It's not that I'm opposed to white dresses. Or white wedding dresses. Or spending good money on something quality, for that matter. It's just that I believe spending $1000 (or more) on a dress you will wear once is ludicrous. I don't care if you look like a fucking angel sent straight from heaven in the dress - it will never be worth it. When Kim Kardashian was married and everyone kept saying she looked like some Armenian princess, all I saw was a dress purchased from whore-island where the townspeople spent an hour gluing on cheap lace-like details around the neckline. Favoring a prime rib buffet dinner and open bar over a $1000 (or more) faux-virgin dress is much more up my thought-alley. This kind of logic is what landed me at the neighborhood consignment shops in search of a white dress for our civil ceremony.
Reflecting back, it really is no surprise when I picked up my wedding dress from the cleaners that the silvery/beige beading on the bust happened to have turned to bright white during the cleaning process. After demonstrating a "what-the-fuck" look on my face and demanding an explanation, Roots (the dry cleaning staff member) casually told me what happened. I know for a fact her explanation included phrases such as "it's really only a wear-once type of dress" and "the beads were dipped in color, not *made* with color pigment" and "there's always the possibility that this could happen" and "at least they didn't melt off" but all I really heard was blah, blah, blah. And I saw spots - dark spots made of red and black rage - it resembled something close to the moment before you pass out or faint.
The entire situation really wasn't about the fact that I had dug my own grave, so to speak, by purchasing a previously owned dress that turned out to be altered slightly after cleaning. It was more about the fact that none of the staff members, upon inspecting my dress at the time of the drop-off, bothered to clue me in to this possibility. (Um, isn't there a waiver you need to sign?) Although my initial reaction was otherwise exampled, my dress wasn't ruined, the beading wasn't fucked up (entirely), and I still looked like a million bucks at the ceremony. Rigatoni should have awarded me the Medal of Emotional Honor for not calling up the cleaners, demanding to speak to every supervisor available, and cussing them to tears in undecipherable foreign languages.
Until next time...
Showing posts with label wedding. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wedding. Show all posts
Thursday, February 23, 2012
What. The. Hell.
Seriously, where did the last four weeks go? I figured it was about two weeks since my last entry. Nope. It was definitely a full four. I don't even know what to say.
What the hell have you been doing and where the hell have you been, you might ask. Well, a lot has happened. Roll your eyes and be condescending, go ahead, but here's the full recap:
Four weeks ago was the annual family ski trip to NY and it was nothing short of fantastic. Snow has been scarce this season, not only for Ohio, but for most of the US, from what I've read/heard. We made our way up to our usual spot for what is approximately my 31st year in a row. Literally, my family has been taking this trip every single year - my parents were traveling up to NY together even before they were married. Mom, dad, sister, sister's boyfriend, Rigatoni and I all share a huge hotel room at the ski lodge and basically laugh our asses off for three days straight. At some point, one of us turns bright red and forgets to breathe because we are laughing that hard. Ahh, such a great feeling when you realize your family isn't a bunch of assholes.
Three weeks ago, I was on my way up north to finalize the details for Wedding Reception #1 when my car hit black ice/slush, swerved through the opposite lane, spun around in a dramatic circle, and smashed into a telephone pole in someone's lawn. This really happened. Had the impact been on the front of the car as opposed to the back, my legs would probably be in full casts as I type this. It was extremely traumatic, but I am thankful the accident resulted in only minor injuries to my upper legs, arm, and back. Rigatoni's car is another story - the car died a quick death upon impact. Certain parties are still upset with the death of the golden Camry, but that's okay, I guess it kind of was my fault that the country roads up north weren't salted or plowed during an accurately-predicted snow storm.
Two weeks ago, I was busy stressing the fuck out over whether my legs would feel well enough to bust some sweet dance moves during the reception. Turns out rest, ice, heat, and lots of time to heal works wonders. My dance moves were pretty awesome. You would never have known I almost died two weeks prior.
Last week, I was busy stressing the fuck out over the fact that I never actually made it up north to confirm any of the meaningless details regarding the reception and how it better be a fucking awesome time for my friends and family. Turns out my mom, dad, and aunt did a superb job of handling all of this nonsense while I healed. I should have known to fully trust them. What can I say? I have larger picture and smaller picture trust issues.
The reception was the anti-wedding, wedding reception and I don't believe Rigatoni and I could have asked for more. No garter (whore) dance, no look-at-me-cake-cutting bullshit, no everyone-dance-to-this-shitty-song-because-it's-tradition nonsense. It was drinks, dinner, and dancing. Then a hometown bar. Then a shower for me because I smelled like sweat, vodka, and fun. What does fun smell like? It smells so horrible that it is utterly awesome.
Really, it's too bad we can't have another fiesta just like this. Oh wait. Timeout. We are. Rigatoni's parents are throwing us a party in a couple months so his extended family can attend from out of state. You know how when couple say "it's our wedding so...(insert childish statement here)". Well, ours is "it's our wedding so we'll have two parties if we want to!". I'm looking forward to smelling like fun really soon...
