Chapter 1: Attack of
the Horrible Bridesmaid Dress
Sitting in the fluffy boutique made me want to vomit, or
gauge my eyes out, if I had to hear “Endless Love” one more fucking time. It’s
not that I don’t appreciate music, but hearing sappy love songs for the last
four hours had official been my own private hell. My limited experience with
love could be the biggest aversion to the damn song. Or maybe it was my sheer
hatred for the color pink. Either way, today effin blowed. The only time I
played in the game of love, I failed miserably. Left shattered into a
million and one tiny pieces, and alone. No wonder there are so many single people
in this world. Nursing third degree burns from previous lovers was a good
enough reason for someone to run far far away from the evil bastard.
“Molly Anne, are you paying attention? I asked what you
thought of this dress?” My overly excited and dramatic sister questioned, while
she twirled in another weird shade of pink dress up on the pedestal. Everyone
in the group that we were with agreed in the selection. All I can see is this
horrible color and the big as fuck flower bow right above her ass.
“What’s going on with the funky color?”
“Really Molly, do you have no taste? It’s called rose, and it’s
one of the main staples of the wedding. Seriously, I have been planning this
wedding for months and you have no clue!”
Her voice reminded me of a banshee, the tone that made you
want to walk yourself right off a cliff. She was right; I haven’t paid any
attention to this gigantic horrible affair she was planning to her own personal
ken doll. Watching her model dress after dress for the bridal party was enough
participation for me, plus shouldn't her bridesmaids be trying them on? I’m no
expert on the ins and outs of wedding planning, but I figure the bride wore a
wedding dress and the bridesmaids wore the other ugly frock, not the bride
doing both. But hey, I’ve been wrong before, just ask anyone in my family.
“That dress looks amazing on you Rebecca,” one of her many
clone Barbie friends exclaimed, as I rolled my eyes. Of course they liked the dress;
it had been by far the ugliest thing she had put on today.
“See this is the perfect color, but I don’t know how the top
is going to look on Molly’s chest. I mean you need some curves to fill out the
“Are you that shallow Rebecca, wait, scratch that. I can’t
believe you are that worried about my boobs. It a dress, just pick a fucking
dress and we can be done.” I have finally snapped, there was no coming back
from pissed off Molly land now.
There was not one
ounce of compassion left in my body for my sister. I don’t care what fucking
color the dress is, if it has one strap or two, or if its floor length, or
above my knees. All I wanted is for this day to be over. I have a date playing
at the coffee house down the corner from my apartment tonight, and I couldn’t wait
to get out of here.
“Molly Anne, there is no reason to snap at your sister. She
has tough decisions to make, and you are not helping young lady,” our mother
glared, making me feel like I was twelve years old again.
“I’m done, pick the dress with your little friends and then
order mine. Size two please, remember it’s a size smaller than what you wear.”
I knew throwing the size factor would be like a one-two
punch to my sister’s ego. Her appearance was so important to her, just like
every other woman at the country club. Being skinnier then her was always a
touchy subject, even if she is full of gorgeous womanly curves, and I look like a
stick with small boobs attached awkwardly under my face.
“Molly Anne McGlenister, you need to apologize right now!”
Our mother’s eyes bulged out of her face, considering that was the only thing
that could move with all the Botox she had recently injected. Slowly, I turned
around and offered a sweet smile. I flipped the bird and let my smile fall,
glaring at the women sitting around the large mirrors. I couldn’t believe
anyone wanted to be like those robots. I’m pretty sure they all shared the same
bullshit filled brain.
“Deuces bitches.” Sticking my tongue out at them, I turned
for the door and stomped my way out of the frilly fucking nightmare. I am never
getting married, this was a total joke. If love really existed, how in the
world would your future spouse let you jump on the crazy train and plan all
this crap? It’s like the bride’s soul has been taken by a body snatcher and all
sense of reason had been lost. Well, that would require my sister to have a
soul, and I’m pretty sure she sold it to the devil at fourteen for bigger boobs.
Why didn’t I think of that?
