“ A bride wishes her good luck, hoping that wandering into Trista's orbit will net her a fraction of the dowry Papa Eisner is supplying. Don't hold your breath, because I think all of the aspects of the typical dowry have been allocated: the money, the land, the sheep. Or least the one poor, single lamb, being led blindly to the slaughter. ”
In fairness, my four-year-old niece also loves pink, and all of her clothes are pink, and everything she colors she will color only in pink crayon, including the face of Dora the Explorer, which, actually, undoes a lot of the underlying cultural background being laid by the visionaries who created this diverse character. But man, does my four-year-old niece love pink. Then again, my four-year-old niece is also four years old.
The curlicued script of the words "Trista and Ryan's Wedding" write themselves on the screen in the Microsoft Word font "Shameful Opportunism Sans Serif and Sans Dignity Bold." We fade in on the montage Trista has forced her life with Ryan to become lo these last seven months, cutting from the two of them posing with "friends" to skiing in Vail to feeding each other cake to tattooing the words "Nothing is real until it is recorded" on each others' backs and making them believe that they understand the collected works of Virginia Woolf. It's true that she said it, you guys, but I don't think this is what she meant. "It's been seven months since the show ended," we find out, finally landing on Trista "Opportunism Knocks But Thrice" Rehn, sitting in a makeshift confessional space (though I get that feeling that Trista's whole existence is one makeshift confessional space after another. In fact, I get the feeling that Makeshift Confessional Space is going to be the name of Trista's hand-biting tell-all of the reality show industry that she's going to write as soon as the final flashbulb pops and the divorce papers have been finalized. I'm guessing I'll be recapping that just after its publication date of, say, Thanksgiving? Cool. See you all back here) wearing her Smart Glasses and adding, "In that time, it has been absolute craziness." Yeah, those vipers in the press just don't know how to leave a self-respecting private citizen alone, do they? We cut to another montage of Trista's successful press outreach: Trista and Ryan on the cover of Us Weekly. Trista and Ryan on the cover of TV Guide. Trista, her meta-cap on, on The Bachelor hosting a photo shoot for Extra for the cover of Modern Bride magazine. Trista finding numerous other methods of generally sucking at the teat of the Bonnie Fuller empire.
"We really can't walk down the street without getting recognized, or somebody taking a picture, or wishing us congratulations," Trista continues, obviously meaning "we" in the royal grammatical sense, seeing as I don't envision that there's actually a man involved anywhere in this process. More paparazzi. More cameras. More flashbulbs, leading to this recapper experiencing a hearing-the-voice- of-Mary-Hart-esque seizure of the first order from all this useless stimuli. A totally spontaneous moment (from the Latin root meaning "a carefully orchestrated press opportunity") ensues as another bride approaches Trista and wishes her good luck with her wedding, perhaps hoping that wandering into Trista's orbit will net her a fraction of the dowry being supplied to the couple by Papa Eisner and the rest of the ABC Family. Don't hold your breath, though, because I think all of the aspects of the typical dowry have already been allocated: the money, the land, the sheep. Or least the one poor, single lamb, being led blindly to the slaughter.
Pretty In Peenk
“ 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. ”
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 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...?
Pretty In Peenk
“ They do a tasting of delicious cakes, Trista telling us, 'Ryan and I are dessert lovers.' They both like soup. Made for each other. ”
North of Olympic and several thousand miles from any reason or sanity, we're at "Lehr & Black Invitationers." Dear Lehr. And Black: "invitationers" is not a word. Please reprint. Love, those squiggly red lines that appear underneath misspelled words on my word-processing program. That's a pretty cute sign, though.
Shaquille O'Neal. Jessica Simpson. Shut up, Mindy. Though she does end this latest list of clientele with kind of a barbed sentiment, telling us, "I knew they'd be able to create something at least Trista would like." Lehr or Black shows Ryan and Trista invitations that confuse me. Deep in the mix, it sounds like Lehr or Black is saying that the invitations are "for the shower," but I think that was a weirdly-edited cut, because I think they're seeing the actual wedding invitations. It's a giant pink tutu with Trista's name printed in a different shade of pink across the bottom, and then, for some reason, a black tuxedo on a hanger. What's going on? Trista loves it and says "Oh, my god" a thousand times. Ryan tells Trista that he'll just invite his friends to the wedding over the phone. HATES her.
Hoo boy, is it hard to skip over the fluff where there ain't nothing on but the fluff.
Cakes. We meet a "very good friend" of Mindy's from a place called "Perfect Endings." They do a tasting of delicious cakes, Trista telling us, "Ryan and I are dessert lovers." They both like soup. Made for each other. But alas, Ryan tells us that Trista does solicit his advice, but may not really be that interested in incorporating it into the wedding plans. Back at Perfect Endings, Trista tells Mindy's good friend Michael how good the cakes were. Things we've learned this very special season on The Bachelor: cakes are tasty. week on Trista and Ryan's Wedding: air is breathe-y.
Harry Winston isn't even good enough, so we're off to Tacori to kick it with some rings. Trista tiptoes through the diamonds, including one ring that we're told has "over two hundred stones on it." Just to put the math of this in perspective: I'll bet that the cumulative prices of the entire weddings of all of the married people reading this, when averaged together, cost as much total as the ring Trista has on her finger. Mad yet? Want to help me hurt them yet? Good. Because they say that a pure diamond cuts glass, so I'd be interested in finding out what else it cuts. Trista tells us that seeing a ring on Ryan's finger makes things "a lot more real." A quick montage recaps all of the visits they've made in what we're supposed to believe all happened in one day, I guess.