What the hell have you been doing and where the hell have you been, you might ask. Well, a lot has happened. Roll your eyes and be condescending, go ahead, but here's the full recap:
Four weeks ago was the annual family ski trip to NY and it was nothing short of fantastic. Snow has been scarce this season, not only for Ohio, but for most of the US, from what I've read/heard. We made our way up to our usual spot for what is approximately my 31st year in a row. Literally, my family has been taking this trip every single year - my parents were traveling up to NY together even before they were married. Mom, dad, sister, sister's boyfriend, Rigatoni and I all share a huge hotel room at the ski lodge and basically laugh our asses off for three days straight. At some point, one of us turns bright red and forgets to breathe because we are laughing that hard. Ahh, such a great feeling when you realize your family isn't a bunch of assholes.
Three weeks ago, I was on my way up north to finalize the details for Wedding Reception #1 when my car hit black ice/slush, swerved through the opposite lane, spun around in a dramatic circle, and smashed into a telephone pole in someone's lawn. This really happened. Had the impact been on the front of the car as opposed to the back, my legs would probably be in full casts as I type this. It was extremely traumatic, but I am thankful the accident resulted in only minor injuries to my upper legs, arm, and back. Rigatoni's car is another story - the car died a quick death upon impact. Certain parties are still upset with the death of the golden Camry, but that's okay, I guess it kind of was my fault that the country roads up north weren't salted or plowed during an accurately-predicted snow storm.
Two weeks ago, I was busy stressing the fuck out over whether my legs would feel well enough to bust some sweet dance moves during the reception. Turns out rest, ice, heat, and lots of time to heal works wonders. My dance moves were pretty awesome. You would never have known I almost died two weeks prior.
Last week, I was busy stressing the fuck out over the fact that I never actually made it up north to confirm any of the meaningless details regarding the reception and how it better be a fucking awesome time for my friends and family. Turns out my mom, dad, and aunt did a superb job of handling all of this nonsense while I healed. I should have known to fully trust them. What can I say? I have larger picture and smaller picture trust issues.
The reception was the anti-wedding, wedding reception and I don't believe Rigatoni and I could have asked for more. No garter (whore) dance, no look-at-me-cake-cutting bullshit, no everyone-dance-to-this-shitty-song-because-it's-tradition nonsense. It was drinks, dinner, and dancing. Then a hometown bar. Then a shower for me because I smelled like sweat, vodka, and fun. What does fun smell like? It smells so horrible that it is utterly awesome.
Really, it's too bad we can't have another fiesta just like this. Oh wait. Timeout. We are. Rigatoni's parents are throwing us a party in a couple months so his extended family can attend from out of state. You know how when couple say "it's our wedding so...(insert childish statement here)". Well, ours is "it's our wedding so we'll have two parties if we want to!". I'm looking forward to smelling like fun really soon...
Friday, December 30, 2011
Bride Crossing Part 2
After a few weeks, I was able to pick up my wedding dress from Chinese Lady. The work was completed beautifully: Chinese Lady agreed that deciding to shorten the gross floor-length to a flattering knee-length was perfect for the look I was going for. Well, no shit Chinese Lady, I always know what's best - ask anyone.
The next step was to drop the ivory gown at the dry cleaners - I drove to another nearby location suggested by Chinese Lady. I walked into the facility, layed the plastic-covered dress down on the counter and said hi. There was no hi, no alternative greeting, no smile, no questions as to what I needed coming from the lady behind the counter. And she looked as though she had not showered in 17 days or visited her stylist for a root touch-up since 1992. If I couldn't trust her to take a shower before work, how could I trust her with my wedding dress? This was the exact moment I realized I didn't like the lady working the counter and our relationship was most likely not going to improve: we're going to call her "Roots" from here on out.
I told Roots that I was was dropping off my dress to be cleaned and pointed out a few marks around the bust area. We went over pricing, what kind of chemicals are used, whether or not the marks would come out, and the date of pickup. I was pretty much running the conversation since all Roots had to say was the ever-helpful, "Uh huh". It was beyond difficult to concentrate and not look at Roots' roots during that interaction. Anytime I meet someone I don't like, the same thing physical reaction occurs: my eyes narrow, my palms become cold and sweaty simultaneously, my heart thumps quickly in my chest, and my brain freezes up. Over the years, I've learned to control these symptoms, but yet they remain. (More about why I hate everyone later.)
Two days later, I strolled in to see Roots with the looming feeling that something big, something small, or just something has happened to my dress. There is reasoning behind my craziness and here it is: Roots brought the lovely ivory cocktail-length beaded bust dress out from the back and hung it on the rack for me to view. My eyes honed in on the bust immediately and saw that the formerly beige beads on the bust area were now virgin-FUCKING-white. My eyes narrowed, my palms sweated, my heart thumped, and I could barely think: Roots and her shitty root job fucked up my wedding dress.
To be continued...
