Bridesmaid Quotes

He could totally be your boyfriend," [Angel] went on with annoying persistance. "You guys could get married. I could be like a junior bridesmaid. Total could be your flower dog." "I'm only a kid!" I shrieked. "I can't get married!" "You could in New Hampshire." My mouth dropped open. How does she know this stuff? "Forget it! No one's getting married!" I hissed. "Not in New Hampshire or anywhere else! Not in a box, not with a fox! Now go to sleep, before I kill you!

Day 24. Situation is growing worse. My captors continue to find new and horrific ways to torture me. When not working, Agent Scarlet spends her days examining fabric swatches for bridesmaid dresses and going on about how in love she is. This usually causes Agent Boring Borscht to regale us with stories of Russian weddings that are even more boring than his usual ones. My attempts at escape have been thwarted thus far. Also, I am out of cigarettes. Any assistance or tobacco products you can send will be greatly appreciated. -Prisoner 24601

Always the bridesmaid , never the bride." Always the godfather, never the god".

I'll be needing a bridesmaid',she said.'A tall one. That way, I'll look more petite and feminine.

To the most inconsiderate asshole of a friend, I’m writing you this letter because I know that if I say what I have to say to your face I will probably punch you. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t see you anymore. All I get is a quick text or a rushed e-mail from you every few days. I know you are busy and I know you have Bethany, but hello? I’m supposed to be your best friend. You have no idea what this summer has been like. Ever since we were kids we pushed away every single person that could possibly have been our friend. We blocked people until there was only me and you. You probably haven’t noticed, because you have never been in the position I am in now. You have always had someone. You always had me. I always had you. Now you have Bethany and I have no one. Now I feel like those other people that used to try to become our friend, that tried to push their way into our circle but were met by turned backs. I know you’re probably not doing it deliberately just as we never did it deliberately. It’s not that we didn’t want anyone else, it’s just that we didn’t need them. Sadly now it looks like you don’t need me anymore. Anyway I’m not moaning on about how much I hate her, I’m just trying to tell you that I miss you. And that well . . . I’m lonely. Whenever you cancel nights out I end up staying home with Mum and Dad watching TV. It’s so depressing. This was supposed to be our summer of fun. What happened? Can’t you be friends with two people at once? I know you have found someone who is extra special, and I know you both have a special “bond,” or whatever, that you and I will never have. But we have another bond, we’re best friends. Or does the best friend bond disappear as soon as you meet somebody else? Maybe it does, maybe I just don’t understand that because I haven’t met that “somebody special.” I’m not in any hurry to, either. I liked things the way they were. So maybe Bethany is now your best friend and I have been relegated to just being your “friend.” At least be that to me, Alex. In a few years time if my name ever comes up you will probably say, “Rosie, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in years. We used to be best friends. I wonder what she’s doingnow; I haven’t seen or thought of her in years!” You will sound like my mum and dad when they have dinner parties with friends and talk about old times. They always mention people I’ve never even heard of when they’re talking about some of the most important days of their lives. Yet where are those people now? How could someone who was your bridesmaid 20 years ago not even be someone who you are on talking terms with now? Or in Dad’s case, how could he not know where his own best friend from college lives? He studied with the man for five years! Anyway, my point is (I know, I know, there is one), I don’t want to be one of those easily forgotten people, so important at the time, so special, so influential, and so treasured, yet years later just a vague face and a distant memory. I want us to be best friends forever, Alex. I’m happy you’re happy, really I am, but I feel like I’ve been left behind. Maybe our time has come and gone. Maybe your time is now meant to be spent with Bethany. And if that’s the case I won’t bother sending you this letter. And if I’m not sending this letter then what am I doing still writing it? OK I’m going now and I’m ripping these muddled thoughts up. Your friend, Rosie

Asking your friend to be a bridesmaid is one of the modern paradoxes: no one actually wants to do it, but everyone would be offended if you didn’t ask.

Mothers wash the bloodstained apparel of grooms On stream banks, Bridal wear burns to ash, Bridesmaids cry And the Jhelum flows.

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride,” he muttered.

It's about Diana,' sobbed Anne luxuriously. 'I love Diana so, Marilla. I cannot ever live without her. But I know very well when we grow up that Diana will get married and go away and leave me. And oh, what shall I do? I hate her husband — I just hate him furiously. I've been imagining it all out — the wedding and everything — Diana dressed in snowy white garments, and a veil, and looking as beautiful and regal as a queen; and me the bridesmaid, with a lovely dress, too, and puffed sleeves, but with a breaking heart hid beneath my smiling face. And then bidding Diana good-bye-e-e—' Here Anne broke down entirely and wept with increasing bitterness. Marilla turned quickly away to hide her twitching face, but it was no use; she collapsed on the nearest chair and burst into such a hearty and unusual peal of laughter…

