Finally, there's Tricia, an ad exec. Blam! She's the one who likes to be aggressive, B-E aggressive. She says she's strong, but with a sliver of upward-rising inflection, which makes me doubt her. I like her fiancé because he's wearing a Fred Perry track suit jacket (with camo pants, not to be all matchy-matchy), and because he's not hovering around his intended like some hen-pecked fraidy-cat. He also says he could "give a shit" about what goes down on his wedding day. I dig -- and share -- that relaxed attitude. In conclusion, these are the crazy ladies you will mock for the next hour. Julia sing-songs as she drives, "Yes I am, yes I am, yes I am, going to be Mrs. Williamson, Williamson, Williamson...Williamson, Williamson, Williamson." Yikes. One sits in a cab and says that anyone who says they don't need therapy to get through planning a wedding is "lying." And they'll also need couples therapy. Her therapist, in fact, suggested doubling up on her weekly sessions, then dropped the idea so she wouldn't be stressed about having to make therapy appointments. Wow, that's wack. Julia tells her planner that she'll be "neurotic, chronic, and anal up until the point that the bridal girl rings the bell and says, 'The briiide is coooming!'" Um, there's a bridal girl? With a bell? I am so not ready to get married.
This segment is "Dressed to Kill." One bride cries that she "didn't give [her]self any time." What? That doesn't even make sense. Another is asked if she feels like an angel. She says, "That's stretching it." Ahem. Another swoons in her gown, saying she's more excited for the dress than for her actual wedding day. Down in hell, someone dusts off another seat. One says she went to every bridal store in Manhattan (and New Jersey, says her mom) to find the perfect dress. One says, "I look fat in this," then, "I look fabulous." The two sentences kind of rhyme. And they're also both kind of true. HVA says that, "to look like a princess, you gotta act like a prima donna." Can't you just look elegant, like Grace Kelly? Oh, right -- these women are triflin' bitches. One woman has six dress fittings for her $4,000 dress, and pesky bunching issues never get solved. Another stares into the mirror and says wistfully that something seems wrong around her shoulder area. The fitter snips away at the dress's neckline, but something still seems wrong. Is it the fugliness? Or the pug-fugliness? Or just general malaise? Because no scissors can snip that away. The chick with six fittings is full of complaints, and her dressmaker has a sharp tone in her voice as she says the dress is PERFECT, young lady. I think the Bridezilla wasn't done complaining, seamstress. Cynthia is not confident, and weeps a little about her uncertainty. An electric piano underscores her pain. Oh, FOX. An electric piano? Shame on you. Another one tries on seven dresses to wear to the rehearsal dinner. Jesus God. Julia has lunch with a friend, yelling about what dresses her friends are going to wear. Another asks obsessively if the dress can be made blue, then she calls after leaving the shop to remind them to make the dress blue. They hang up on her. Jesus, can we have a linear plot for a second? Even COPS has more of an arc than this. This is an editing nightmare.