Back on Track

I was pretty despondent after some disastrous writing sessions where I didn't feel that anything good was coming out of my writing, but then after some good advice and inspiration, I continued today and things went well. You may recognize some old friends:

Fernando and I hadn’t planned a single thing for the wedding. We knew it would be in Valencia, and in the summer while he was off from work, but that was it. We hadn’t set any kind of date for it; we wanted to wait until Fernando could afford to have a beautiful (yet intimate) wedding. I didn’t really feel like a bride, I hadn’t done any bride-y things, but suddenly I wanted to try on dresses, just to see what it felt like.
The shop was small, with light hardwood floors and wallpaper with two-toned, beige stripes. An elaborate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a beautiful light pattern on the wall. A mirror stood in front of an elevated platform, and racks of dresses lined the walls.
I hadn’t really talked to any other brides, but when I walked into the shop, I wished that this trend could have continued. There was only one other group in the shop, and they were giggling and cheering loudly. Each member wore a pink terry cloth tracksuit, with their position in the bridal party bedazzled in the ass area. They were also wearing t-shirts which were a lighter pink, reading “Homegirl of the Bride- Julie’s Wedding,” along with their names. It was one of the most disgusting sights I had ever seen. What was more disgusting was their loud discussion of some underwear they planned on purchasing for the bride, which were to read ‘Groom Parking,’ with an arrow pointing in a very obvious direction. I would not continue to be friends with anyone who thought it fit to purchase those for me. They would be kicked out of the wedding party.
A friendly, older woman with short white hair and an old-lady tweed skirt and matching jacket, most likely with shoulder pads, who introduced herself as Lucille, quickly helped me. However, I could see a twinge of annoyance in her eyes when I was unable to answer what kind of dress I was looking for. Princess? Ballerina? Column? Mermaid? I didn’t know what those were. She assured me that I could try on some of all of them so I could get an idea of what I wanted.
As I was waiting in the changing area, a fellow bride, who I assumed to be with the pink tracksuit group, emerged from a changing room wearing what can only be described as a complete monstrosity. It had baggy sleeves that went down to her elbows, too many pick-ups giving the impression that she was wearing fifty pairs of underwear and that it was accidentally tucked in to all of them. She was wearing an iridescent veil that had hundreds of butterflies embroidered on it. Each one appeared to have a curly moustache. Even worse was the central heart pattern, which, I might be crazy, seemed to have Emilio Estevez’s face in the middle, circa ‘Stakeout.’
She began to cry, and rushed to the platform to show it off to her bedazzled bridal party. I have never heard anything worse in my life; it sounded like what I imagine one would hear at the gates of hell. I quickly covered my ears and ran to one of the curtained changing rooms. Apparently, it did little to dampen the sound.
Lucille brought several dresses soon, and set to helping me try them on. The first was apparently a “mermaid” cut with delicate lace and a “sweetheart” neckline. I was just inspecting it in the mirror when my cell phone rang, the caller ID indicating that it was Fernando.
“Hey, you’ll never guess what I’m wearing right now!” I said, figuring he would be excited that I was trying on wedding dresses.
“It’s always been a dream that a woman offer up that information without me having to ask!” Fernando laughed stupidly. “Please tell me it’s edible underwear!”
That was probably one of the last things that I thought Fernando would ever say. I could practically smell the alcohol across the phone line.
“Where are you, even?” I inquired.
“Uh… I’m at… the Boo!-bie Mansion!” he slurred.
“Oh my god, what is that?” I didn’t want to hear things like that in the beautiful dress I was wearing.
“It’s a haunted house strip club! Did you know that they existed? It’s amazing!” he raved. “They did a line dance to the Monster Mash! Without any clothes!”
“Wow Fernando, that sounds… Great… Why are you there, though?"
"They put a bag over my head and dragged me here. Apparently they say that I work too hard..." he lamented. “Guess what just happened! Tim just got kicked out! He hid in a coffin, jumped out and motorboated an unsuspecting stripper!”
“That sounds like Tim,” I said, concerned for the stripper.
“Can you come and pick me up?” he asked sheepishly.
“Sure, Fernando. Where is it?”
“It’s on Wood and Black Cock street,”
“Uh… Do you mean Back Colquitt?” I responded, while wiping tears of laughter from my eyes.
