Blanca is 26. She is an administrative analyst who neither knows how to pronounce those words properly or what it is that she does in said role.
Moral of the story: D cups enable you to get away with pretty much anything. In fact, they make it remarkably cuter when she’s debating putting the initials “B J” on the wedding cake. (One for him, one for her, both for innuendo). She is so insistent on having her first initial first, in fact, that she cares little about the whole blowjob thing. Aw.
Her man Julian probably knows this all too well of his wife-to-be who seems to like inflicting pain and suffering on everyone despite apparently drawn-on eyebrows.
The planner is saying how Blanca’s been rather uncooperative and indecisive to the point that she can’t pick out wedding music beyond “that Bon Jovi song.” This results in a situation where Julian has to go run out at get $3,500 from indeterminate sources lest the wedding not have a venue or soundtrack.
From there, Julian wears a tuxedo T-shirt to get a mani/pedi which ends with him getting his chest, back and ass waxed. (The latter is a trade off for the wedding-cake initials. “There is no going back now. ‘Bout to get in that ass! Take it, you little bitch.” she says, before noting that she’s actually not going to change the letter at all.)
“I enjoy watching him suffer,” she says. “Take it. Take! It! What’s wrong with you? That’s all you can handle? Take it like a man. He acts like a little bitch. He should be taking it.”
She’s faking tears in the car after grubbing on some fast-food drive thru. It seems that when she gets to the dress fitting, she’s got the skeets, and isn’t wearing underwear, too.
Anyway, next week’s episode should be interesting if this situation isn’t rectified provided she plans to wear a white dress.
So, back to Philly-sportswriter’s bride-to-be Remy, she of the insufferably overinflated ego and sense of self worth.
Her man Rob notes that this is a superficial world, he’s superficial and she’s a piece of ass so, whatever, I’ll put up with all this shit — like, say, a $25K budget getting blown away by the $40K+ that it currently stands — because she’s hot. Fair enough, though he may need to trade this in for a younger model in 5, 6 years. I don’t care if she’s fine enough for Philly sports-talk radio hosts to swoon over. Those effects of aging and gravity are just real talk.
Super queen is still bitching about not getting a third ring yesterday and how Rob won’t get her a stage for the wedding (it would serve to reinforce her perceived-superiority complex.)
Now, they’re going to a spray-tanning joint in a Sewell strip mall. Sewell is nowhere near as elegant as Remy would likely have you believe. I assume anybody and everybody who knows Remy and her fake-South-Philly-accent-into-Arabic-tirades realizes she must be taken, at every turn, with a grain of salt.
Fun fact: The salon employee, Brianna, is the hottest one in the room.
After dinner at Adelphia’s, they’re off to a joint bachelor/bachelorette party. In Old City Philadelphia. Which is exactly where these people belong. They’re fighting about how he’s invited girls — “strictly platonic” — who she doesn’t know. She flips out when he hugs another woman. She threatens to go hug another guy. Oooooooohhhhh.
And then they go get married in front of about 50 people and no fewer than four photographers. The end. Good luck with that, Rob.