My Favorite B-Words: Brides, Baskets, Bridesmaids, Bling (not necessarily in that order.)

Being a bridesmaid is a big freakin' deal.
For those of you who've never taken on that responsibility, you don't know what I'm talkin' about. So I'll start out, by toasting to bridesmaids everywhere.

Your day will come, my sisters in the struggle.

Until that day, it's all about your friend. Yeah, her. The bride.

There's a reason why brides turn all 'Bridezilla' status, and go apeshit over ridiculous things like little napkins with their names on them, and what color of chocolate covered almonds to throw in tiny little paper boxes that nobody really opens (unless they're truly bored to tears, or the food sucks.) (Face it, the only bitch who notices the shit on the table is your pesky Aunt Imogene who has not had a date since 1972.) But try and convince a bride of that, and you'll be gettin' dirty looks for weeks.

Still, we all admit that planning a wedding? It can be a real bitch.
(That's the b-word that nobody wants to use.)

I attended the Phoenix Suns game this weekend, and also, happened to make it to the 'Brides and Baskets' festival that was celebrated at US Airways Center. My friend, Rebecca, needed moral support and a friend to accompany her, so she could check out more wedding vendors, and so I joined her.

Even though I'm not getting married right now, I had the best time, and got to visit with vendors from L'Auberge Sedona Resort and Hotel/Spa, Maggiano's Restaurant, Sandals Resorts, and all the local venues that host weddings. The Wedding Chronicle was also one of the sponsors, and I got to express my unbridled love for the magazine, and explain to the publisher exactly why I run to AJ's every time a new issue is released on the newsstands. The Wedding Chronicle is to LC, what Playboy is to Tiger Woods.

Now, if only Robin Lopez would ask me to marry him at a Phoenix Suns game. That would make it all worthwhile.

Robin, I did cheer for you, honey. Good game. By the way, I'm available, and I already have wedding vendors alllll picked out. All I need is the ring. That's the only finger without any bling, and frankly, it's feeling a little neglected, Lopez.

If you're getting married, or, always a bridesmaid, never a bride, check out The Wedding Chronicle for the creme de la creme on valley weddings and wedding vendors. It is a fabulous little magazine, and basically, my version of porn.

Are You There, Tiger? It's Me, LC

Dear Tiger Woods,

At this very moment, legions of angry women around the world want to burn you at the stake. Millions of women are praying for Elin, and simultaneously cursing the day you were born.

I’m not one of those women, Tiger.

Actually, I’m thinking more along the lines of the BILLIONS of men out there who are thinking, “Man, you really screwed up. Why didn’t you get a PREPAID phone, jackass?” Perhaps it’s because my best friend is a man, or maybe it’s because I grew up with boys. Whatever the reason, I don’t hate you for cheating, Tiger.

Instead, I have a few pieces of advice. Think of me as the little sister you never had. Tiger, you lucky bastard! Here it goes:

1. Next time you cheat (because let’s face it, you will) please hire a WOMAN as a personal assistant who is slick enough to arrange all of your “meetings” (a.k.a.: sex-capades) for you. Find yourself a “guy’s girl.” Not one of these pansy-ass chicks who have big mouths and sit around and gossip, bitch about their husbands, and finger-snap with their girlfriends while drinking some sissy ass martinis. Nope. Fuck that shit. You need to get yourself a girl who can manipulate the shit out of your wife, send her to Tupperware parties to get her out of your hair, and then schedule you in some side sex in between your time on the course and your next photo op. Get yourself a personal assistant who is smart enough to know how a woman’s mind works, but level-headed enough to know how to handle both the head on your shoulders, and the one in your pants. Actually, the woman you need to hire? Is ME. Hit me up, Tiger. I need a new job, with health benefits, thank you very much.

2. Keep all golf clubs hidden from the women who you are cheating on/with. I don’t give a shit what anyone in the media (or you, or Elin) claim, we all know that poor girl went off the deep end and started beating your ass with a club. Just thank your lucky stars you didn’t marry yourself a Mexican or Black girl. I think I speak for the collective whole when I say, us chicas of color? Would’ve torched your Escalade, with you in it. Has your half-black ass not seen Waiting to Exhale? What were you thinking? If you thought marrying a white girl was gonna make life easier, I have two words for you: Britney Spears. White girls have a thing for beating cars with umbrellas, golf clubs, you name it. Date a Mexican girl next time. We’re used to getting cheated on.

3. Raise the bar, Tiger. I know you lost your Dad, and out of grief, might have gone a little crazy. I know you were micromanaged your whole life. But that still gives you no excuse to cheat with girls who look like back alley hoes. Your mistresses? Not so hot, Tiger. I understand, you don’t care, as long as they have a vagina. But when you’re a billionaire, Tiger, I think you need to set your standards higher. Going back to me being hired as your assistant, I know plenty of sluts. I’d be happy to set you up. And the good thing is, not one of them is smart enough to even be able to READ a book, much less WRITE a book describing your affair.

4. Those pictures in your wallet? The ones cozied up next to the Magnums? Next time you want a quick piece of ass from some random hoe, pull out those pictures. Not for nothing, but nobody wants to grow up knowing their pops was once a big time puto. (That’s Spanish for whore, Tiger. Live it. Learn it.)

5. The rehab center you’re going to? Is in my home state. Big ups to AZ! Only a state with this many Republicans and Mormons would be the place to come “dry out” when you have a problem with sex addiction (which is a fancy-schmancy way of saying that you can’t keep your schlong in your pants.) If there’s one place that could put someone off sex, it would be Wickenburg.

On that note, I will wish you well, and hope that you can either fix whatever’s broken with your wife, or have an amicable divorce. (If such a thing exists.) Hey, try not to give your mother-in-law anymore heart attacks, okay? She’s from Sweden, those bitches can’t take shit like us American girls. They’re socialists, for Christ’s sake. We’re used to getting dicked over here in the states. Swedes? Not so much. Instead of boning everything with nail polish, try picking up a copy of New York Times, and you might learn about all of this, doll.

Best of luck to you, and hope to work for you sometime soon.

Sincerely,
LC

P.S.—As your future personal assistant, I will work tirelessly to make sure photos of you, like the one above, will never be released to the public. Because seriously? You look really constipated in this picture.