I was told The average girl begins to plan her wedding at the age of 7 She picks the colors and the cake first By the age of 10 She knows time, And location By 17 She’s already chosen a gown 2 bridesmaids And a maid of honor By 23 She’s waiting for a man Who wont break out in hives when he hears the word “commitment” Someone who doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid drenched in lonely Someone who isn’t a temporary solution to the empty side of the bed Someone Who’ll hold her hand like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen To be honest I don’t know what kind of tux I’ll be wearing I have no clue what want my wedding will look like But I imagine The women who pins my last to hers Will butterfly down the aisle Like a 5 foot promise I imagine Her smile Will be so large that you’ll see it on google maps And know exactly where our wedding is being held The woman that I plan to marry Will have champagne in her walk And I will get drunk on her footsteps When the pastor asks If I take this woman to be my wife I will say yes before he finishes the sentence I’ll apologize later for being impolite But I will also explain him That our first kiss happened 6 years ago And I’ve been practicing my “Yes” For past 2, 165 days When people ask me about my wedding I never really know what to say But when they ask me about my future wife I always tell them Her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long I say She thinks too much Misses her father Loves to laugh And she’s terrible at lying Because her face never figured out how to do it correctl I tell them If my alarm clock sounded like her voice My snooze button would collect dust I tell them If she came in a bottle I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys If she was a book I would memorize her table of contents I would read her cover-to-cover Hoping to find typos Just so we can both have a few things to work on Because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need a little editing? Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone? Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense She don’t always make sense But her imperfections are the things I love about her the most I don’t know when I will be married I don’t know where I will be married But I do know this Whenever I’m asked about my future wife I always say …She’s a lot like you

Me?" he said in some surprise. "I won't be dancing! It's the bridal dance. The bride and groom dance alone!" For one circuit of the room," she told him. "After which they are joined by the best man and first bridesmaid, then by the groomsman and the second bridesmaid." Will reacted as he had been stung. He leaned over to speak across Jenny on his left, to Gilan. Gil! Did you know we have to dance?" he asked. Gilan nodded enthusiastically. Oh yes indeed. Jenny and I have been practicing for the past three days, haven't we, Jen?" Jenny looked up at him adoringly and nodded. Jenny was in love. Gilan was tall, dashing, good-looking, charming and very ammusing. Plus he was cloaked in the mystery and romance tat came with being a Ranger. Jenny had only ever known one ranger and that had been grim-faced, gray-bearded Halt.

The Librarian liked being best man. You were allowed to kiss bridesmaids, and they weren't allowed to run away.

That's it for me. I'm fucked. As per usual. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Although come to think of it I was never even the freaking bridesmaid. Look, show your cock. It's the shortest line between two points. The world ain't giving away nice lives. You got a trust fund? You a genius? Show your cock. It's what you got.

Coffee and chocolate are certainly wonderful, but they must forever carry tea’s silken train, ever the bridesmaids and never the bride.

You can put a girlfriend on a motorcycle, yes, but what about your children and your bridesmaids, and your mother-in-law?

Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you engage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or (a better way still), feel very little. See the consequences of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they do in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises which you cannot at any required moment command and withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be respected, and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair.

And you, my best friend on earth, my soul sister who shares Chunky Monkey scoops and beefcake e-mails at the drop of a hat, the woman who made me wear a frothy, ruffled lime-colored bridesmaid dress that added fifteen pounds to my hips, are going to spill your guts to me, aren’t you? (Sunshine) No fair and the dress wasn’t lime, it was mint. (Selena) It was lime-icky green and I looked like a sick pistachio. (Sunshine)

Maria was married on Saturday. In all important preparations of mind she was complete, being prepared for matrimony by a hatred of home, by the misery of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she was to marry. The bride was elegantly dressed and the two bridesmaids were duly inferior. Her mother stood with salts, expecting to be agitated, and her aunt tried to cry. Marriage is indeed a maneuvering business.

Mothers! They promise you they'll never get married again, and next thing you know you're a bridesmaid.

When other young women dreamed up their theme colours and bridesmaids’ dresses, I just wanted everything after that. The husband, the kids, the home with the smell of cookies after school, picnics and road trips…

Southern women. Sweet as pie until they’re pissed, then it’s all shotguns and setting shit on fire.

Plato said, 'People are like dirt. They can either nourish you and help you grow as a person, or they can stunt your growth and make you wilt and die.

I'm not having my wedding day spoiled by a couple of horny bridesmaids who can't decide whether they want to shag or throw up over each other.

Bridesmaids need the same kinds of stories soldiers do, stories that justify why they do what they do. Why they are willing to sacrifice who they are and a good night’s sleep for the noble cause of defending democracy and Lila and Gary’s love.

She smiled from ear to ear at the thought of knowing his name. She perched herself up onto her tip toes to try to be able to get a good look at him. He was smiling a charming smile and he escorted his bridesmaid through the manmade aisle. Again, like before as his proximity got closer, so did the intense feelings she felt burning inside of her body. She tried really hard to not feel them. She wished she had something stronger to drink to dull the uncomfortable and scary emotions he was bringing out in her.

great blue heron is the color of gray mist reflecting in blue water. And like mist, she can fade into the backdrop, all of her disappearing except the concentric circles of her lock-and-load eyes. She is a patient, solitary hunter, standing alone as long as it takes to snatch her prey. Or, eyeing her catch, she will stride forward one slow step at a time, like a predacious bridesmaid. And yet, on rare occasions she hunts on the wing, darting and diving sharply, swordlike beak in the lead.