“No, I’m really confident it’s Black Cock.”
“Alright…”
* * *
I was embarrassed to go anywhere called the ‘Boo!-bie Mansion.’ My pride wasn’t ready for a blow like that. But things got worse when I approached said mansion, when I realized that the logo contained a rather busty female ghost. Who could possibly think that this was appropriate? Fernando and Tim, apparently.
After pushing through the fake cobwebs and spiders, I could hear an eerie tune with wailing and shrieking. I wish that it was a soundtrack, but it seemed to be the strippers. They all had long black wigs, ghostly or skeletal make-up, a few vampires, corsets, red eyes, long black boots, and bras made of mini jack-o-lanterns that somehow lit up. I easily spotted Fernando’s iridescent blonde hair and scintillating bare arms, but he was with a group that I recognized. While Tim wasn’t with them, I did identify Hank Lampard, Sergio Ramos, and the goalkeeper Julio Iglesias. Sergio was wearing a light yellow button-up with brown circles around the centre. He topped it off with a beige fedora with a brown ribbon, red and blue feathers, and some large sticks that caused it to tip at a jaunty angle. Additionally, he was wearing some classy fifties cat-eye sunglasses, despite the fact that he was in a very dimly lit room. Julio was sporting a construction pylon orange mesh wife beater tucked into some high-waisted black trousers, and an oversized orange and red Hawaiian shirt. His nipples featured prominently in the wife beater. He was additionally inexplicably wearing a ski mask, only with small holes for both eyes and his mouth, as well as science safety goggles. Finally, Hank was wearing a turquoise leather cat suit with fringe under the arms and a plunging neckline, as well as a maroon feather boa. He was also wearing a tiny top hat, with a mesh veil falling over his eyes, adding to his aura of mystery. This shocked me.
It seemed as though they had imbibed many of the strange green drinks served out of tiny cauldrons. They were bubbling and steaming appropriately. As if anything here was explicable, there was an inexplicable chilli pepper wreath centrepiece, which caused a wave of fury indoors as I wondered why the fuck I had been subjected to this monstrosity.
“Olgalina! You’re the only WAG that has shown up to pick us up! The others refused!” Hank cried. He actually cried a little.
“Well, you know me…” I responded. They didn’t know me, but I didn’t know what else to say.
Fortunately, Fernando did not appear to have gotten dressed in the dark, in a drag queen’s closet. Well, that was mostly Hank. He was wearing jeans, a white and grey striped sweater, and a white belt. Sadly, he was also wearing painted sneakers with multicoloured spots and stripes. He looked almost as drunk as he had been the night that he had scored his Juventus Champions League goal.
“Olga, my love!” he shouted as he came over and tried to slow dance with me despite the fact that there was no music. I put a stop to this quickly.
“No Chinese Chainsaw Massacre!” Julio muttered under his breath. Everyone ignored this.
Just then, two people that I recognized, and one that I did not, took to the stage and began a saucy performance of a medley of ‘I Dream of Jeanie,’ ‘You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,’ and ‘Greased Lightning.’ They were announced one by one. First there was I Dream of Gino, a Shrek look-alike. Next there was a brown-haired and brown-eyed, teen-stached beauty, named Sidney Lou Who. I quickly realized that it was Pittsburgh Penguins teammates Evgeni ‘Gino’ Malkin and Sidney Crosby, apparently on vacation. Finally, there was King Lightning, who seemed to be sans pants. She had on a shocking amount of clothing: pill box hat, black uniform jacket with red trim and gold buttons, matching skirt, gloves, but her bottom half only wore a pair of satin dance trunks, and some silk stockings with the seam up the back.
I looked around and realized that the waitresses were wearing slashed clothing, axes that seemed to be going through their bodies, and make-up that gave the impression that they had been beaten up. I made a comment to Fernando about how inappropriate it was that the ‘Boo!-bie Mansion’ was eroticising violence against women, which was not well received by his peers.
Sergio Ramos unceremoniously began calling me “Olgalina the Feminazi,” Julio began booing and wouldn’t stop for ten minutes, and Hank said to Fernando “college women are more trouble than they’re worth” and that “women should be seen and not heard.” I vaguely heard someone suggest Fernando “keep that bitch on a leash.” I think that it might have been Tim O’Shea, hiding in the coffin.