Death Wears A Sweater Set
Finally! Some quiet moments alone for the happy couple, with merely one camera crew in attendance, and they're just there to shoot b-roll. Almost just like real solitude, except for the part where it's nationally televised. As Trista and Ryan walk along some kind of oceanfront property, Trista voices over, "I've found my dream man." Sure she has, but should she really be talking about her unholy alliance with Mike Fleiss right in front of her fiancé? She continues on: "We're having this amazing, dream-come-true wedding, and getting to meet all these people that I have dreamt about meeting." Suddenly Ted Casablanca is someone people "dream about meeting"? Trista wraps up her cobbled-from-fourteen- different-confessionals confessional, telling us that she feels "extremely, extremely blessed." The couple kisses in silhouette at sundown and all is right with the whole wide universe.
Ooooh, Beverly Hills. Where the streets are paved with pavement. We learn that this banner day finds Trista meeting with her "wedding planner," a woman named Mindy Weiss. Through a door and into some opulent office space we go, where Trista gives a familiar hug to a cross between Melissa Rivers and the earthbound manifestation of how human beings throughout history have depicted the theoretical concept of "Death." I mean, except for the snappy sweater set. Gaunt of cheeks. Bony fingers. Scythe. The whole nine. Well, not the scythe. The scythe is silent. In a confessional, Mindy tells us, "The moment Ryan proposed to [Trista], I said, 'Oh, I would love to do that wedding!'" Truly such a coincidence could have been orchestrated only by the Dark Queen Of The Underworld herself. Trista sits down and baby-voices (I can't believe it's taken even this long), "I love your flowers!" and then tells us that she trusts Mindy's expertise, having seen the work she's done on other weddings, "like Adam Sandler's wedding," and Gwen Stefani's wedding. Seriously, people? I already spend half of my day with a cabal of namedropping starfuckers who try to impress each other with their tales of who was valet-ing behind whom at The Ivy. You can Gwen and Adam and Jen and Ben me all you want, and this I promise you in return: I am jaded and mean and 1000\% not impressed. Except if I get to meet Trista. Because she's the real deal and I get so weak-kneed in the presence of fame.