My color schemes were limited to what would go with the pewter-gray gown...except for the bridesmaids' gowns. I'd already decided that they were going to be a distinctly nonmatchy lemon yellow that Jolene's aunt Vonnie would have to special-order. The kind of yellow one would find on takeout menus or particularly urgent Post-it notes. In fact, if the outdoor lighting failed, we could use the color of their dresses to illuminate the ceremony. And yes, i had to use a vendor who hated me, because Vonnie held the only pattern left in the continental United States for the "Ruffle and Dreams," the very dress I'd had to wear in Jolene's wedding. Revenge would would be mine, for a few months, until i revealed the dove-gray bridesmaids' dresses i actually planned for them to wear.

Gardens come and go, but I find myself getting attached to certain perennials. My tulips are bridesmaids, with fat faces and good posture. Hollyhocks are long necked sisters. Daffodils are young girls running out of a white church, sun shining on their heads. Peonies are pink-haired ladies, so full and stooped you have to tie them up with string. And roses are nothing but (I hate to say it) bitches--pretty show-offs who'll draw blood if you don't handle them just right. -Vangie Galliard Nepper, From her "Garden Diary," March 1952

Fear was a poison. Fear was a prison. Fear was the bridesmaid of regret, the butcher of amibition. The bleak forever between forward and backward. Fear was can't. Fear was won't. But fear wasn't ever a choice. To never fear was to never hope, never love, never live. To never fear the dark was to never smile as the dawn kissed your face. To never fear solitude was to never know the joy of a beauty in your arms. Part of having is the fear of losing. Part of creating is the fear of it breaking. Part of beginning is the fear of your ending. Fear is never a choice.

But sometimes there's a difference between being needed and being taken advantage of.

You weren’t kidding when you said there was nothing sweet about you. That orgasm should have been mine.

It is an undisputed truth of the modern age that there are now only two kinds of people in the world: people who call and people who text.

What the hell is on my wedding dress?” The fastest way to get demoted from bridesmaid to dishonored guest is to vomit on the bride’s wedding gown. But if you do ever vomit on a wedding gown, make sure the bride is the perfect mix of anal-retentive, hyper planner, and fairy-tale whimsical.

I thought bridesmaid's dresses were supposed to be horrid and ugly to make the bride more stunning," I joked to her in a whisper. "Yeah right, you marry a gorgeous actor and you want me to show up in a Goodwill special? No way sister! There are bound to be other single, gorgeous actors around, and I intend to land one of them for myself. Or get laid at the very least."...

HIDEOUS! Sorry, Mom, but vomit green is NOT my colour. And that dress is impossible to walk in! It’s so tight around my legs that it looks like a giant fish tail. While the other bridesmaids walked gracefully to the “Wedding March” song, I flopped my way down the aisle like a human-sized catfish or something! Those rug burns were pure agony! It was getting late and I was running out of time! The last thing I wanted to do was to traumatise Brandon by showing up at the dance looking like a MUTANT FISH GIRL or something. Right now I’m SO frustrated that I’m seriously considering just NOT going to the dance. Why is my life so hopelessly CRUDDY?!

the bridesmaid's hand in his, "Hazel and I think it would be ripping to make it a double wedding." The

I'm not blond or super fit or perfect. Not romantic, not "an individual," and definitely not a genius. So what am I? I'll tell you what : a bridesmaid.

It's not the concept of marriage I have a problem with. I'd like to get married too. A couple times. It's the actual wedding that pisses me off. The problem is that everyone who gets married seems to think that they are the first person in the entire universe to do it, and that the year leading up to the event revolves entirely around them. You have to throw them showers, bachelorette weekends, buy a bridesmaid dress, and then buy a ticket to some godforsaken town wherever they decide to drag you. If you're really unlucky, they'll ask you to recite a poem at their wedding. That's just what I want to do- monitor my drinking until I'm done with my public service announcement. And what do we get out of it, you ask? A dry piece of chicken and a roll in the hay with their hillbilly cousin. I could get that at home, thanks. Then they have the audacity to go shopping and pick out their own gifts. I want to know who the first person was who said this was okay. After spending all that money on a bachelorette weekend, a shower, and often a flight across the country, they expect you to go to Williams Sonoma or Pottery Barn and do research? Then they send you a thank-you note applauding you for such a thoughtful gift. They're the one who picked it out! I always want to remind the person that absolutely no thought went into typing in a name and having a salad bowl come up.

I've been thinking. You'd better be my bridesmaid, since you gave me the idea that led to this whole farce. It's a horrible job, I'm sure, so you deserve it. Plus, you're my friend. Will you do it?

I don't want comedy to be Bridesmaids 2. I'm not denigrating Bridesmaids but, enough already, let's stop pretending women are incalculably different to us. Seeking out podcasts, listening on headphones, it's like an intimate, specific conversation. People respond if it feels from the heart. I'm as neurotic a human being as lives, and I have my faults. I'm a drunk. But people really like that.

She had worn a sequined, strapless wedding gown, and left her bridesmaid to wear brightly flowered dresses to fit for a kind of pornographic milkmaid: low-cut and laced up the midriff with a sort of shoelace. "What Scarlet O'Hara might have done with a shower curtain, if she were trying to snag a plumber.

It wasn't a wedding a small girl dreams of - the white lace dress and a flowing veil. There were no bridesmaids or a symphony orchestra or long trails of white roses. But what does a small girl know of real love?

