Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid #3: The Dress

In a little less than two weeks I will be a bridesmaid for my baby cousin.

I imagine this will be my last time donning the dress. Even if any of my friends get married for a second or third time, I imagine it'll be a little more low-key and probably no need to get satin shoes dyed.

There are about a bajillion things I love about my cousin, but currently the thing I love most about her is that she is letting all of her bridesmaids pick out their own dresses. Her one condition - make it black.

No, I'm not kidding. That is how effing cool she is. And we all understand how freaking lucky we are - it is with great solemness that we are choosing these gowns. We don't want her to regret her magnanimous decision. Perhaps this will set a new precedent of kindness amongst brides.

A new era of no longer trying to shoehorn your friends into gowns that you have only ever seen on Size 2 models in "Modern Bride". I don't know about you, but I haven't been a Size 2 since I was floating around in amniotic fluid in my mother's uterus.

The idea itself is ridiculous. One dress that looks good on your 3,4,5 or god forbid, 6 closest friends. (Once the peels of laughter subside, read on.)

The truth is, your friend might otherwise be a reasonable woman. An engineer. A marketing executive. A woman who can go into the dressing room with you and tell you whether your ass looks big or your boobs saggy in any given outfit. But all of this rational thinking flies out the proverbial window once she’s planning the wedding.

Anyway, you are no longer her dear friend. You are her dress-up doll. You are not her soul-sister with the massive thighs or confidant with the small(ish) chest. You are Skipper to her Barbie. You now miraculously have smaller hips and a bigger chest because, well dammit, you must. She has been planning this day since age 9. She’s been clipping out dresses in bridal magazines since 18. She’s now in the position of complete and utter power over your life and you’d just better get used to it. Okay, take a deep breath – cause this next part might hurt.

It doesn’t matter what you look like on your friend’s big day. This is not about you. (Gasp!) This is entirely, 100%, without a doubt, about the bride. Okay, take another deep breath and I'll continue.

I know. I have pictures too. Me in a flowing lavender Empire-waist number that should have, by all of the laws of nature, fit like a glove, but instead clung in a most leach-like manner to every bit of cellulite on my body. Or my friend, K, who should have been a wondrous site to behold in the baby blue Vera Wang knock-off. It unfortunately was made of some polyester-blend (I'm pretty sure the original Wang was not) and could apparently not be taken in anymore in the chest (although it did leave plenty of room for Kleenex and her Maid of Honor speech. Both pages.)

The thing is, you just have to suck it up. Don’t go getting an inkling that you are going to shine like the belle of the ball. This is not the prom and you are not the Prom Queen. The big tiara goes to She-Who-Snagged-The-Boy. Get used to it.

Try to remember this: your friend is not trying to ruin your life. Somewhere in that twisted mind she truly believes you look beautiful in that dress. An angel. Leave her be, she’s in love. And the truth is - generations of bridesmaids have been getting laid no matter what sort of ghoulish gown they are wearing, so what's the big stink?

The upside is this: you will never have to wear this dress again! This is it. One day. Oh, I know both the bride and her mother will regale you with tales of shortening it into a cocktail dress or using it at next year’s New Years Eve party. Hogwash. This is $150-$300 dollars of fabric that will never see a profitable return.

Now, I have used old dresses for other occasions and even turned them into other-worldly creations, but dammit - you'll just have to wait until I finish the book. It's taken me thirty-five years to figure this shit out - did you really think I'd give all this knowledge away for free?

I'm not looking to make a million dollars - just enough to recoup the cost of those bridesmaids dresses rotting away in my closet.

Hot to Trot

After some extensive shopping this morning, I swung by the gym. My car does not easily turn into my gym's driveway. We argue extensively about the cleaning, writing or loafing I could be doing instead of going to the gym. But today, the gym won out.

This is a good thing and I wish I was one of those people who could just love the gym. No, really LOVE it. I don't though. I never feel worse afterward, in fact, I almost always feel better. And yet it's still a struggle to put on the running shoes and hit the treadmill.

One of the things I don't particularly like about the gym is the sweating. The beads around the forehead. The dripping down my neck. That very attractive sweat mark on the back of my t-shirt at the end. I am one sweatacular little piggy by the end.

I get that the sweat is a part of the deal and is a good indicator that I'm doing things right, but it never makes me feel all gorgeous as I'm hoofin' along.

