A 'zilla in us all

It's time to set the record straight on bridezilla-ness. In the spirit of planning my own nuptial extravaganza, I recently watched the show Bridezillas, which is based on pampered brides-to-be who should probably just be dragged across town until they realize how unprincess-like it is to throw wailing, screaming fits of temper. Ah, John Wayne, how I miss your roguish ways. Nevertheless, I was utterly shocked at how inconceivably childish these spoiled women were behaving. At one point, I think I saw horns sprout. Her eyes gleamed red, she stamped her foot and I swear she growled like the devil, "It's about me, you don't matter! It's all about me!" Foaming at the mouth and whatnot, well, it was enough to put the fear of bridezilla into my little heart. And then I started thinking. "My own, dear family has, on more than one occasion, compared me to this?!" True, by the time this wedding takes place, I will have worked on it for over a year. Trying to fit every piece of food, clothing and decoration into a theme takes research. So I suppose you could say I've become a bit obsessed with detail. However, I have real proof that I am no bridezilla - the day of dresses. I knew that with my matrons of honor living nearly six hours apart, we'd have to get all our dresses at the same time. So I went early to window shop. I looked at every rack, I picked out about 10. Mom helped me "dive" into each one, as you're supposed to do. I dove, I studied, I grimaced, I got stuck, Mom laughed, I found, we left. And a month later, we did it all over again. In my meticulous mind, I had already decided on the dress I liked best. But the choosing of the dress with the women is tradition, so while the girls looked for their dresses, I found a few of mine to showcase for them. And then I heard a familiar "Reowrrr!" - the beginnings of a vicious catfight in the back of the bridal shop. As I part the racks of fluffy white dresses, I come upon a scene to behold. Tricia is towering above one of our assistants, hip stuck out, expression defiant, finger pointed accusingly to the bridesmaid dresses. "How am I supposed to know what it's going to look like if you don't have this dress in my size?! I need to try on my size, it's not going to work if I can't." And then she looks at me. And my heart stops. What I wanted to say was, "Tricia, put the trident down and step away from the nice lady," but what came out was something that sounded more like, "Urghhgahhh." After 25 years, I know my sister's looks. This one means, "I'm going to have an undertone of displeasure about everything that takes place henceforth." So while the woman retreats to ask about sizes, it's my time to show how understanding - how unbridezilla - I really am. "If this won't work, we can go to David's Bridal. I mean, the employees there may be Satan incarnate, but they'll have all the styles in all the sizes. It will be OK. Just chill. Don't tear off her head, I don't want blood on my dress." I could tell she was unconvinced. Somehow, despite the fact that she knew she would be able to get a dress at David's Bridal, she seemed to have it in for this woman, who was begrudgingly returning. "Well, we only have one size of each dress. That's what they ship to us, and that's what we have room for." I'm pretty sure that the gleam I saw in her eye was the woman's coming demise. So I quickly distracted our helpy-helperton into finding the colors for their dresses. And then she threw some attitude my way. "Well, I'm looking at it, and that looks like the same purple to me!" Oh no you didn't insult the bride-to-be. Not only did she open my eyes to my sister's growing contempt, but she sparked the bloodlust in me, as well. A foolish woman, indeed. So, naturally, I ratted her out to Tricia, and at that moment, she was off the leash whether I liked it or not. But she was glorious. Stalking around the rack, ranting about the lack of sizes, styles, this and that and everything else she could find - she's excellent backup. And I watched as it dawned on the woman that honey was better than vinegar. Of course, Tricia is keen to that old charade, but she pretended to be the sweetest of sweets to get some compliance. And compliance we all got after that. In the end, we got our dresses. Mine took 15 minutes, no oo's or ah's forced from anyone. Very unbridezilla, if you ask me. But I wonder, as I recall the innocent, overly friendly smile Tricia shot at the woman as we left, is there such a thing as a bridesmaidzilla? ------- Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com. The Atchison Globe