Barbara appraised her with critical eyes. ‘Oh my. Well, this is going to need some work.’ She went right to Carmen’s hips and pulled the unfinished seams open. ‘Yes, we’ll have to take this way out. I’m not sure I have enough fabric. I’ll check when I get back to my office.’ You are a horrible witch, Carmen thought. She knew she looked absolutely awful in the dress. She was part Bourbon Street whore and part Latina first-communion spectacle.

I haven't dated anyone seriously in three years-maybe longer- because when they open their mouths, they no longer interest me. But you? You eat up my thoughts all day long. You make me wonder what your thinking even when you're not around me. I'm fucking crazy about you, Marjorie.

It's okay if you're intimidated by my overwhelming masculinity. I promise to take good care of you." "How sweet of you. But let's be honest. I'd ruin you for other women, and I'm just too nice to do that to an adorable thing like you.

Sometimes you have to open your eyes and jump

Complicated women. We sure are fucking magical.

No one’s stuck anywhere unless they choose to be. The Lord God guides those who are moving forward.

But why is it so . . . aesthetically lacking?” “It’s tradition. The uglier the bridesmaid’s dress, the better the bride looks. Also, it’s a great distraction. Everyone who witnessed me leaving will remember this monstrosity and little else.

Darling Daddy, This is Rose. Very good news. Caddy is going to marry Micheal. In case you have forgotten because you have not been home for so long he is the one with the ponytail and the earring that you do not like. And Caddy says she will have a white lace dress and three bridesmaids, Saffron and Sarah and me, and a big party for everyone, all her old boyfriends too. Fireworks. A band. A big tent called a marquee. But where will we put it? Carriages with white horses for us all to go to the church. Afterward Caddy and Micheal will go for a holiday to Australia to visit the Great Barrier Reef. Caddy has it all worked out and Mummy says Yes She Can Of Course You Can Darling Of Course You Must Do That. Saffron said That Will Cost a Few Weeks Housekeeping and Mummy said Yes But We Do Not Need to Worry About That. DADDY WILL PAY. Love, Rose.

But Mari, I just don’t think I can justify a show-offish wedding. I’ve never been that sort of girl. I’m the ‘Let’s go to a third-world country and take care of orphans’ kind of girl, you know?

Gabby,” Jenna cried. “It’s so horrible. I can’t believe this happened.” “Jenna,” I said in a soothing voice, “I’m alive and okay. No worries.” She sniffled into the phone. “No, it’s not that.” I waited a beat. “What?” “The bridesmaid dresses are all wrong!” she wailed. “Wait a second,” I said. “You aren’t upset over my being dead for four days?” “I knew you’d be fine,” she explained, brushing off the subject. “But these dresses? I don’t know what to do. They’re the wrong color, and they’re hideous!” She went into a hysterical fit of tears.

Plans are stupid. Plans get cancelled, plans change, and all that gets accomplished is you getting angry and upset. But you can always dream. Dreams don't get cancelled. They may change or you may change, but dreams are something you can always hold tight to your heart. They stay in your soul.

I don't like to brag or anything--but I really am exceptionally gifted when it comes to the "Stuff" department. If I had a title, it might be "Her Royal Highness, the Queen of Crap." I could look snootily down from high atop my pile of ancient magazines, holding a scepter of dried bridesmaid bouquets, bedecked with a crown made entirely of those extra button packs that helpfully accompany sweater purchases, proclaiming "SAVE IT!" in an emphatic yet regal tone.

Despite its revolutionary promises, Facebook can turn our everyday lives into that wedding we have all heard about: the one where the bride chooses her prettiest friends, not her best friends, to be bridesmaids. It can feel like a popularity contest where being Liked is what matters, being the best is the only respectable option, how our partners look is more important than how they act, the race to get married is on, and we have to be clever all the time. It can be just another place, not to be, but to seem.

Something Blue" is now available on Netgalley for reviewers!

Whenever you feel like you need to run, know that I’ll always understand. And that I’ll come and find you.

When in doubt, always compliment a woman's eyeliner application.

On Broad Street, ravens lurk on the Divine Lorraine Hotel as if to say Always a corpse flower, never a bride.

All women know that bridesmaid dresses are a secret plot if the devil.

Aunt Zo, who never missed a chance to lament her marriage, had said at dinner in her comedienne’s voice, “My husband. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride.

Good ol' Rex, always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

pink chiffon dress went down the aisle. Violet in the lilac gown followed. The bouquets she’d crafted for the bridesmaids were a mass of spring flowers: blue hydrangeas, soft purple roses, yellow carnations, pale pink peonies and the soft silvery-green foliage of dusty miller added a bit of shimmer. Each bouquet had a coordinating satin colored ribbon to match the attendant’s

Clary had demanded that Simon accompany her to her bridesmaid's dress fitting so afterwards they could shop for comics and she can feel, in her words, like "less of a frilled-up girly-girl.

Dandelion seeds in tiny glass bottles with cork lids and little labels with the words: Caitlin and Chuck have made their dreams come true, now it’s your turn. Release the seeds and free your wish.

