Would You Like Some Salt With That Arm?

Have you seen this new show advertised called Bridezillas? It's on WE, and they follow around these brides-to-be in the days before the wedding, watching them terrorize their family, friends, and wedding party in the name of true love. I caught the previews the other day, and if I were her fiance, I'd have borrowed Jennifer Wilbanks' running shoes and bus ticket.

The funny thing is, I didn't realize that anyone but me called those types Bridezillas. And here I thought I was being witty all on my own. I have been maid-of-honor in two weddings, and if I had recorded them, I could sell them to WE. They would make those ladies seem like demure southern belles. If all prospective brides were subjected to a week with them, I'm sure they would either be the nicest brides in the world or would stay single forever.

The first one was when I was 15 - my ex-brother's wedding. I knew we were in trouble when the first stop was Pier One...for three hours. We had to find the "perfect" table decorations for the reception. That was it. Three hours. Welcome to hell. Meet Satan's priestess. She commanded us to follow her (all six of us, with her mother) into every bridal shop in the U.S. for three days. Every gown we even expressed miniscule interest in was immediately discarded. The final result was hideous burgundy dress with enormous lace fronts and the biggest friggin' white bow I've ever seen on the back. Had there been a hard wind, they just might have worked as propellers. We were told how our hair would be worn, what color of nail polish and length of nails were acceptable, even what kind of makeup to use. Our faces white, dark burgundy lipstick, enough eye makeup for Tammy Faye Bakker. If you've never seen a mime hooker, you should have been at the wedding. Long story short, the day of the wedding was one rude, demanding, fit-throwing extravaganza. I've never seen so many family members get drunk before a wedding in my life. If I had only recognized the signs of trouble, I've have begged him to get the heck outta Dodge right then and there. Hindsight is 20/20.

The second experience was even more sordid than the first, and I hope she never reads this or I will be in big trouble (wait! I don't care!). A friend asked me to be her maid of honor over the phone, and I accepted. The only problem? I thought I was talking to another friend. Oops. Once I figured out who it was? "Danger, Will Robinson, danger!"

She was marrying a man (and I use that term loosely) from Reno, so she was going to move out there a few months early and live with his sister until the wedding. She would give us more details once she got out there. Well, she did. Seems she moved out there without taking all her crap, so when we came out for the wedding, we needed to bring it. Oh, and she had bought a bridesmaid dress for the sister, but she didn't have my measurements or that of the other bridesmaid, so we could just find our own that were "kinda the same color." Oh, and could I make 1000 cream cheese mints for the reception? That would be great. Oh, and she needed us out there two days earlier than planned, cuz she just couldn't handle it all without us. Yeah, right. Isn't that just shiny?

I talked another friend into going with me on the 27 hr trek to Whoville. I spent the night before conning my family into helping make the mints, determined to make a full 1000 if it hair-lipped all the cows in the Texas. (We did, and it didn't). We drove straight through, switching drivers off and on. By the time we got there, both of us were exhausted and just a little frazzled, so we crashed with my friend's sister.

The next day, we get a frantic call. The bride-to-be is spazzing- she didn't know where we were, had called our families to tell them we were missing, had called her parents to alert them, etc. Things were getting to full-blown freakout mode and it was only Day One. When we got to where she was staying, she demanded to know why we hadn't alerted her to our arrival. Uhh, well, we rest our case. Thankfully, my mother was quick to pick up on the level of psychotic breakage in her voice when she called and was unconcerned about our whereabouts. She knows I would call if I were about to be kidnapped by a deranged trucker, bludgeoned and fed to wolves. I would need her to feed my cat.

It didn't take us long to figure out that the blushing bride was not red-faced from joy. She was about one eye twitch from becoming Cybill, and we were about one piercing scream & tirade away from locking all the doors and going Carrie on her. And after meeting her idiot fiance and his pervo groomsmen, it's a good thing I didn't have a Playdoh knife with me. I'd have been charged with either four felonies or four misdeweiners.

Then came the infamous mint incident. It was the morning before the wedding, and I was shaking like I had DTs. There had been several mini-rants over the phone to my sister, but they were not getting it out of my system. I had endured tears, screams, pounding of the dashboard, blaring music, bad driving directions, near-death experience with a glass repair van, bolting from the rehearsal, and major mistreatment of her mother - my nerves were shot. If she had told me to go left and pointed right once more, I can't guarantee I wouldn't have driven right into the next brick wall.

I had started removing the pans of mints out of the fridge and this is the conversation.

"What is this?"
"Those are the mints."
"Uhh, no, I specifically told you they were to be in favor bags - three per bag. This is great, real great!"
"Well, you didn't say that, but we can start bagging them up, but it's going to take awhile."
"Yeah, well it better not be too long, I have a manicure in an hour."

With that, she stomped out the patio door and plopped into a deck chair. Setting my jaw to keep from biting off my tongue, I started putting the mints into bags. My friend and her sister & niece began helping. The only assistance we got from C. was for her to open the door, peek inside to see how much was done, and then sigh dramatically. When we finished, she had walked back in, so I said, "The mints are done." Her response? "Well, it's about time." That's when the feces splattered on the breeze machine.

Something inside of me snapped. I had put up with her bull for five days and I was through. "Oh, bite me!" I replied. Just then, a searing pain went through my bicep. She bit me! Bit me hard! I actually thought she had broken skin, and I expected to see blood running down my arm. Without even thinking, just a reflex action, I backhanded her...in the face...with a fist. Her sunglasses broke and flew across the room. The whole room got really quiet. She picked up the glasses, fixed her hair, and walked out to the car. After she left the room, everybody started to clap. It turned out the glasses belonged to my friend, but she said it was worth it just to see her get some back. She didn't say a word the entire trip to the nail salon. It was bliss.

Unfortunately, it didn't change her attitude the day of the nuptials. She was horrible to her mother, rude to everyone, threw numerous tantrums, and actually used the words, "This is my day! This is my wedding!" at least three times. (Oh, yeah, and I had a perfect mouth & teeth print bruise on my arm.) Plus, she was pissed that the dresses clashed horribly. What did she expect? By an hour into the reception, her mom was in tears, I was all sorts of pissed off, and my friend had faked sick to stay in the car. Six of us (including her parents) ended up ditching out early, going to Atlantis to the all-you-eat buffet, and we had a great time.

As for her? She is married, miserable, broke, and they live with his parents. For better or worse, right? :P