guest blogger: 'for the guys' weddings take their toll

Q. HMOH,

I’m gonna be frank right off the bat: I don’t follow this blog too closely. It’s not that I don’t enjoy your sense of humor – I do, very much so – it’s just that I’m a heterosexual guy, I couldn’t care less about The Bachelorette, and I think "Wedding Date" is the worst movie ever made, right up there with Ishtar and The Adventures of Pluto Nash. With that said, I’m really excited you started your own blog, writing about a subject that you’re passionate about and making people laugh along the way (not an easy thing to do, at all). The reason I’m writing is because I need advice that only you, Handmaid of Honor, can provide. Also, I believe my story, which is 100% true, could greatly benefit others, both bachelors and bachelorettes alike (but mostly bachelors).

Some background. I’ve been dating (actually, I should say “I was dating,” but we’ll get there soon enough) a girl – let’s just call her the Callous Ice Queen Who Wears Way Too Much Makeup (or “CIQWWWTMM” for short) – for four months. Things got serious quickly and two months in she invited me to two of her friends’ weddings, both taking place in North Carolina at the end of May / beginning of June. (I think HMOH Tip #525 on Destination Weddings inspired her.) Thinking this girl was pretty much the cat’s pajamas in every conceivable way, I accepted. I then reciprocated and asked her to join me at my best friend’s California wedding in July. Although I hadn’t been extended a “plus one” invitation, I knew that if I asked my best friend in earnest, he would work with his wonderful fiancée to make it happen. Two weeks later I got the go-ahead and booked a second roundtrip ticket to the sunny west coast. We planned to spend a week out there.

Since the two NC weddings were on consecutive Saturdays, we decided to take off the week in between and vacation at the beautiful home of my best college buddy and his wife in Charleston, South Carolina. To save some money and give us some flexibility, we elected to take my car and drive the aggregate 1,600 miles. We equipped ourselves with her GPS, her E-ZPass® tag, and her iPod, which featured way too much Michael Bublé and not nearly enough AC/DC.

The first wedding went fine, although there were a few wrinkles that I should probably mention. For example, she didn’t seem to want to take any pictures with me whatsoever; she seemed uncomfortable – almost annoyed – when I touched her arm or tried to dance with her (which was silly, because I’m arguably one of the best around at twirling girls on the dance floor; ask anyone); and she stopped introducing me as her “boyfriend” and instead simply said, “This is _____.” without any further clarification. Oh yeah, there’s one other thing I should note: Two weeks earlier we (and when I say “we” I mean “she”) decided that we were going to break up in August because we were headed to different business schools located 700 miles apart. Yup, minor detail. We did agree, however, to keep our summer plans in tact and savor our remaining time together so that one day we would look back at the six months as something special and great. Foolishly, I thought she meant all of this. It seems I had forgotten that she was a woman.

When we got to Charleston, the eyeliner, as they say, hit the fan. Not only was she aloof around me, but she became increasingly rude and even hostile at times. When I confronted her (extremely diplomatically, I might add) about her behavior, it was clear we were headed for our official falling-out party. In short, she confessed that she no longer felt “connected” to me, nor did she have any “romantic passion” left for me. Having taken an intro psych class freshman year of college, I speculated that she was simply putting up “a wall” so that she wouldn’t be hurt when we inevitably broke up.  Whatever the reason, we ended our conversation with a lovely shouting match that ultimately woke up our hosts and their two gigantic British bulldogs, who began barking feverishly. I put on my old high school lacrosse shorts, grabbed my pillow and moved to the couch in their living room. I think I slept ten, maybe fifteen minutes.

The next day I tried to make the best of a bad situation – and salvage a vacation and summer I had spent months planning – by proposing a compromise that my Charleston buddy, who had been married two years, suggested to me: take the focus off the relationship-y stuff and just have fun together. Reluctantly, she agreed. It turns out she was much, much better at this whole acting like we were not in a relationship thing. I, on the other hand, was so angry / shocked / hurt that I became physically ill and spent the second night in a row not sleeping at all. Delirious, the next morning – our last one in Charleston – I made her take me to the emergency room so I could get some Ambien. What I expected to be a relatively quick and painless visit ended up being a six-hour ordeal, complete with me receiving an I.V., getting a CAT Scan, and learning that something was terribly “amiss” with my heartbeat, which had dropped to a very low 40 beats per minute. At 3pm, when the doctors concluded I wasn’t going to die, I was discharged, with powerful sleep medicine in hand. She picked me up in my car (she did not give me a hug) and we headed to Salisbury, NC, which was four hours north.

