The parents of Langela Gindsay Aul
request the honour of your presence
at one o'clock in the afternoon
on Thursday, February the second,
two thousand and six
wherein you are all invited to bite her.
Well, folks, it has officially happened. I never thought I would encounter a wedding client who could screw me over more royally than the "Oompa Loompa Bride." If you've gotten me on the subject of "Why I Shoot Weddings, No Really, It's Worth It; but let me tell you about this one time!" for more than 15 minutes, you've probably heard the story of my Worst Bride Ever.
I call her the Oompa Loompa Bride, because- as I was describing her egregiously bad Bridezilla behavior to my very sympathetic friend Andrea- Andrea (herself a recovering wedding videographer) piped up in a spot-on impression of the bratty Veruca Salt from :Charlie and the Chocolate Factory:" I want an Oompa Loompa NOW!" It was so perfect that I fell over in peals of laughter- hence the nickname Oompa Loompa Bride.
This? Is worse. (Oh, and yes, it's worse than the time I was hired as the third photographer under the auspices of a high-end wedding photographer, and the trust-fund couple fed us the following: one airplane-sized bag of pretzels each, the crusty remains of room-temperature parmesan artichokes laden with bacteria from another event's buffet, and one can- and one can per person ONLY!- of WARM COKE. Gah.)
I was booked to cover a rehearsal dinner and wedding for a high-society bride this weekend. She was planning something "very simple and elegant." No florist, no musicians, no attendants, family only, famous NYC landmark location with dinner to follow at a restaurant that requires an audience with God to get reservations. They simply "changed their minds" and I am out a LOT of money. I was informed of this change in a three-sentence email. Best of all, THEY DID NOT APOLOGIZE, not even for the "inconvenience." I've been more polite when canceling reservations for Bella at a goddamn kennel.
Seriously, there is a special place in hell for brides like this. They all have to wear whatever atrocities they forced on their bridesmaids in a never-ending parade of humiliating scenarios, while a DJ plays nothing but the Macarena over and over again. Oh, and there's nothing to eat but airplane pretzels, artichokes with a side of e. Coli and ONE can of WARM COKE apiece, for all of eternity.
At the risk of de-emphasizing the importance of my previous entry, I offer the following public service announcement.
If you met the man of your dreams, don't be a bitch.
If you're PG and yer Pa says you gots to get hitched, don't be a bitch.
If someone slips a rock the size of a Ritz cracker on your finger, don't be a bitch.
If you decide you're not a diamond-wearing kind of girl and choose to get a tattoo on the ring finger of your left hand instead, don't be a bitch.
If you belong to an online community of brides-to-be, don't be a bitch.
If Vera Wang made your gown herself, don't be a bitch.
If your gown was made by a crackerjack team of slave children in a third world country who aspire to someday take a bathroom break, don't be a bitch.
If you made your gown yourself from pesticide-free cotton, threads you spun from the wool of your own alpacas and the most fairly-traded of beads, don't be a bitch.
If you plan a high-society wedding at an exclusive golf club that requires official documentation of your great-great-grandparents proof of passage on the Mayflower, don't be a bitch.
If your idea of "fancy" is tapping kegs of both Bud AND Bud Light for your reception at the local chapter of the VFW, don't be a bitch.
If you elope to Vegas, don't be a bitch to your flight attendant, cab driver or wedding chapel Elvis.
P.S. Why, yes, it IS 4 a.m., and I AM losing sleep, thank you very much.