Thursday, February 05, 2009
Legendary blogger, Drew Magary, has a blog called "Father Knows Shit". It's pretty much a diary of all the weird and stupid shit that goes on over the course of fatherhood. So I'm sitting around the other day thinking, "I'm getting married soon, I have no idea what's going on, She-Money keeps dropping all of these monster bills my way, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing." Whenever I see fit, I'm going to do a post about some horrible aspect of the wedding planning process. If you guys take one piece of advice from me, let it be this:
There is nothing wrong with getting married. There is everything wrong with planning a wedding. Everything about it sucks and it is ripe to be blogged/bitched about. Up next on "Groom Knows Dick": Flowers.
If there is one thing in the world that women love and men don't even know exist, it is flowers. Unfortunately for us, a wedding ceremony requires their presence. A few weekends ago, I went back to my hometown as I had an appointment to pick out my tux. I knew that I had to hurry with my decision because She$ was coming in a half and hour later with her mom to pick out the aforementioned flowers (I know what you're thinking, flowers and tux's at the same place? You bet.). I failed miserably. I hadn't even gotten sized yet and here come the Buzzkills. I knew damn well that my needs were being put on the backburner and I was going to have to sit through this.
Let me ask you something: have you ever looked at the flowers when you are at a wedding? Have you ever even acknowledged their existence? Of course not, that would be stupid. But let me tell you something, they are all around you and they cost an arm, a leg, and 6 dongs. You better start saving because these fucking wastes of space are going to rob you.
And here is something else that I never knew: apparently flowers have to match EVERYTHING. Somehow they have to go with the bridesmaid's dresses, the groomsmen's vests, the color of my ass hair, the time of day, and/or unicorns. It's ridiculous. But I guess that it is a must. Everything has to flow uniformly. God forbid if any of the colors clashed. In the olde days, they would catapult you out of town if you didn't follow the color schemes.
So the lady helping us out with all of this is going down the list of all the people that need flowers and all the places that need flowers, etc. With every name read off, all that I can hear is the sound that a cash register makes. I try to combat this fear and anger by acting like I'm not paying attention. I don't want to show that it's bothering the fuck out of me. It's kind of like the classic scene in Rocky III when Apollo and Rocky have their training montage. You remember, when Balboa finally starts listening to Creed and begins busting his ass to beat Mr. T. They are racing each other on the beach (for some reason) and after numerous attempts, Balboa finally beats him. Seems harmless, right? But when the cameras focus in on Carl Weathers' ripped legs pumping through the sand, there is about a 2 second moment in which Apollo's balls are visibly flopping around like it's nobody's business. It's hideous and I know it's coming, but I can never look away. Does it make me gay? Perhaps. But so would taking an interest in flowers no matter how sick it makes me.
Let this be a lesson to all of you considering getting married. Flowers are exactly like the big flopping junk of Carl Weathers: a necessary evil. No matter how hard you try, you can't avoid them. You will find both to be insanely uncalled for. You will pay for them and it will kill you to do so. But in the end, all the ladies over 60 in attendance will remind you of how beautiful your flowers were. And isn't that what it's all about? Damn you flowers. And damn you Carl Weathers wang.
Ugh. The new responsibility given to me last week was to find transportation from the ceremony to the reception. Considering that our party has somewhere in the vicinity of 175 people in it, this should be fun. Fuck this. We should have just eloped.