A Bridezilla Horror Story
It was a cold rainy New York morning when I received an email from a friend.
“Hey ladies! It’s time for Veena’s birthday celebration. We decided to go to Cancun this year from April 5–9. Let me know if you’re in! xoxo”
My first thought was, how frizzy will my hair be in Mexico in April? My second thought was, I wonder how many condoms I should bring. I reasoned I should bring a variety of different sizes because as Forest Gump says, “life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.” The same goes for penises.
I had already planned two other vacations later that year, so it wasn’t like I needed to go on a third. But New York had really been getting on my nerves lately. From the aggressive cabbies who felt it was appropriate to shout at me when I crossed a crosswalk (for committing the crime of crossing no less)[1] to the pigeons who insisted on laying eggs in various locales all over my balcony, I was sick of NYC. I had scrubbed enough shit off my balcony to qualify for an entry-level janitorial job. I had just broken things off with my FWB when I realized he got more excited about sending me dick pics or snaps of himself masturbating on Snapchat than actually engaging in coitus so I knew it was time for a new scene.
Men seem incapable of understanding that under no circumstances do women give a shit about dick pics.[2] And we definitely do not give a shit about men masturbating. I’m pretty sure he meant it as a compliment, like “hey look what happens when I think of you!” but honestly, I just wanted to hurl every time he sent me a snap. I went along with it the way phone sex operators pretend they’re just wearing lingerie and touching themselves when they’re really wearing sweats and eating Cheetos.
Plus, if I had to endure another annoying New York food trend, I was going to punch myself in the vagina. When rainbow bagels became a thing, I knew I had to get the fuck out of Brooklyn. In other words, a Mexican vacay seemed like a pretty smashing idea. I figured if free-flowing all-inclusive alcohol couldn’t make me feel better, I could jump off the Brooklyn Bridge when I got back.
After I agreed to participate in the forthcoming festivities, I marched over to the mirror to assess how far I was from beach body shape. Things weren’t ideal, but they weren’t terrible. My arms were only slightly batwing-ish and while I could never get my thighs to not rub together, certain poses did make them look slimmer. I reasoned if I just stayed away from anything resembling bread for the next five months, didn’t wave at anyone, and took laxatives a couple of days before leaving, I would be fine.
On our first day the other girls had all kinds of ambitious ideas of what to do. Get massages, eat, hide under a shaded gazebo, go to the beach, etc. I had no such plans. I wanted to lie out next to the pool, scope out the potential man meat, and sip a piña colada until Brooklyn seemed like a faraway memory.
I was peacefully reading Aziz Ansari’s Modern Romance when I heard a commotion to my left.
“OH MY GOD!! Where the fuck is the waiter? I’m sick of these food containers!” This woman was screeching like Veronica from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on bath salts. Or one of those godforsaken housewives of Shitsville (I don’t know why they just cut the bullshit and call the show “Plastic Surgery Gold Diggers”). I peered over and noticed she looked like she hadn’t eaten in approximately three years and was wearing a white one-piece with the word “Bride” on it. Her face was contorted in a way that suggested she had both just smelled someone fart and was experiencing labor pains. I wondered how her soon-to-be husband (she was too tacky to be a lesbian) had sex with her without his penis shriveling up and hiding behind his balls. If he even had any.
Suddenly, I heard a soft thud behind me. I turned to look. Bridezilla had thrown her food container and an empty water bottle behind my beach chair, ruining my previous peaceful vibe. I could not believe what had just happened. A grown woman in a five-star resort was not only throwing a public temper tantrum, she was littering. Who the fuck litters while people are looking? I’m not talking about a gum wrapper. I’m talking about a Styrofoam container full of what I could only surmise was buffalo chicken wing bones. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Several women were sitting with their jaws agape.
Great, they’re on my side I thought to myself. Just in case I needed backup. I turned around to Bridezilla and calmly said “Can you put your garbage in the garbage can?”
“It’s not bothering you,” she snapped back. I felt like Mike Tyson about to enter the ring. This cunt was going down.
I turned around, still not getting up from my comfortable chaise. I wanted her to know that I wasn’t even remotely as riled up and insane as she was. I’ve never been one to raise my voice. I prefer talking down to people as though they are peasants. I find it’s far more effective in an argument. “Maybe you’re used to trash in your trailer park, but this is a 5-star resort and the rest of weren’t raised in a barn. So, pick your shit up or I’m calling a manager.”
“You’re fat!” she yelled. I seriously could not believe that was her comeback. For one thing, I am a size 4. A slightly pudgy 4 when I’m on my period and have just downed an entire bag of Beanitos (they’re chips made from beans, so much healthier), but still a relatively small person. Besides, I didn’t wave at her and my legs were crossed in a way that made them look long and slim. Secondly, what the fuck kind of response was that? It was totally irrelevant to the situation at hand. I could tell I was dealing with someone who was less human and more like a rabid dog.
“Honey these are called tits and ass. You should buy some so your fiancé will actually fuck you.” Za-zing! No one was coming for me! Coming up with insults on the fly is a hidden talent of mine. I also reasoned even if she couldn’t afford them, she could put it on a Care Credit account as I did for my Lasik. Where there is a will, there's a way.