Lastly, this one is great - Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you engage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or (a better way still) feel very little. See the consequences of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they do in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises which you cannot at any required moment command and withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be respected, and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair

The uglier the fashions, the worse places we'd have to pose to make them look good. Junkyards. Slaughterhouses. Sewage treatment plants. It's the ugly bridesmaid tactic where you only look good by comparison.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession. These are my sins.” I told him I had been disrespectful to my grandmother and had sworn under my breath on eleven different occasions. Then, in the most humble voice I could manufacture, I confessed how I had sat wickedly by while I watched my good friend Rosalie Pysyk deface her religion book with a filthy, immoral picture. I listened, somewhat amazed, to the treacherous catch in my voice. “She’s really okay, Father. I’m sure she didn’t even mean to do it. . . . For these and all the sins of my past life, I am heartily sorry.” For my penance, Father Duptulski gave me ten Hail Marys, something that struck me as a reasonable punishment for an accomplice, a mere bridesmaid in crime. I knelt and prayed—not for forgiveness but for the accuracy of my assumption: that the sanctity of the confessional applied more to murderers than kids.

I that too often, women take pieces of themselves they have no reason to hate, and they carry those pieces around like failures. If enough women stopped apologizing, then maybe there'd be less of an expectation for us to always burn bright and stand still. Maybe our complications would become our backbones instead of our scarlet letters. Hannah, it's a relief to stand tall in my own body, rather than shrink because I'm not the woman someone else expected me to be.

A great blue heron is the color of gray mist reflecting in blue water. And like mist, she can fade into the backdrop, all of her disappearing except the concentric circles of her lock-and-load eyes. She is a patient, solitary hunter, standing alone as long as it takes to snatch her prey. Or, eyeing her catch, she will stride forward one slow step at a time, like a predacious bridesmaid. And yet, on rare occasions she hunts on the wing, darting and diving sharply, swordlike beak in the lead.

Sometimes I dream of revolution, a bloody coup d’etat by the second rank—troupes of actors slaughtered by their understudies, magicians sawn in half by indefatigably smiling glamour girls, cricket teams wiped out by marauding bands of twelfth men—I dream of champions chopped down by rabbit-punching sparring partners while eternal bridesmaids turn and rape the bridegrooms over the sausage rolls and parliamentary private secretaries plant bombs in the Minister’s Humber—comedians die on provincial stages, robbed of their feeds by mutely triumphant stooges— —and—march— —an army of assistants and deputies, the seconds-in-command, the runners-up, the right-handmen—storming the palace gates wherein the second son has already mounted the throne having committed regicide with a croquet-mallet—stand-ins of the world stand up!—

Visit any comedy club, or watch Bridesmaids, Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy or Louis CK’s routines on YouTube, and you’ll realize that Americans pay comedians millions of dollars to talk about things most of them have felt, or thought, but never said in public. In

Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you engage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or (a better way still) feel very little. See the consequences of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they do in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises which you cannot at any required moment command and withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be respected, and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair

Oh, no, it is,” she said, reverting to her sensible tone of scientific certainty. “Bridesmaids’ dresses are designed to make the women in them look unappealing; that way the bride looks better than usual. It’s an accepted practice, a basic defensive strategy with biological roots. You see this sort of thing in nature all the time.

BY THE TIME SHE WAS EIGHT, MACKENSIE ELLIOT HAD BEEN married fourteen times. She’d married each of her three best friends—as both bride and groom—her best friend’s brother (under his protest), two dogs, three cats, and a rabbit. She’d served at countless other weddings as maid of honor, bridesmaid, groomsman, best man, and officiant.

Don't worry girls ... I have the bladder of a camel ...

The man was great, but no man was great enough to sever a friendship between her and one of her girls. Chicks before dicks, and all that.

Dad said Aunty Sue was a godsend. If that was so, I wasn’t surprised. God was probably happy to have got rid of her.

It’s never easy to admit something you’re ashamed of to someone you love

you know what happens whenever I draw a line in the sand? The tide always washes it away.

Di’s bouquet trembled in her hands. “Greg slept with my bridesmaid.” “Susie?” Min said, not surprised but sick just the same. “I knew she—” “Worse,” Di said.” “How could it be worse?” Min said and then the other shoe dropped. “Karen?” Di nodded. “Oh,” Min said, trying to think of what to say as her rage rose. “Oh, honey.” She put her arm around Di. “Tell me this was before he proposed to you and not—” “Last night,” Di whispered, and Min took a deep breath, corset or not. “Son of a fucking bitch.” “Thank you,” Di said, and sniffed. “That whore, I swear I’ll rip out every hair on her goddamn head.” Min held Di tighter. “I’ll nail her fucking chignon to the church door, the miserable bitch. And Dad will take Greg apart. He’s been wanting to for months.

As a bridesmaid, on the morning of the wedding you will be unfolding the rusty metal legs of a banquet table and in the distance you will see a useless groomsman playing Frisbee with a dog. To rub salt in the wound, he might lightly ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?” knowing full well no self-respecting bridesmaid will task him with any job because he will do it too slowly.

She’d practically ripped his clothes off before they got into her apartment, had him inside her before the sound of the door closing had stopped vibrating through the apartment. He’d pressed her to the door and pounded into her until he couldn’t stand up. He’d carried her to the bedroom, where she took over, riding him until he curled his body up to embrace her, so that his breath was on her lips when they reached their climax together.

The gentleness of his mouth on hers surprised her, the slow caress of his lips and tongue not unlike the waves below them. She curved her hand around the back of his neck and let herself float on the rhythm, let her fears drift and her body take over.

