Friday, August 31, 2012

No fury like a bridesmaid scorned.

I am so angry right now.

The past few months have been merry hell. HELL. It's Siobhan's fault. Most things at the moment are Siobhan's fault. This wedding, I swear, it's taking over. It has become A Thing. It has arms and legs and three heads and belches tiny pieces of confetti and hatred.

Do you know how to craft an origami crane that's exactly three-point-five centimetres high?
I do, now.
Do you know the price of one hundred and thirty nine hand-crafted champagne glasses?
I do, now.
Do you know where to find swan feathers that have been dyed with nontoxic organic vegetable matter?
I do, now.
Do you know why bridesmaids drink excessively and fantasise about drowning the bride-to-be in a bath full of lemon chiffon cake?
I do, now.

There has also been an embargo on blogging, talking, Whateverbooking, tweeting, or any other form of non-Siobhan-sanctioned venting. The Doctor tries to squeeze into the spare room paper bin whenever he hears her ring tone. Anise is so traumatised that she's started shedding eyelashes. Even my parents twitch when you mention the S word.

No more. The silence is over.

Get ready; it's going to be ugly.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Worst stalker ever

We are no closer to discovering the identity of Siobhan's betrothed.

Last night, after work, I went to the Expensive Bloviated Hyphenated-Name Legal Associates offices and watched Siobhan's window from the park across the road. Espionage is not my strong suit; I was bored within two minutes and began watching other windows instead
. (One guy was jacked into his laptop, grooving away in his chair to music only he could hear. At one point, he apparently forgot where he was and decided to execute an enthusiastic chair twirl. Result: he got garroted by the ear phone cord, his laptop shot off the desk and crashed, his co-workers leapt a foot in the air, and the whole floor got evacuated due to a "bomb threat". It was excellent.)

Threat or no, Siobhan stayed within. (Pity there wasn't really a bomb; I'm fairly sure she could defuse one just by looking at it.) After half an hour of watching evacuated employees complain and smoke in the loading zone out the front, I pulled a book out of my bag so it would look like I was actually doing something productive instead of, well, stalking someone.  Unfortunately it was a really good book. I looked up much, much later to find Siobhan's office dark and her carpark empty. Fucking hell.

On an
equally incompetent note, we are no closer to finding a dress for the "wedding". (I'm calling it that until we have concrete proof of a groom. I even use the air quotes finger thing. Anise has forgiven me.) I'm considering weaving one myself out of plastic bags and the The Doctor's furballs; believe me, it would look better than some of the things Siobhan has shoe-horned me into so far.

Second attempt at investigation coming up... Can someone recommend a really boring book to use as a prop?  

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Missing: One Dude

Is it weird when you're in a bridal party and haven't met the groom?

Actually, no-one's met the groom. Including the bride's sisters.   Or her parents.  Or any of her friends.

(Wait, wait; I'm wrong. Siobhan doesn't have friends.)

It does explain, though, why there wasn't an engagement party. When Anise asked Siobhan about it, Siobhan just kind of waved her hand and muttered something about being busy.  We didn't think much of it at the time - it's not like Siobhan is a regular person, experiencing joy and happiness and other human emotions - and Anise and I went out and had our own engagement party anyway, which mostly consisted of vodka martinis and saying, "Who would marry Siobhan?" in between them, but somewhere between the hours of 2 and 3 am we both began to wonder... What if there is no groom? 

Could Siobhan be deluded enough to organise a wedding without having anyone to marry?  Could she be organising some kind of mail-order groom from Uzbekistan?  ("This is my new husband, Stavros."  "Bezhak." 
"Sorry, Bezhak.  Stavros is my pet name for him." And then she would do a tightly hysterical laugh from behind clenched teeth.) 

So I thought I'd ask a few questions.  In hindsight, it probably wasn't brilliant to start investigations during yet another dress fitting. 

"So, Siobhan," I said, as I was being laced into some godawful thing with ruffles on it.  "What's your other half doing today?"

"Who?" she said, inspecting a giant tiara with distaste.
"Your partner.  Better half.  Other dude.  Whatsisface."

"Richard."  She put the tiara down, rubbing her fingers together. 
"Richard, right."
"I think that should be tighter," she said to the dress fitter, who yanked the laces in a bit more.
"What's he doing today?"

"Why?"  Po-po-po-po-poker face! Poker face!
"I was just wondering," I said.
"Tighter, please," she prodded the fitter.

"Has he got a suit yet?" I said, though I was starting to wheeze a bit due to the boning biting into my ribs.
She marched to the front of the shop, turned, and squinted at me. 
"I'd love to ask him how you met. Was it romantic?"
"Tighter, I said!" she barked.

"What's his middle name?"
Siobhan took matters into her own hands. Unfortunately for me, I mean that literally.  She strode back, shouldered the fitter aside and grabbed the laces of my bodice. "We met..." (YANK!) "...on a business trip..." (YANK!) "He lives interstate..." (YANK!) "and. Is. Very. BUSY."  Then she put her knee in my back and gave a final heave.  The last thing I heard was something snapping.

When I woke up, Anise had re-emerged from her dressing room. (She'd gotten stuck in a hoop skirt and couldn't get out of the cubicle.) 
She was mainlining peanut M&Ms and patting my head.

"What happened?" I said. Anise ate another handful and spoke through a cheekful of chocolate.  "Siobhan wants you to go on a diet."

Further investigation is warranted. I shall report back.

(Unless, of course, Siobhan has me killed. If this is the case, I leave all of my possessions to Anise, except for The Doctor, who can go to my parents' house and live out his dreams of growing to the size of a small port keg under my mother's enthusiastic 'Are You Breathing? Here, Have A Snack' feeding program. Wish me luck.)