The next step was to drop the ivory gown at the dry cleaners - I drove to another nearby location suggested by Chinese Lady. I walked into the facility, layed the plastic-covered dress down on the counter and said hi. There was no hi, no alternative greeting, no smile, no questions as to what I needed coming from the lady behind the counter. And she looked as though she had not showered in 17 days or visited her stylist for a root touch-up since 1992. If I couldn't trust her to take a shower before work, how could I trust her with my wedding dress? This was the exact moment I realized I didn't like the lady working the counter and our relationship was most likely not going to improve: we're going to call her "Roots" from here on out.
I told Roots that I was was dropping off my dress to be cleaned and pointed out a few marks around the bust area. We went over pricing, what kind of chemicals are used, whether or not the marks would come out, and the date of pickup. I was pretty much running the conversation since all Roots had to say was the ever-helpful, "Uh huh". It was beyond difficult to concentrate and not look at Roots' roots during that interaction. Anytime I meet someone I don't like, the same thing physical reaction occurs: my eyes narrow, my palms become cold and sweaty simultaneously, my heart thumps quickly in my chest, and my brain freezes up. Over the years, I've learned to control these symptoms, but yet they remain. (More about why I hate everyone later.)
Two days later, I strolled in to see Roots with the looming feeling that something big, something small, or just something has happened to my dress. There is reasoning behind my craziness and here it is: Roots brought the lovely ivory cocktail-length beaded bust dress out from the back and hung it on the rack for me to view. My eyes honed in on the bust immediately and saw that the formerly beige beads on the bust area were now virgin-FUCKING-white. My eyes narrowed, my palms sweated, my heart thumped, and I could barely think: Roots and her shitty root job fucked up my wedding dress.
To be continued...
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Bride Crossing Part 1
Knowing myself as well as I do, it was best that the amount of time between our "engagement" to the day we said "sure, why not" was exactly three months. There was just enough time for me to plan the essentials, but not enough time to freak the fuck out over ridiculous details that I would only end up kicking myself later for ever caring about. If any more time were given, I surely would have ended up sucker-punching puppies.
A couple days after Rigatoni and I finally set a date, I decided that finding the dress would really make the rest of the planning more organized. It must have been some sort of wedding-planning miracle, because the first dress I tried on fit perfectly and didn't cost one-million dollars. There weren't any idiots with me ooooo-ing and ahhhh-ing at the dress or anyone getting all emotional about an ivory sheet of material - I hate that shit. Being the modern people we are, I put the dress on hold so Rigatoni could come back with me a few hours later to see it before I made the purchase. Dress: check.
The following day, I drove the dress to another location to be altered. When I say "altered", I mean shortened to cocktail length: I wouldn't be caught dead in a ridiculous floor-length gown. Oh god, I just barfed a little bit thinking about that. Here is how the alteration session went:
Chinese Lady: Oh hai, are you JD?
JD: Yes, I called. I have my wedding dress and I need to have it shortened.
Chinese Lady: Okay, you go try on and come out and I shorten for you.
JD: Perfect. *tries on dress*
Chinese Lady: Okay, we make long dress this short. *motioning with pins in mouth*
JD: No no no. Here give me the dress. THIS short. *hikes dress to knee-length*
Chinese Lady: You make long dress short??
JD: Yes! The LONG DRESS needs to be SHORT.
Chinese Lady: You make long dress short.
JD: Yes yes. This LONG DRESS needs to be THIS SHORT. *more motioning to knee-length*
Chinese Lady: Hmm, okay. Long dress be made SHORT.
JD: How long have I been here? It's like hours have passed. I'm starting to sweat. And I'm hungry.
Chinese Lady: What?
JD: Nevermind.
It took all of me not to walk into speeding traffic.
To be continued...
A couple days after Rigatoni and I finally set a date, I decided that finding the dress would really make the rest of the planning more organized. It must have been some sort of wedding-planning miracle, because the first dress I tried on fit perfectly and didn't cost one-million dollars. There weren't any idiots with me ooooo-ing and ahhhh-ing at the dress or anyone getting all emotional about an ivory sheet of material - I hate that shit. Being the modern people we are, I put the dress on hold so Rigatoni could come back with me a few hours later to see it before I made the purchase. Dress: check.
The following day, I drove the dress to another location to be altered. When I say "altered", I mean shortened to cocktail length: I wouldn't be caught dead in a ridiculous floor-length gown. Oh god, I just barfed a little bit thinking about that. Here is how the alteration session went:
Chinese Lady: Oh hai, are you JD?
JD: Yes, I called. I have my wedding dress and I need to have it shortened.
Chinese Lady: Okay, you go try on and come out and I shorten for you.
JD: Perfect. *tries on dress*
Chinese Lady: Okay, we make long dress this short. *motioning with pins in mouth*
JD: No no no. Here give me the dress. THIS short. *hikes dress to knee-length*
Chinese Lady: You make long dress short??
JD: Yes! The LONG DRESS needs to be SHORT.
Chinese Lady: You make long dress short.
JD: Yes yes. This LONG DRESS needs to be THIS SHORT. *more motioning to knee-length*
Chinese Lady: Hmm, okay. Long dress be made SHORT.
JD: How long have I been here? It's like hours have passed. I'm starting to sweat. And I'm hungry.
Chinese Lady: What?
JD: Nevermind.
It took all of me not to walk into speeding traffic.
To be continued...
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