Come on,” he said, reaching one long arm across the span that separated them, pulling her back down. “Margaret can’t expect you to go alone. And as for the dress, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” “Oh, no, it is,” she said, reverting to her sensible tone of scientific certainty. “Bridesmaids’ dresses are designed to make the women in them look unappealing; that way the bride looks better than usual. It’s an accepted practice, a basic defensive strategy with biological roots. You see this sort of thing in nature all the time.

Vaguely she was aware of her moans floating across the backyard as her entire body tightened around him, then released, sending bits of her consciousness flying in all directions like the stars in the sky above. Her nails dug into his shoulder through his shirt as she anchored herself to him, as the orgasm pulsed through her. She felt the ripples of his own climax inside her, and then he collapsed over her, bringing both legs into the hammock and pulling her against his side. “Perfect,” he murmured, and in a few minutes, his breathing evened out.

Regan?" "Where are you?" "You called." He was so relieved to hear her voice ti took him a few seconds to catch up with the question. "I'm in Tennessee." Where else would he be? "No, really? And here I thought you'd flown to the moon in the last week." She took a shuddering breath, some of the strength leaving her voice. "So, did you know you live in the woods? Like way out there. What the hell is wrong with you? Who chooses to live surrounded by rabid animals who are only too happy to eat your face off?" How the hell did she know... Brock slammed on his brakes and nearly fishtailed off the highway. Thank God no one else was on the road or he would have caused a wreck. "Where are you?" "I'd think that was obvious. I'm in your front yard, engaged in a staring contest with a squirrel." "Do not move." He jerked the wheel and flipped a bitch in the middle of the road. "I'm coming." "I'm not moving. I'm pretty sure this little beast will go for my throat the second I do. So... hurry.

Getting married means you've won, and I hate thinking like that, I do, but let's be honest, that's just how it is. Until you're married, you're a loser, NO MATTER HOW GREAT YOU ARE AT EVERYTHING ELSE. In our super progressive, equal right, modern society, it's the one thing no one wants to say but everyone is thinking, however messed-up it is.

A wise woman once told me, 'fuck the guy who won't move mountains to be with you.' You're worth moving mountains for too, Zoey." "I know," I smiled, my body exhaling into the comfort of trusting its own worth. I knew I was worth moving mountains for. I had always known it. But when the world tells you you're difficult, at some point, a little voice creeps inside and you start to ask yourself, "Am I the mountain? Am I the very thing standing in my own way? I wasn't a mountain. No part of me would smooth my complicated terrain so that I could be easier for someone else to conquer. And I wasn't the sun. I wouldn't stand still for someone else. I was a woman who was on her own path, and that terrified the shit out of almost everyone.

Sometimes I dream of revolution, a bloody coup d’etat by the second rank—troupes of actors slaughtered by their understudies, magicians sawn in half by indefatigably smiling glamour girls, cricket teams wiped out by marauding bands of twelfth men—I dream of champions chopped down by rabbit-punching sparring partners while eternal bridesmaids turn and rape the bridegrooms over the sausage rolls and parliamentary private secretaries plant bombs in the Minister’s Humber—comedians die on provincial stages, robbed of their feeds by mutely triumphant stooges— —and—march— —an army of assistants and deputies, the seconds-in-command, the runners-up, the right-handmen—storming the palace gates wherein the second son has already mounted the throne having committed regicide with a croquet-mallet—stand-ins

I wasn't just crying about Will. I was crying about Seb and Shona and my job and my sister's aggression and my parent's refusal to be proud of me and Lauren's wedding and every last shit little thing that had happened to me from birth, from the big disasters like puberty, to the things that didn't even seem to matter at the time, like when I put milk in my tea last Thursday and then found out it had gone off.

From the passenger seat Kitty sighs heavily and rests her head against the window. “What’s up with you?” Peter asks. “The bridesmaids won’t let me go on the bachelorette night,” she says. “I’m the only one left out.” I narrow my eyes at the back of her head. “That’s bullshit!” Peter looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Why won’t you guys let her go?” “We’re going to a karaoke bar! We can’t bring Kitty in because she’s too young. Honestly, I think I was barely allowed to go.” “Why can’t you guys just go to a restaurant like we’re doing?” “Because that’s not a real bachelorette.” Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you guys are going to a strip club or something--wait, did you change your mind? Are you going to a strip club?” “No!” “Then what’s the big deal? Just go somewhere else.” “Peter, it’s not my decision. You’ll have to take it up with Kristen.” I smack the back of Kitty’s arm. “Same goes for you, you little fiend! Quit trying to weasel your way in by manipulating Peter. He has no power here.” “Sorry, kid,” Peter says. Kitty slumps in her seat and then straightens. “What if I came to the bachelor night instead?” she suggests. “Since you’re just going to a restaurant?” Peter stutters, “Uh--uh, I don’t know, I’d have to talk to the guys…” “So you’ll ask? Because I like steak too. I like it so much. I’ll order steak with a baked potato on the side, and for dessert I’ll have a strawberry sundae with whipped cream.” Kitty beams a smile at Peter, who smiles back weakly. When we get to the elementary school and she hops out, perky and puffed up like a chickadee, I lean forward in my seat and say into Peter’s ear, “You just got played.