That’s when I heard applause. I turned to my right and saw a group of girls clapping and smiling at me. “You go, girl! That bitch is crazy!”
“Thank you!” I shouted back. I may have once been the ultimate dork in middle school (the coke bottle glasses and mullet didn’t help), but right now I was the Queen fucking Bee.
I heard Bridezilla’s girlfriends (all three of them) trying to calm her down as she was having a complete and utter meltdown. One of them picked up the offending trash and quietly gave me an “I’m so sorry” look as she walked past me.
I continued reading my book, but couldn’t help but wonder where everyone else in my group was. How are these bishes not here when all this craziness is going on? This whole story is so entertaining. As if the Universe heard me, one by one the rest of the crew started to filter in. All ten of them.
Seeing as everyone on this girls’ trip was Indian or Indian-American, I decided the best way to fill them in was to tell them in Hindi. The only problem is I have the Hindi-speaking skills of a two-year-old.
“Ladies!” I hissed in Hindi. “Come here, I have to tell you something!”
As they gathered around, I started weaving my story of intrigue and drama. “This girl over there in the white…” I paused searching for the rest of the words in Hindi. My mind was completely blank. My parents have proven to be useless to me many times, but this by far was one of the worst letdowns. My parents never taught me Hindi and whatever I picked up was from their arguments over why my dad was gassy, cheesy Bollywood movies, and my brief foray into Rosetta Stone. What good is having immigrant parents who speak another language, if you can’t use it to talk shit about people?
I gave up and began to whisper in regular old English. “That chick over there in the white bathing suit is bat shit crazy. She actually threw an entire carton of chicken bones behind my chair!”
“Oh my God!” Shefali whispered. “What a lunatic!” Shefali was one of the few of us born and raised in India. She had a light refined lilting accent like that of a journalist who had studied British English for years. I bet she never got into a fight about chicken bones.
That’s when we heard behind us, “Why the fuck are you still talking about me?” We spun around. It was Bridezilla. Or as I liked to now call her, Cuntzilla.
Completely losing any dignity I had earlier when I was sipping on my lying lazily on my armchair, sipping my piña colada, and contemplating if squirrels get angry too, I shouted “Are you fucking serious? Because it’s a FREE fucking country, you psycho bitch! I can say whatever I want to my friends.” Truthfully, I have no idea what the freedom of speech laws were in Mexico, but it sounded good.
“Stop talking about me!” she screeched. “I can do whatever I want!” And then she started making fun of one of the Shefali’s accent mocking it and talking shit about India. OH HELL NO.
It was officially on. What came next was a barrage of insults so fierce and rapid-fire, I felt like I was in high school all over again. Here are some gems:
“We will always be richer than you!”
“Go back to your trailer park!”
“At least my husband fucks me!”
“Shut the fuck up, you ugly horse face!”
“Your marriage will never last, you dumb cunt!”
“Your ring is tiny!”
“You need to get laid you skank!”
“You need to eat bitch!”
And people think Asians are docile. Honestly Cuntzilla and her cronies barely had a moment to get a word in edgewise. It was the four of them against eleven of us. And she appeared to be foaming at the mouth, so I can’t say she was really thinking properly.
One of the managers finally realized he was about to have a major brawl on his hands and made his way over to see what all the commotion was about. I flagged him down before Cuntzilla or her friends could get to him. I let our friend Felipe know Cuntzilla was a racist loon and a litterbug who clearly needed to be medicated. And if he didn’t believe me, he could ask anyone else watching the show.
I watched with glee as admonished her and told her and her friends they had to calm down or they would be escorted out. She angrily stomped her feet.
“But they started it!”
“Let’s go to the Royal Spa ladies,” I said loudly. “We won’t have to deal with the riff-raff out here.” We had paid extra for access to a more exclusive area, so I figured it was about time we used it.
I felt as triumphant as Trump did when he managed to spit out a cohesive sentence. I just wish I knew what her name was so I could follow her on Instagram and watch her life and marriage disintegrate as I’m sure it inevitably would. There would be inspirational quotes that would follow as she picked her life got back together, along with pics of her and her remaining friends looking sassy in their best outfits and proclamations of how she doesn’t need a man. Or maybe she would just post selfies from the mental intuition she would end up in.
The rest of our trip wasn’t nearly as exciting. I never used any of the condoms, mostly because there was no one at the resort worth boning. But one of my friends Radha got completely shitfaced and humped me in the pool, so I guess I got a little bit of action.
** Earlier that day I had casually mentioned to one of the girls that I couldn’t understand why people littered and that I don’t know if I would have the guts to confront someone about littering. The moral of the story? Don’t tempt the Universe.
[1] Among other things cabbies have done: offer me weed, alcohol, and sex. They’ve also refused to take me to Brooklyn and refused to let me in the car because I went shopping at Trader Joe’s and bought a shit ton of booze. I filed a ton of complaints and even went to hearings but the city of New York could have given two shits if the female population was subjected to ongoing harassment just for trying to get home. Nothing has made me happier than the invention of Uber. NYC cabbies can eat a dookie as far as I’m concerned.
[2] Except for this one chick, I know Jenny, who has a collection of them on her phone. It’s like a rainbow coalition.