It was like I could finally breathe again, as I skipped over
to my car. No longer suffocating amongst all the carbon copy clones, I was able
to run away and not look back. Well, that would hold true till Sunday morning
brunch at the club. That was the only day someone could catch me in a damn
skirt and polo. If having breakfast with my parent’s wasn't bad enough, I
actually had to dress the part of one big happy fucking family too. I had to
take out my lip ring, and limit my earrings to only two studs in each lobe. My
short choppy black and purple bob would be neatly straightened, and pinned back
so the purple pieces were less noticeable; and I once again, was a McGlenister
daughter. At least they claimed I was, on days like that. The moment I ran out
of there, the stupid shirt was off, and I was planning on driving home in just
my bra and panties. I didn’t care if people saw me. At least my undergarments
reflected who I was; my parents didn’t have control on what color or style
those little ditties were……….. just yet.
My car beeped, as the unlock button was pressed and I slid into
the hot leather interior. It’s always hot in the south, but this spring had been
unbearable. One would think that living in the lower states with all the
‘beautiful’ sunshine I would tan, but no, that wasn’t in the cards for me. I
looked like a damn lobster if I stayed out in the sun for too long. It never
turned into a tan once the burn went away, just back to to the lovely shade of
white. My mother and sister were always trying to get me to go get a spray tan,
but I have a huge aversion to looking like an oompa loompa. Orange just wasn’t my color; I’d stick the
basics of the color wheel.
I smashed the key into the ignition and brought my baby to
life; cranking the air conditioner as high as it would go. The purr of the
engine sent chills down my spine, as I tossed the car into reverse and glanced
behind me. The only benefit to my parents having money was this car. It took
almost two years of begging my father to let me have a classic before I even
got remotely anywhere with him.
“They are not safe
vehicles. How about a nice Porsche or a Mercedes?” My father always asked.
But, I was relentless in my quest for the 65 Mustang
convertible. I spent months searching for the perfect one, and finally found it
outside of Athens, Georgia. It was the
perfect color of Cherry red, and still was sporting the original black top. The
interior needed work, but her body was in mint condition.
I begged and pleaded to the best of my abilities for weeks
till he finally caved and bought this little beauty. My father had sent a
driver down to pick it up and haul it back for us, since he refused to do it
himself. I remember waiting outside for the truck to pull up with my baby; it
was automatic love at first sight. Now, anyone who says it’s not love at first
sight its lust, is a lying sack of shit. They apparently have never met my car.
I am in a monogamous lesbian relationship with this slick piece of metal. She
captured my heart at first glance, and we have been together ever since. Who
needed a man, when I had this power between my legs.
Tossing my keys on the bar in the kitchen I wandered over to
grab a beer from the fridge. The cold liquid was exactly what I needed after an
afternoon like that. Who knew having my sister try on millions of ugly dresses
would take so much out of me. It felt like I had just been body checked at a
roller derby game; my body was out for the count. Slamming the rest of my Coors
Light bottle back, I tossed it into the recycling bin, and headed for the
shower. I needed to undo the ‘prettiness’ I had done earlier to fit ‘in’ with
the crowd. The real Molly needed to emerge from the fake BS I graced everyone
Watching the water swirl down the drain I couldn’t help but
feel like it should symbolize something meaningful in life. Maybe, that my life
was a big sucking vortex? Or that everything always seemed to head south? It’s
not that I have a bad life; it’s just not the life I wanted to live. I had
never been into the glitz and glamour that my mother and sister’s world thrived
on. I didn’t take part in any social committees, and wasn’t crowned anything at
a high school dance. I don’t dress in the latest fashion, and my hair normally
had some sort of vibrant color streaked into the black color I dye it. Socially
I am an outcast in our community, but in my little world I am a Rock Star.
My father always told us girls we could grow up to be
anything, and my mother harped from an early age that we needed to grow up and
become the perfect trophy wife. Somehow my lame sister believed all that crap,
and now she is falling down the black rabbit hole of marriage. Maybe it’s not my
life that represents a drain, maybe it is just everyone else around me. Then
again, maybe I just think too much and need to turn my damn mind off. Yep,
betting that’s to key to my solitude. Silence, it’s a novel concept.