I imagine the field day we’d have with this in gender studies class. Our desks in a circle, we’d huddle forward and rant: So this is the baseline of femininity. The place where being bestowed certain chromosomes will ultimately take you. This is the dream that’s been pounded into us. Find the guy. Find the dress. Or hell, maybe the other way around. The Disney Princesses told us so. But this isn’t college. This is my job.

Now I’m going to change in front of you, okay? I’m not about to hop around putting on a linen suit near a toilet in a small stall. That just screams disaster waiting to happen. But I have to warn you, I’m wearing nude colored boxer briefs. Jaleesa picked them out for me. Said I couldn’t wear black with cream linen pants. But fucking nude? They make me look like a goddamn Ken doll, no dick, just a flat crotch. Not a fan. Just warning you so you’re not startled.

Calvin?” Elizabeth said, gathering the last of her things from the cafeteria table. “Are you listening? I said I’m going to a wedding tomorrow. Actually, I’m in the wedding if you can believe that.” She gave a nervous shrug. “So we should probably discuss that acid study tonight if that works.” “Who’s getting married?” “My friend Margaret—the Physics secretary? That’s who I’m meeting in fifteen minutes. For a fitting.” “Wait. You have a friend?” He thought Elizabeth only had workmates—fellow scientists who recognized her skill and undermined her results. Elizabeth felt a flush of embarrassment. “Well, yes,” she said awkwardly. “Margaret and I nod to each other in the hallways. We’ve spoken several times at the coffee urn.” Calvin willed his face to look as if this were a reasonable description of friendship. “It’s very last-minute. One of her bridesmaids is sick and Margaret says it’s important to have an even ratio of bridesmaids to ushers.” Although as soon as she said it, she realized what Margaret really needed: a size 6 without weekend plans.

Friends and family arrived at the church: Becky and Connell, my two lifelong friends and bridesmaids. Marlboro Man’s cousins and college friends. And Mike. My dear brother Mike, who hugged everyone who entered the church, from the little old ladies to the strapping former college football players. And just as I was greeting my Uncle John, I saw Mike go in for the kill as Tony, Marlboro Man’s good college friend, entered the door. “Wh-wh-wh-what is you name?” Mike’s thundering voice echoed through the church. “Hi, I’m Tony,” Marlboro Man’s friend said, extending his hand. “It’s n-n-n-nice to meet you, Tony,” Mike shouted back, not letting go of Tony’s hand. “Nice to meet you too, Mike,” Tony said, likely wondering when he would get his hand back. “You so handsome,” Mike said. Oh, Lord. Please, no, I thought. “Why…thank you, Mike,” Tony replied, smiling uncomfortably. If it hadn’t been my wedding rehearsal, I might have popped some popcorn, sat back, and enjoyed the show. But I just couldn’t watch. Mike’s affection had never been any respecter of persons.

Tina was hosting. She's a thirty-five-year-old version of Sienne, only bottle blonde.Same blind-you lipstick, same taste in clothes,same complete disregard for anyone else's opinion on anything. They hate each other. "You hate me!" Sienna wailed. It wasn't Tina's voice that snapped back, but Dad's, "Oh,no. I am not playing that game with you. Do you have any idea what a hundred pounds of filet is gonna cost me? And now you want lobster?" "But it's my wedding! Daddy-" "Don't you Daddy me, princess! I'm already five grand in the hole for the damned hotel,not to mention two for the dress, and every time I turn around, you and your mother have added a new guest, bridesmaid,or crustacean!" First of all,Dad was yelling.Almost. Second,he was swearing.Even damn is fighting talk for him.I set down my pizza and debated the best route for a sealthy escape. I'd seen the dress.Pretty, in a Disney-princess, twenty-yards-of-tulle, boobs-shaped-into-missiles sort of way. Sienne looked deliriously happy in it. She looked beautiful.The less said about the bridesmaids' dressed, I'd decided, on seeing the purple sateen,the better. "No lobster!" he yelled. There was a dramatic howl, followed by the bang of the back door. When I peeked out,it was like a photo. Everything was frozen.Dad was standing over the massive pasta pot, red-faced and scowling, wooden spoon brandished like a sword. Leo and Ricky had retreated to the doorway of the freezer. Nonna had her eyes turned heavenward, and Tina was halfway through the dining room door, smirking a little.

How will I choose?” she finally muttered. “Pick something that doesn’t make you look like a slut. That’ll narrow it down,” Bailey said, now frowning at a headless mannequin wearing a tiny wedding dress with a long train. “Oh, and stay away from too much lace. Don’t want to look like someone’s grandma.” A wide-eyed Farah looked at me as I took her hand. “This is fun. We’re going to look at them all and pick our favorites. Then, you’ll try them on and narrow them down. With so many to choose from, you’re sure to find the perfect dress.” “I just don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.” “You’re an idiot,” Bailey snorted. “Trying too hard to what?” “Look fancy.” “You’re wearing a fucking wedding dress. You’re supposed to look fancy. It’s not like you’re ever getting married again. If things don’t work out with Coop, he’ll never let you go. Nope, you’ll be heading for a shallow grave.” While Farah rolled her eyes, I stared at Bailey who shrugged. “Too honest? “Is that a real question?” Bailey grinned. “What I meant to say was Farah and Cooper are so fucking perfect for each other that they’ll never get divorced, so she should wear the fanciest damn dress she can find. It’s what I would do if I was once dirt poor and now had money.” “Great effort, but you lost a little bit of your fake niceness at the end.” Bailey grinned. “Great effort is still something.” “Yes, it is,” I said, taking Farah’s hand. “Let’s start narrowing things down. I’ll show you a dress and you decide if it’s too poofy or not poofy enough. We’ll eventually hit the right level of poofy.” Farah laughed. “I want a good amount of poofy. It’s rare that a girl can be poofy without looking stupid.” “Maddy will be poofy no matter what she wears,” Bailey said as Maddy entered with Jodi and Sawyer. “I don’t even know how she can get a bridesmaid dress if she’s going to swell up more before the wedding.” Everyone frowned at Bailey who glanced at me then back at Maddy and added, “You’re swelling with the gift of life.” Maddy laughed. “Was that you being nice?” “That was me trying, yes.

