thought we’d have

• Petits fours (6 doz.)
• Cheese straws
• Mints and nuts
• Miniature quiches

Did I have any ideas?

Well, Miss D___, my idea is pills. Pills in bowls! Bowls of pills! Imagine how pretty!

I made and sent 72 invitations last week.

I might as well admit it: there is a deep streak of ingratiating good girl in me. Do you know how long it took to glue all those fucking flowers on?

Reader, I’m seriously going to need pills to get through this. Dexedrine and Xanax? Ritalin and Klonopin? Adderall and Ativan? You feel me?

This thing’s on March 25th. Who can help me get what I need?

P.S. IT’S A DRY SHOWER.

by Pistol Whip | 14 March 2007 | rant, slit my wrists, bj jokes | Comments