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.
"I actually have my book," Trista segues to Mindy. And if my two best friends weren't marrying each other next year, I would be literally appalled by what Trista removes from her bag just then. But I have it on good authority from a totally normal couple that a lot of brides do this and that it's not that scary. Because what Trista unearths is, essentially, a giant Trapper Keeper with the word "Bridezilla" calligraphied on the "This Trapper Keeper Belongs To" line. It's a book of cut-outs from numerous bride magazines, split up into sections such as "flowers" and "dresses," all encased inside of those plastic page protectors and slid into a three-ring binder. Mindy expresses gratitude that Trista has guided things in such a helpful direction, and they dive right in. On the matter of flowers, Trista guides the discussion toward her favorite color: "I loved the peenk." Ah, the peenk. Is that one of those made-up colors in the newfangled box of Crayola 64's, where you send in your submission and they print your name and age on the crayon, like, "Purple Mountain's Majesty, Ted Shmippy, Age 64" or "Gramma's Mashed Potatoes, Johnny Smith, Age 8"? Because I may have mentioned earlier that I've been spending some time with a four-year-old girl who likes to color, and not once have I seen any evidence of the color "Peenk, Trista Rehn, who actually expects us to believe she's Age 30" anywhere in that box. ["Shut up, Trista's officially thirty? Because I'm turning twenty-nine very soon and...no." -- Wing Chun] Nevertheless, on we plow, pink, pink, pink. Peenk. Trista tells us how much she loves Mindy, and that she can't wait for Ryan to meet her. And Ryan is, again...?