Thanks to the Ambien, I fell asleep Thursday night halfway through the Lakers-Celtics game. I woke up Friday morning feeling somewhat better but not great (e.g., when I turned my head my vision no longer lagged several seconds behind; however, I still cried often and uncontrollably). When I asked her what our plan was for the day, I was informed that she had an important brunch with “the girls” followed by manicures, pedicures, and other girl stuff that I didn’t care about. What was I to do with my time? Fortunately, Salisbury is the home to several gas stations, the soft drink Cheerwine, and the regional supermarket Food Lion. Needing to clear my mind, I headed down to the hotel lobby for a complimentary continental breakfast and to read a USA Today, which I discovered is written for retarded people. When I returned to the room, she interrupted her elaborate makeup-application ritual to give me a death stare I shall not soon forget. She then chewed me out for being “childish,” which would be the equivalent of her berating an Amish girl for wearing too much eyeshadow and blush. Continuing her tirade, she told me straight up she could no longer put up with me as I was becoming a threat to her enjoyment of her friend’s wedding, which was obviously the most important thing in the whole world given everything that had happened, not to mention the state of my health. My crime? Apparently, I had let our door close too hard on my way to the lobby. I disagreed, and after another lovely yelling match, I decided I that I had had enough of the CIQWWWTMM. In what I can only describe as something out of a movie, I packed my bags, loaded them onto a cart, and said, “I’m sorry this didn’t work out.” As I let the door close (too hard) behind me, I heard: “That’s it? You’re really leaving?”

I pulled my cart down the hallway and through the lobby, past the gaggle of her bubbly, Chardonnay-sipping friends, who were confused by the sight of me leaving with my bags. I loaded the car, cranked the radio – it was George Michael’s “Freedom,” I kid you not – and released the loudest, most primal, jubilant scream of my life. Twelve hours later, with the aid of her GPS and E-ZPass, I was back in New York, not quite sure if what just happened actually happened, or if it was simply the Ambien playing a cruel joke on my exhausted body and mind. I have no idea how she got home, but I bet (i.e. hope) it was an expensive plane ride.

HMOH, I had mentioned earlier that I needed your advice. Initially, when I started writing this last night, I didn’t know what to do about the California wedding. But the more I thought about – and the more I consulted good friends, who are invaluable in times like these – I realized it was a no-brainer: go out there by myself, have a blast, and try to take down a cute Californian bridesmaid (once she gets a taste of my superior twirl moves, she won’t be able to resist).

The question I have for you is more difficult. You see, since I’ve been home, which has been a mere three days, I’ve spent the vast majority of my time driving over every major toll bridge and through every major tunnel in the metropolitan area – using her E-ZPass to pay the fares. The Throgs Neck Bridge is my favorite, simply because it’s nearby and it’s really easy to pull a U-turn at the end and go back through in the other direction. However, various toll collectors, whose expertise I have solicited, have recommended I try the Verrazano Bridge because its toll is $11.00, double that of the Throgs Neck. The thing is, they only charge you if you’re headed westbound into Staten Island. 

So, finally, my question to you: What is the optimal way to run up the most exorbitant tab possible on her E-ZPass tag?

Look forward to hearing from you. Congratulations on the blog and best of luck!

Laate,

Scos 

A.  Dear Scos,

I'll tell you what I tell all my heartbroken friends ... she's a d-bag and very immature and doesn't deserve you anyways.  She's fat, ugly, a total biatch and wears WAY too much make-up (am I right, or am I right?).  Do you want me to punch her for you? Cut off her balls?

Make sure you look really hot in your next Facebook album and ask that your friends make the privacy settings "Friends of Friends" so she can see how much fun you're having without her.

As for the EZ-Pass and her pending debt - ever drive cross country?  Why not call your flights to your best friend's wedding a wash, and take to the roads and toll booths ... I'd imagine there are hundreds on your way to California.

Let's get drinks soon.

-HMOH