Which leads me to this - any time you read any magazine articles on where to meet men, they inevitably tell you to join a gym. This, to me, is some sort of insane troll logic.

Whilst I am working out I look winded, red-faced, sweaty and probably even a tad grumpy. Are these the attributes that today's bachelors are really looking for?

Not to mention, I'm not exactly "on my game" while I'm trying to jog in a straight line on a piece of rubber that is moving. Who in the hell is capable balancing themselves on a moving roadway, winking and saying "Do you come here often?" This is the reason I'm not able to flirt in airports either.

Anyway, I guess I'll continue to fight with my car, hop on the treadmill and god-willing, try to remember my freaking lip gloss. A nice neutral color to go with my sweaty t-shirt and the grumpy look on my face.

Free is for Me

Some days I bemoan the fact that my checking account isn't brimming over with extra fundage. Funds that would like to be spent on an overpriced pair of shoes or a bunch of music on iTunes. Instead it's earmarked for rent and car payments and insurance and pesky things like laundry detergent.

And on those days I spend a few moments thinking about the trip I'd take to Italy or the great loft downtown and how I'd like them to be all mine, Mine, MINE!!

And then, I realize - while Rome would be great, I can get one of the best slices of pizza at this great local joint. And while the loft I covet has exposed brick, wood floors and a sunken tub - it costs as much as my studio in New York City did. And when it comes right down to it - I'm a pretty simple girl and the real fun isn't in the shoes that pinch my toes and eat away at my savings - the real fun is in the little things.

This weekend I did buy a few trinkets and while I admire them and think they do wondrous things to make "home" even cozier - they really don't hold a candle to my favorite thing this weekend.

That was driving to Indiana on Saturday and passing two hillbillies walking down the side of the road without any shirts on (one in cut-off jeans) each with an open beer can. And to make it all the sweeter - they were trying to hitch a ride. I know it will shock and amaze you that no one was quick to pull over and offer their chauffeur services to Misters Dee and Dumb. But there they were - givin' it the ol' trade school try. And that's a story I got to laugh over later with friends, plus get to pimp out in a blog and no doubt will re-tell any time I see a shirtless man in cut-off jeans.

So while I am slightly in love with my new Martha Stewart towels - I am ever reminded that the best things in life really are free.

Queries of an Insomniac

Okay, fine, so I'm not a bonafide insomniac. But for some reason I am just not tired tonight. I've actually accomplished quite a bit and yes, managed to screw around quite a bit as well. And somewhere in the mix, I've started a list of questions:

What's with superheroes and capes? Okay, fine - Superman, that makes a little sense. Some sort of aerodynamic thing goin', but I've watched X-Men 3 tonight and just can't figure out why Magneto needs a cape. Granted - Sir Ian McKellen is a little on the aged side, so maybe it's to cover his geriatric heiny. I'm still stumped.

Did you know? That the girl from Juno and McSteamy from Grey's are both in X-Men 3? Plus Miles from Lost? This is new trivia that will be in my brain forever, while little by little I forget my multiplication tables.

Why can I never remove ALL of the change from my pants pockets before they hit the laundry? Inevitably, a dime, nickel or penny manages to sneak past my thorough search and opts to clamor away in the drier for a good 40 minutes. I could get up and dig it out, but I might miss the critical juncture where Iceman takes on Pyro. (I embrace my loserdom)

What power over the space/time continuum does YouTube have? I swear, I go to look up a 3-minute video and suddenly an hour has passed. Someone ought to look into that.

What is up with dust? I read somewhere that like 80% of dust is ex foliated skin. First of all, eww and second of all, I'm not sure that's even true. There is simply no way that one woman could ex foliate that much without a pumice and loofah going like 24/7.

These are just a few of the things I'm still pondering at 2 a.m. How about you?

"Oh, bird squirt" and other things that crack me up

I'm easily amused. Well, that may not be entirely true - but I am definitely randomly amused. I will share a few key phrases that randomly amused me this week. I don't expect you to giggle...they are, in fact random:

"Oh, bird squirt!": overheard at the cubicle next to me. When I rolled my chair over to find out what type of Hitchcockian shenanigans were going on - the fella who yelled it out simply said, "If you've ever lived in a city, you know what that means." I beg to differ. I spent 36 months on an island that's just over 13 miles long by 2-ish miles wide - right along with 2 million other people. I ain't never heard "bird squirt" in my life. Methinks by "city" he means the backwoods of Arkansas.

