What my momma gave me?

I don't like weddings.
I usually attend two or three a year... last year I went overboard by attending 5.
The show of affection burned me the hell out... and I didn't have any desire to attend another wedding for the next two years.

Well... being that I'm Mexican, every Spring becomes Wedding Season, and my goal (of not attending any) is always broken. People rush to the altar like they're getting paid or some shit in my family. If you're female, single, and past 27 years of age, you're a failure (haha... just wait for me, family... I'm gonna be quite the fuck up in your standards. Bachelorette 4 lyyyyfe!). So lately, it's really been sucking balls to go to these things. The couples getting married are my age, if not younger... and I end up sitting at the lonely-but-don't-you-fucking-get-near-me table, wanting to stab myself with the Marriott-provided silverware as I watch couples dance and make-out to shit like Shania Twain's "You're Still The One" (in English and Spanish).

What's that, waitress? Do I want red or white wine? How about you just break that fucking bottle over my head and put me out of my misery? Preferably the red, so it can conceal my running blood a little more successfully.

However, rather than going to a fresh new couple's wedding this Saturday, it's a 25 year wedding anniversary.
I wasn't going to go at first, mainly because the invitation to the party irritated me. It mentioned how you had to wear black or white. I detest "theme" parties. It's cool if you mention that it has to be a suit and tie affair, I can handle that... but when you tell me what colors to wear, you're pushing your luck.
All I really own are black dresses... but I'm still pissed they had to specify "only black and white." You gotta be kidding me. I usually rock black and red. Fuck you, old people. Fuck you (Lent is ALMOST over! Yesss! I'm that much closer to being my regular, super-duper vulgar self again!).
Anyway, I decided to go for at least 2 hours because a friend I haven't seen in over a year is going to be there. I've flaked on her before, so I might as well show up this time.

Since I decided to go, I also decided to buy myself another black dress today. I have a favorite one that looks like this quick doodle:The problem is I've worn that thing to maybe 2 weddings, 2 Quinceañeras, a funeral, AND I took family pictures in it ("Love" does not nearly describe my feelings for that dress)... all in 2006.
The dress is comfortable and flattering. Lots of lace and tulle... and the length's a little past the knee. I do have a problem with the abundance of cleavage it reveals, but shit, something has to be sacrificed so that the damn thing doesn't look like a burlap sac.

I've encountered a couple of uncomfortable scenarios thanks to wearing that dress.
Prime example: I was a little angry prior to the reception of this one wedding in San Diego back in May. Older Brother had gotten us lost in the ghetto because he was following fucking natives because they supposedly knew where it was going to be. We stepped out to ask for assistance at a hotel, and as I stood outside, pacing around, I stumbled into one of the natives (I call him "Walrus" because he looks just like one... a walrus during mating season to be exact. He puffs his already-robust chest out as he walks, he waddles, he has facial hair that look like husks). He's around five foot six, and I was around six feet because of my heels. So... once I turned, Walrus was directly in front of me, maybe eight inches away from my body, with his eyes and nose directly between my chest. I took as big a leap back as possible, made eye contact, and saw the biggest, most disgusting grin/smirk in the universe coming from the old ass man.
He then said:
"My, AnoMALIE... so sure have... grown."

I claim to be ghetto and down to sock fuckers if they ever insinuate anything wrong with me... but at that very moment... I feared for my life. I was alone, with this five foot six pervert-walrus man... in the San Diego ghetto while my family was inside a hotel asking for directions.

I now wear that bitch with a sweater covering me.

So anyway, as a preventive measure from encountering any further sick events I decided to go shopping for a new dress today (there are going to be TONS of middle aged men at this thing... and lots of them are divorced/widowed and those bitches flock to me like... zombies to brains [I was going to say pigs to slop. What a fucked up analogy]
Hey, sweetie, why so lonely?
Because I bite people, you fuck. Now get away from me!).

Mom tagged along to the stores... and didn't see my selection until we got home.
It looks like this (minus the handkerchief covering her eyes in a very S&M fashion) :I liked it because it wasn't skanky (well, it shows a lot of leg... but hey, no old-dirty-walrus-men-attracting cleavage!), and it's all black with some white accents.

However, this was Mom's reaction:
(I walk out... proud of myself, like an idiot)
Mom: What the hell is that?!
Me: A dress!
Mom: You look like a Chinese masseuse!
(I'm quiet and look at my hair in the mirror... Holy shit... she's right)
Mom: And what happened to your boobs?
Me: They're hidden, like I like 'em.
Mom: Te me pones ese vestido de la foto! (You wear that dress from the family picture!) A enseñar lo que te dio tu madre! (Show what your momma gave ya!)

What my momma gave me? I guess that's what happens when you've been an A cup all your life and you give birth to a kid who grows to have DD's. I wish we could just trade so she could show off what her momma gave her... I'm sure the old-dirty-walrus-men would appreciate it.

I still might end up wearing the old-dirty-walrus-men-attracting cleavage dress though... I don't want people to think I'm giving away happy endings while at this thing.