She shot back an immediate answer saying only 3:00 PM. I entered it in my calendar, noting that the rest of that weekend was blissfully wide open, although I was sure that would change. And with the wedding in Mexico the following weekend, I wouldn’t have much of a reprieve before the next round of chaos.
Not that I’d had anything that felt even mildly like a break since the engagements began, anyway. Trying to juggle the details of all five weddings was exhausting and would have destroyed any social life I had—if I still had the money or friends to have one. And the blog, while therapeutic, also took more time and energy than I expected, especially as I got better at it. Building an audience meant responding to comments and pingbacks, finding other bloggers to network with, and posting links to it anonymously in places where I felt confident my brides wouldn’t be looking. The writing part was great. The rest was tedious, especially between work and weddings. But every time I got a new follower or comment, it felt a little more worth it.
And at least Megan’s was the only shower at which I was expected to do a significant amount of the planning, and the only other bridesmaid with strong opinions was Claire, Tim’s sister. Early in the process, she volunteered to host the shower at her house, which, while far away from Megan’s new home in Columbia, looked nice, if bland, from the pictures Claire sent. And certainly cheaper than renting a venue, so I agreed.
Unfortunately, that meant she thought she was in charge. The day after Caroline’s missive, I found myself driving out to Potomac to meet with Claire and the rest of the bridesmaids for a “planning sesh.”
Claire’s au pair opened the door to her McMansion. “Welcome,” Claire said expansively, coming into the foyer from a room in the back of the house. “The rest of the girls are already here, of course.”
I glanced discreetly at my wrist. I was literally two minutes late. This was a punctuality miracle for me and someone should be putting a medal around my neck, not passive-aggressively telling me I was late.
She escorted me to the living room, the long way, I realized, as we passed through every other room on the first floor to get there.
Jennifer, Kelly, and Julie were sitting together on one sofa, Chrissy was on the loveseat, and an older woman I had never seen before was in one of the two armchairs. Claire immediately arranged herself in the second armchair, which felt rude, as I was still standing, but she clearly wanted that particular chair—it was higher than the rest and arranged so it was facing the group. I said hello and then took the remaining seat next to Chrissy.
“As I was telling the other girls,” she said, expressly to me, “I asked Donna to be here today. Donna is the premier party planner in the DC area.”
I was ninety percent sure that wasn’t true, or else Caryn and her cronies would be using her, plus her Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag, sitting next to her on the floor, would be real if that were the case—and it wasn’t. Donna smiled graciously and nodded.
“The shower will be outside, of course,” Claire said. “We’ll open the pool early. Not that anyone will swim, but it’s just so much more festive when there’s a pool.”
“Do we have a backup plan?” I asked. Claire looked at me in annoyance. “The weather is so iffy in the spring. It could be ninety-four degrees or forty and raining.”
“We’ll have a tent,” Donna said reassuringly.
“A tent isn’t much help if it’s freezing out.”
Claire opened her mouth to speak, but Donna responded first. “If the forecast is bad, I’ll rent space heaters.”
I nodded. “Okay.” The au pair entered with a tray of hors d’oeuvres and I wondered who was watching Claire’s daughter.
I kept my opinions to myself while Claire and Donna went through a rundown of the decorations, but I spoke up at the suggested menu. “No mini crab cakes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Megan is allergic to shellfish.”
“What kind of Marylander is allergic to crab?” Claire laughed. “Is that even a real thing?”
“It is, and she’s allergic.”
“Is it an airborne allergy? Will she die if she’s in the same room as them?”
“No.”
“Well then she can just not eat the crab cakes.”
“It’s her shower. Don’t serve foods she can’t eat.”
Kelly and Jennifer nodded in agreement, but no one said anything. Claire stared at me and I realized that Caroline would probably be Claire’s personal lord and savior. Caroline was everything Claire wished she could be—actually rich, able to shut people down effortlessly to get her way. Instead she was a bratty gnome who was being mean to her future sister-in-law out of—what, exactly? Jealousy? Pettiness? Had her husband’s sister been mean to her and she thought this was how it was supposed to go? I had no idea. But I was the maid of honor, and this wasn’t going to fly.
Claire was still trying to formulate her next move, but I turned to Donna. “Scratch the crab cakes.”
Donna glanced at Claire, then back at me. She crossed them off the legal pad on her lap with a long motion.
“Any other shellfish on the menu?” Donna shook her head, not even looking at Claire, who was silently fuming. “Good. What’s next on the agenda?”
By the time I left Claire’s house, I knew I had made an enemy. Which perhaps I would have cared about if Megan liked her, but she didn’t. So instead of worrying about it, I was planning the blog I would write.
Remember Mini-Me from Austin Powers? Well I just met the wickedest of the wicked bridesmaids’ Mini-Me. I’d say I should get the two of them together, but that would be a disaster. Partially because the wickedest bridesmaid would eat Mini-Me for lunch (then spit her out, of course, because the wicked bridesmaids of the west don’t actually eat or digest food—pretty sure they survive on the consumption of human souls alone), and then how would I explain to Bride C’s fiancé that I was responsible for his sister’s disappearance? If he hasn’t been reading the blog, I’m not sure saying that an evil bridesmaid chewed her up and spit her out like a shark does a surfer would mean anything.
It was uncanny, however, how much like a dollar-store version of a wicked bridesmaid of the west she was, with her Costco appetizers and her knockoff-purse-toting party planner. Granted, she didn’t grow up ridiculously rich, like the wicked bridesmaids did, which, if The Great Gatsby taught me anything, explains the difference in their behavior, old sport. The evil bridesmaids would never invite me to their houses to show off their green dock lights, because they don’t care what I think—I clearly don’t have enough taste (or money) to appreciate their belongings without salivating over them.
But this chick had the nerve, at Bride C’s housewarming party, to critique the house that Bride C and her fiancé bought when Mini-Me’s in-laws bought them their house. You don’t even OWN the glass house you’re throwing stones from, sister. Knock that off!
In other news, the queen of the evil bridesmaids snapped at other bridesmaids in an email! I felt a small amount of sympathy, but was mostly shoveling popcorn in my mouth while I watched all the drama. She then, of course, came after me, but could there be a rebellion brewing amongst the wicked bridesmaids? I’m twisting my hair into Princess Leia buns just thinking about the idea.
May the bridesmaid force be with you!
Alex texted me just after I hit “Publish,” with a picture of him holding two ties up to his neck. Which one?
The blue. Better with your eyes.
Does it go with what you’re wearing? He had a benefit for work that night and I had agreed to go as his date.
I made a face. You were married too long. We’re not framing pictures from tonight to put on the mantle.
Good point.
I still need to do my hair, so I’m gonna go shower. I’ll see you at six.
He sent a thumbs-up emoji.