Keyser Soze’d – and by my own mother!

This must be the remake.

Waaaaait a second…

The fiancée and I are planning to go down to New York later this week to do some important stuff like meeting with the florist, so I was on the phone with my mother about some logistics – and what does she do but lets a serious detail slip about my fiancée’s dress.

Yes, my own mother Keyser Soze’d me.

If I could only go back in time and kill George Lucas' grandfather...

That’ll teach me to buy the soundtrack two weeks before the movie came out.

The Keyser Soze moment is something I’ve talked about before.  I’ve had plenty of movies and books ruined for me accidentally. Some of these instances,  including the one that gives the phenomenon its name, were even done on purpose; some were so goddamned stupid that I actually did it to myself (track 15 Star Wars Episode One Original Soundtrack CD, I’m looking at you), but I’ve never been Soze’d by my own mother, and nothing so serious as my own god damned wedding.

It’s common tradition that the groom doesn’t get to see the bride for a day or so before the wedding.  There’s a lot of cultural traditions that go around with that, like the groom not going with the bride when she picks out her dress and him not seeing it until the day of the wedding, not even in pictures.  Well, my fiancée had been keeping her wedding dress a secret from me in that spirit, and she had only shown it to three or four people – her sister and parents, since they were involved in its purchase, and my mother, who begged and begged and begged to see it until my fiancée broke down and sent her some pictures of it.

This finally placated my mother, but apparently she can’t keep a secret to save her life. I was talking to her on the phone about how the fiancée and I have been losing weight, and she said, “oh I hope she still fits in the wedding gown!  Well, I guess they can just [REDACTED].”


Years of therapy? You shouldn’t have!

Gee, thanks Mom.  Now I know a vital detail about the wedding dress that I wasn’t supposed to know.  With my memory there’s no way I’m going to forget it, either – I’ve got one of those stupid memories that allows me to recall completely useless trivial information, like a borderline retarded version of Ken Jennings.  Yet I can barely remember names of people I meet for the first time.  Go figure.

I’m never going to let my mother live this down.


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