As some of you may know, my fiance proposed to me a few months ago at the top of Mulholland Drive with a mariachi band (throw in a few backwards-talking midgets, and we would be in a David Lynch movie!) I’m very excited about the idea of marriage with a person so wonderful that he works a 16-hour day and still stops at the grocery store to bring me Fresca. But I’m not excited about the wedding. And I don’t mean in a cute, ‘oh I hope it doesn’t rain’ kind of way–I mean in an ‘I won’t make it down the aisle unless I’m on so much Xanax that I’m drooling’ fashion. I hate weddings. Maybe it’s because my first experience as a part of a wedding party involved standing alongside the 18-year-old bride in a ceremony that I KNEW would be a disaster, and having my long hair set on fire by a candle afterwards. The marriage went down in flames soon after my hair. Read more
