I had so much fun at the bridal show, I just couldn’t wait to tell you more!
I had stolen enough wine-aritas that the caterer offering them was starting to get suspicious. But I wasn’t the only one. Tense looking grooms and exhausted maids of honor were doing the same. It’s the vendor’s fault for giving away free alcohol. I’m sure the OLCC wouldn’t have approved of the setup.
I stopped for a while at a booth for a company that specialized in vintage and ethnic wedding clothes. The only clothing they had that would even remotely qualify as ethnic were two ratty kimonos.
I found the photographer who did Art “Everclear” Alexakis’ wedding. I got to look through all his wedding photos and feel stabs of jealousy because Art didn’t marry me. I can’t see why not, we have talked on two occasions. I figured since this photographer was good enough for Art, he was good enough for me, even if the cheapest package started at $1,350.
The wine gave me a headache. I can drink my weight in tequila and feel fine, but for some reason, wine makes me feel gross. The headache made me cranky. Okay, it made me crankier. Something happens to me when I get cranky. I get kind of passive-aggressive.
I’d lost the bride and groom somewhat intentionally and was now just milling around. Some young woman in a horribly fitting evening gown strong-armed me into her booth. “Have you seen our delightful selections of invitations? We’re the most popular company in Portland!” La dee da! Something in me couldn’t say that I wasn’t a bride. Something in me started spinning a story. She had wasted my time and violated my no-fly zone, so she would pay. “Umm, no. I haven’t yet.”
“Well, just look at these! Aren’t they wonderful?” Wonderful like sparkly Richard Tyler shoes or wonderful like Oprah? My mouth opened and words came out that I had not planned on speaking. “Do you have foreign language invitations? I mean, is it possible to get them?”
“Oh yes,” she chirped. I wonder if they passed out speed to all the vendors. They were all preternaturally happy. “We have Spanish!” Because that’s the ONLY foreign language in the world.
“No. I need Korean,” I said, noting with glee that her face was falling. I am not a quick sell. But, to my dismay, her face perked up again. “Oh yeah, we have Japanese!” The pundits are right. The American school system is failing us. The future leaders of our nations do not understand that Korea and Japan are distinctly separate nations. “No. I said Korean. I need Korean. Not Japanese. They’re different.”
She was not listening to me. She was digging through a huge pile of books filled with Disney inspired invitations. She found what she was looking for underneath an entire volume devoted to Western themed stationery.
“Yep! Japanese right here!” She opened up the book to a page that said in a 20 point bold font: KOREAN. They were gorgeous invitations written in English and Korean. If I really were getting married, I’d probably purchase these very cards.
“Now, if you get these, you’d have to bring in the Japanese yourself, because we don’t have anyone on staff who speaks Japanese.”
“Do you have anyone who speaks Korean?” My head was banging a loud tune, and I was getting really mad because this lady wasn’t listening to me. “What?” I think I confused her, but she was talking over me anyway. “So anyway, you bring in the text and we pull up the Japanese font.”
“I won’t be bringing you Japanese font.”
“But I thought you wanted Japanese invitations.”
“No. I want Korean invitations. My fianc퀌�’s family can’t read Japanese.” I’m not getting married, hell, I’m not even engaged, but it has become really important that she understand that there is a difference. The languages don’t look the same, they don’t really sound the same and just because Korea and Japan happen to be in Asia, doesn’t mean they all understand the same language. I thought, wrongly, that perhaps people were a bit more enlightened.
Suddenly the light turned on in her head. I could see the comprehension in her eyes. I think.
“Oh,” she says. “There’s a difference?”