"You dirtbag!": flung at me after I said some jackassed thing to a co-worker. She is the queen of slinging lingo from my junior high years. Dirtbag is just about the most perfect non-expletive expletive.

"I'm just a small-town guy with some math skills": one of my most favoritest Big Wigs said that after a meeting the other day when I congratulated him on his Big Wigginess.

"You are just so fuckin' weird sometimes.": a co-worker to me - after I explained my aversion to non-mechanical pencils and abhorrence of pens without caps

"Ding-ding outta make a come back.": CCB said that to me after I used the word "ding ding" (e.g. "He really needs to be kicked in the ding-ding"). Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years!

"Indigo, I don't want to hear another word about it...'" her Mamma says, "I'm not setting the table with my Sunday china for fifteen dolls who got their period today.'": this book I'm reading - Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo. I dig this book.

"She wasn't particularly afraid of mice, but rats were more like snakes - snakes in bad fur coats": The other book I'm reading (there's upwards of 6 going at the same time right now) by my most favoritest Anne Lamott.

"Friggin' gnomes": okay, my favorite uttered words so far this week. A friend just got back from a week at the beach. He took this picture of this creepy little garden gnome that was just outside his bedroom window looking up at him. His comment, quite correctly, "friggin' gnomes."

Is there a moral to this story? Not really - except that when I'm grumpy and grouching and thinking that life is one big pain in the ass...well, it also makes me giggle quite a lot. As long as I listen.

Oh how you mock me, plain white dress

I rant and rave in my Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid. The dress, the shower, the shady bachelorette party. It's excellent fodder for the snarky likes of me.

But can I tell you a secret?

I only mock the bridesmaid dress, because there's only one dress I truly want. And it's not lavender or butter or cornflower. It's white.

There is nothing I want more than an over-priced white gown that I will only ever wear once in my life. And while there are opportunities to turn it into a bassinet dust ruffle, I imagine there won't be enough Scarlett O'Hara in me to take the shears to it.

I want a dress that my mother and sister will weep over. Possibly because they will hate it, but more likely because of the look I imagine I will have on my face.

I want a dress that will trip my father, just a little, just enough to make us giggle and relax.

I want a dress that will cherish a tiny stain from a champagne toast.

I want a dress with a hem filthy dirty from people dancing all over it.

I want a dress without crinoline, because my ass is big enough.

I want a dress that will allow me to breathe, so I can laugh.

I want a dress that will be held by Love.

I know, it's not the snark and sass you're used to and lucky for you it's not often I delve into silly girliness.

It's just tonight, I imagine life with a vacuum-packed white dress in the closet. And the road that leads to it.

"Hi, my name is Emily and I'm a coffee addict"

I'm imagining you all (all 3 people who regularly read my blog) judging me. You're thinking that there are people out there struggling with true addiction and I should just shut my pie hole already. Okay, maybe I'm projecting. That's what I'm thinking.

And more than that - I'm thinking I don't mind my addiction too much, except - on the rare occasion when I snooze a 10th time and don't have the 4 additional minutes in my commute to swing by the Drive-thru at my local coffee shop (rhymes with Barclucks). It's on those days that are met with bad cafeteria coffee that I realize the depth of my "condition".

'Cause you don't want an 8:15am meeting with me when I'm running on what can only be described as the water dressed in brown that they're peddling at our in-house cafe. It is most certainly not my Grande Red Eye (House Blend with a shot of espresso) that jolts me into alertness on most mornings.

The truth is - I'm a real bitch without real coffee.

I don't function at my highest level. I don't play well with the other kids in the sandbox. I don't share my toys. I pick fights. I put on a face that would prompt any mother to remind me that it could "get stuck that way."

Put it in a pint glass or a crack pipe - I've got me a bonafide addiction. And I don't think anyone in a 12 cubicle radius of me is gonna sign up to be my sponsor. "Because deep down in places they don't talk about at parties - they want me on that coffee. They need me on that coffee." (imagine my best Jack Nicholson impersonation. Which, let's be honest, sounds like me - just really loud.)

So, no 12-step program for me. No cessation support groups. No therapy sessions. Just me and my jumbo java - addicted and lovin' it.