“Are you serious right now?”
She rubbed her temple. “Lily, come on. We’re all adults here. There’s no reason for all of the drama.” She picked her phone back up. “I’m texting you both so you have each other’s numbers. You can work it out yourselves.”
“I don’t want her having my number.”
“Look, you said you’d be in my wedding. I told you what they were like and you said it was fine. Can you just stop being a drama queen and handle it?”
I was stunned into silence. A drama queen? Me?
“Fine,” I said quietly, and left her office without another word.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fuck. These. Weddings.
There. I said it. Even if I’m really just shouting it into the void because like six people are reading this blog right now. But I’m ready to drop out of all of them. Literally all of them.
Bride A, which apparently stands for Asshole, went so far beyond the realm of human comprehension today that I actually don’t think I want to be her friend anymore. Not only did she suggest I get Botox—literally, she told me to put poison in my face—but she also expects me to shell out two grand for her bachelorette weekend AT THE RITZ that I won’t even be attending because I’ll be at my brother’s wedding in Mexico.
Look. I played along when she made me get a minimizing bra and Spanx. I laughed it off when she only rejected my joke about getting a breast reduction because I would be too swollen to get an accurate dress size measurement. But she is so far over the line here that she can’t even SEE the line from where she’s standing.
But all of that said, she’s a delight compared to her future sister-in-law, who makes Regina George from Mean Girls look like Snow freaking White.
And Bride B? Girl, I love you, but you need to grow a pair! She literally asked ME to tell her mother that I didn’t want a black bridesmaid dress （I would LOVE a black bridesmaid dress—I dress like I’m on my way to a funeral most days anyway） because she didn’t have the guts to do it herself.
Technically Bride C hasn’t done anything wrong. Okay, she’s been a little insensitive, but that’s not really anything new. But there’s this groomsman who is actually kind of awesome and I can’t do anything about that because of the other groomsman, so I’m over that wedding too.
Bride D—I still don’t know her. But my mom made me feel fat over her bridesmaid dress, and I have to take my grandma to Mexico in order to afford to even go to that wedding. So that one is tainted now too.
And my darling little sister. Can we call a spade a spade and stop the farce now? You’re not getting married. You’re a child. And I can’t return the dress that looks like a chewed-up piece of Bubblicious, so let’s cut the crap before I have to spend more money on your make-believe wedding, please.
I have had enough!
And I’m going to . . . do absolutely nothing about it except rant in this blog that no one is reading because I’m too chickenshit to cut ties with any of these people.
Cool.
Any advice? Anyone reading? Is anyone alive out there?
A tiny voice in my head told me to cool down before I published this one, but I mentally gave it the finger and hit “Publish” anyway. My previous posts had been fairly benign and had gotten me almost nowhere. Go big or go home, right?
Hell with it, I thought and grabbed my coat. I was going home too. It didn’t dawn on me until much later that I probably shouldn’t have used my work computer to post something personal.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Early in January, my mother texted me on a Friday, asking me to come to dinner to discuss a trip to Chicago for Madison’s bridal shower.
Does it HAVE to be tonight?
Why? Do you have a date or something?
I didn’t. But Alex and I were planning to binge a new Netflix show that Becca said was too scary for her. Not that she was home much anymore anyway. And if she was, Will was with her. I have plans with a friend.
Can you reschedule? We need to figure out what we’re doing.
I sighed and texted Alex. Can we watch tomorrow instead? Or start later tonight and finish tomorrow? My mom is demanding I be at her house for dinner to figure out going to Chicago for my brother’s fiancée’s bridal shower （kill me now please）。
Was supposed to go on a date tomorrow, but I can cancel.
No, I don’t want you to cancel for me.
Three dots. Then nothing. Then three dots again. Honestly? I was probably going to cancel anyway. Let’s start the show when you get home tonight and we’ll see how good it is before we decide?