It never took me long to get ready, just a few minutes to
dry my short hair and run a flat iron over the pieces that insist on being
crazy and medusa like. My makeup was pretty basic too; however some nights I
added a little glittery eye shadow to my normal eyeliner and mascara. However,
those nights are rare, considering I had a tendency to look like a street
walker after it was done. It took a long time for me to become comfortable with
my appearance. All I ever heard while growing up was what I should have been
doing different. Making my hair a brighter blonde and adding layers of makeup
on my skin, was never going to make the outlook any better. I hated that life,
and in return hated everyone around me. Thus making me the stereotypical teen
that thought the world was out to get me. Emo had nothing on my inner sulking
lifestyle, I was a total wreck.
My family never accepted the girl I chose to be; it was
always “Molly, you would look so much better if you just did this”. But somehow
I made it through those awful years of teenage angst. Lord knows how, but I
actually came out on top. In the end I truly liked myself, and that was all
that mattered in my little world.
Tonight was one of those nights I decided to take a little
more time on my appearance. Running the flat iron over my ends and backcombing
the top to get a little height, let the purple streaks I dyed last week pop out
more from the underneath. My eyes are smoldering with the smoky eye look, and
the perfect clear gloss was applied to my lips. Taking a step back from the
mirror I gazed at my reflection. “Molly Anne McGlenister, what in the world
have you done to yourself now?”
I played at the café at least one night a week. Normally
that was all the time I had available since my soulless black leach of a boss
needed me at every single moment of my life. Being an assistant to the event
planner at the club wasn’t my first choice for employment. However there really
wasn’t much around here that would pay
me what I make, considering I never went to college and insisted on living on
my own. I worked at a little local record shop for a couple months after I
turned eighteen. It was the best job in the entire world, completely my scene
and pace. Listening to music all day soothed my soul and cleared my mind. It
was like waking up in heaven each day when I stepped foot in that place.
Sadly, I wanted so desperately to move out of my parents’
house and the only way that was going to happen was if I actually made more
than minimum wage. My parents made it very clear they would not help with my
living expenses if I did not attend college, and by college they meant Old
Miss. Surviving the couple years till my trust fund became available at twenty
one was a daunting task, one that I barely came out of. But I managed; I
survived the ordeal of early adult life and didn’t end up stripping. Not that
anyone would want to see me strip with my itty titty bitties anyway.
I had to quit that amazing job and work with my mother’s
best friend to be able to move the hell out of my parents grasp. At the time I
didn’t know what hurt more. Losing the music job, or going to my mother and
asking her for help with a job. Looking back I realized it was my mother, I
fucking hated it when she had one up on me.
Tonight was the night where my soul could fly free amongst
the tangled mess I claimed to live in. I loved everything about playing guitar.
The click of opening the case, peering into the blood-red crushed velvet insides
of my guitar’s save haven. The weight in my hands, when I lifted him out of the
case, and place him in my arms. My fingers would glide effortlessly over his
strings, and the cool leather of the strap comforts my neck when I slide it
over my head. There was not one little thing I didn’t like about playing
guitar, it was like my southern comfort in a roundabout way.
“Hey Benny, how is tonight going?”
I gave a soft smile to the man behind the mixing boards in
the corner of the small café. Before I took the stage at nine, it was open mic
night. It tended to bring in all sorts of people from various walks of life; a
truly diverse group of friendly people. It’s one of the main reasons I moved to
a loft apartment down town. The vibe the city gave off was amazing; colorful
and lively. There were so many cultures crammed into a small area, that everyone
was basically forced to get along if you wanted to stay and enjoy the
atmosphere. No one was spiteful and mean; essentially a room full of music
loving hippies filled the cafe during the night. It was the best place for a
music junkie like myself. I could listen to just about anything with a beat,
letting my mind get wrapped up in the melodies and the lyrics from the songs,
touching my soul and leaving an imprint with every cord strung.
Being able to play an acoustic set for an hour is one of the most fulfilling rewards I had been blessed with. The opportunity to have my own set was validation that all the hard work and dedication I was putting into this passion, finally paying off. Week after week I sat on that stool up there, and poured out my heart into my music, letting it wash away the grime of day to day life. Yep, even if I had to wear a bridesmaid dress that was one of the most hideous things I had ever seen in this entire world, it didn’t matter. I was playing music, and that truly was all I cared about in the end