I was escorted by scooter to the bars after a hamburger buffet rehearsal dinner Friday night. Yes, I am a classy dame.
No, it wasn’t as ghetto as it sounds. It was actually a nice, relaxed rehearsal dinner at the Westport Flea Market who boasts the best hamburger in town. Anyway the boy came and picked me up from Kate’s nearby house after he got off work and we settled in at the outside bar of Harry’s when one of his old co-workers commented on a band-aid on his hand.
“Oh yeah, I put my backpack under these stairs by a woodpile outside of work, so I could go pick it up later and not have to carry it around since I have the scooter, then I came inside and noticed that my hand was bleeding.”
Then he pulls off the band aid and I was all, “why is your ‘cut’ surrounded by a creepy red ring? Gross dude.” So then I grab his phone and start researching brown recluse spider bites because they are rampant in this area and make your skin rot the fuck off when they bite you and why you would stick your hand in a goddamn woodpile in Kansas City is beyond me. Then the damn phone Internet is being the slowest piece of shit ever and the stylus won’t work and I’m about to scream and throw it at the bartender because you pay bajillions of dollars for these phones and they are so tiny and pissy and slow so what’s the point?
Then his hand starts feeling all weird and he kind of starts to freak out, so we leave. He drops me back off at my car and shortly after I arrive home, he calls me and says he puked three times (another symptom of the dreaded bite) and is going to the emergency room. Oh happy day.
Before you call me a crap girlfriend, I was ready to sit with him in the E.R., but he refused since he knew I had a long day of wedding-tastic the next day. A shatty night of sleep later, I find out he got home from the E.R. around 9 a.m. with a confirmed poisonous spider bite, antibiotics, muscle aches and nausea, which worsened throughout the day, so I would be at the wedding…stag…again…and worrying that my boyfriend was going to die why I pranced around boozing and eating cake in a pink satin dress.
I’m pretty sure the entire wedding party thinks my boyfriend is pretend already anyway since he’s never come with me to any of the pre-wedding events since he’s always working on the weekends, but this just solidified their notions that my boyfriend is actually faux…Yeah, sure, he’s not here because he got bit by a spider…sure, we believe you…
So I spent the day telling the spider story over and over again – sipping on mimosas while having my hair done, getting my overpriced make-up done (thanks lady, but I could have spackled my own face with Maybeline foundation from Wal-Mart for FREE – where the hell is the MAC and B) and tromping through the mud in heels for photos.
One of the bridesmaids had the make-up lady cover up a bunch of her tattoos which was a waste of time since it rubbed off all over her dress and the bride’s backseat as we drove around town for pictures. Awesome.
Then as we were wandering around in alleyways for urban pics, one of the groomsmen randomly wanders off to get beer and cigarettes in the middle of pictures. When he reappeared, he openly drank his beer while the photographer snapped photos and I’m going, “What the FUCK dude?” I mean, I’m sure the bride appreciates you trying to incorporate props in the pictures, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want cans of Bud Light in her formal wedding photos. The bride commented about this several times and while she was such a laid back bride throughout this whole process, I think that would have been my breaking point. There would have been ripping of the wedding gown as my human body quickly morphed into a 40-foot, fire breathing dinosaur that destroyed all disobeying and inconsiderate wedding party attendees in my path. This is why women turn into Bridezilla – because people are assholes – and this is why the courthouse is looking more and more appealing if I ever find somebody I can stand long enough to want to marry.
Then during the reception, two cougary ladies cornered me by the wedding cake to first tell me I looked great in the bridesmaid dress and I’m going, ‘well I had to stand naked with my arms and legs spread out while a perfect stranger sprayed me with stanky ass bronzing spray so I better look good in this thing,’ then to tell me I looked sooooo good dancing with so-and-so and he’s such a nice boy and blah blah blah – the curse of being single and stag at a wedding. Then I pretty much said, “I have a boyfriend and he was supposed to be here, but he’s at home dying from a spider bite instead.” Then I politely excused myself to the bar where I continued to drink heavily.
It sounded like I had a great time right? Actually I really did despite the minor hang ups but no wedding is complete without a couple of those. After my $30 cab ride home with some cabby named Webb I wrestled the pink satin-ness that had been suction cupped to my body for 12 hours off, threw it on the floor and passed the hell out.
The boy is in fact just fine except the nasty bite is surrounded by disgusting blisters now, which he loves to shove in my face while making this irritating, high-pitched screamy noise that makes me want to claw his eyes out. And he keeps walking around making *whoosh* noises while pretending to shoot webs out of his wrists because he apparently thinks he’s Spiderman now.
We’ve been dating five months and this was his third E.R. visit in those five month all for legitimate reasons and that’s not even counting the 50 million times he’s visited the hospital the 40 and a half years before he knew me. Perhaps I should consider admiring him from afar from now on since I’m fairly certain that a grand piano or an Acme anvil is destined to fall on him one day as we’re strolling down the street and I would really hate to get all that blood splattered on me. That’s just unsanitary.