The wedding of David and Michal was a glorious affair. Though Saul was normally stingy with his money, he was not so with his daughters. Michal had started the day with a bath followed by a bodily anointing of oil. She wore a linen and silk dress with embroidered cloth of Phoenician purple. Her hair was brushed to a soft perfection and placed beneath her Tyrian style crown of gold. She was bedecked with gold and silver jewelry from Egypt. Bracelets, necklaces, ear coverings and a ring on her nose. She walked through the Gibeah streets in fine calf leather sandals, surrounded by a cadre of dozens of virgin bridesmaid companions dressed in white linen. A band of minstrels led her with rejoicing on tambourine, flute, and lyre. She felt like a queen. She would be a queen one day. She knew that she was marrying the mightiest warrior in all of Israel. The gibborim who had killed the giant Rephaim Philistine, who her own father, the anointed warrior king, could not conquer. All she could think of the entire journey to the palace were the lyrics she first heard her from the lips of her bridegroom upon their first acquaintance. She had never forgot them. They were burned into her heart. He had sung a song of virginal submission to a manly king as a sample of his musical talent to her father. But she knew he had sung those words for her. She knew by the look in his eyes, his unquenchable stare of desire for her. It was like a prophecy. Now those words were coming true, she was going to be living them out any moment. Hear, O daughter, and consider, and incline your ear: forget your people and your father’s house, and the king will desire your beauty. Since he is your lord, bow to him. The people of Israel lined the streets and cheered their beautiful princess as she approached the entranceway to the palace. She could feel her heart pounding out of her chest. Would he sing to her on their wedding night? Would he seduce her with his musical talent before he ravished her? All glorious is the princess in her chamber, with robes interwoven with gold. In many-colored robes she is led to the king, with her virgin companions following behind her. With joy and gladness they are led along as they enter the palace of the king.

First came the flower girls, pretty little lasses in summery frocks, skipping down the aisle, tossing handfuls of petals and, in one case, the basket when it was empty. Next came the bridesmaids, Luna, strutting in her gown and heels, a challenging dare in her eyes that begged someone to make a remark about the girly getup she was forced to wear. Next came Reba and Zena, giggling and prancing, loving the attention. This time, Leo wasn’t thrown by Teena’s appearance, nor was he fooled. How could he have mistaken her for his Vex? While similar outwardly, Meena’s twin lacked the same confident grin, and the way she moved, with a delicate grace, did not resemble his bold woman at all. How unlike they seemed. Until Teena tripped, flailed her arms, and took out part of a row before she could recover! Yup, they were sisters all right. With a heavy sigh, and pink cheeks, Teena managed to walk the rest of the red carpet, high heels in hand— one of which seemed short a heel. With all the wedding party more or less safely arrived, there was only one person of import left. However, she didn’t walk alone. Despite his qualms, which Leo heard over the keg they’d shared the previous night, Peter appeared ready to give his daughter away. Ready, though, didn’t mean he looked happy about it. The seams of the suit his soon-to-be father-in-law wore strained, the rented tux not the best fit, but Leo doubted that was why he looked less than pleased. Leo figured there were two reasons for Peter’s grumpy countenance. The first was the fact that he had to give his little girl away. The second probably had to do with the snickers and the repetition of a certain rumor, “I hear he lost an arm-wrestling bet and had to wear a tie.” For those curious, Leo had won that wager, and thus did his new father-in-law wear the, “gods-damned-noose” around his neck. However, who cared about that sore loser when upon his arm rested a vision of beauty. Meena’s long hair tumbled in golden waves over her shoulders, the ends curled into fat ringlets that tickled her cleavage. At her temples, ivory combs swept the sides up and away, revealing the creamy line of her neck. The strapless gown made her appear as a goddess. The bust, tight and low cut, displayed her fantastic breasts so well that Leo found himself growling. He didn’t like the appreciative eyes in the crowd. Yet, at the same time, he felt a certain pride. His bride was beautiful, and it was only right she be admired. From her impressive breasts, the gown cinched in before flaring out. The filmy white fabric of the skirt billowed as she walked. He noted she wore flats. Reba’s suggestion so she wouldn’t get a heel stuck. Her gown didn’t quite touch the ground. Zena’s idea to ensure she wouldn’t trip on the hem. They’d taken all kinds of precautions to ensure her the smoothest chance of success. She might lack the feline grace of other ladies. She might have stumbled a time or two and been kept upright only by the smooth actions of her father, but dammit, in his eyes, she was the daintiest, most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. And she is mine.