I have been bitching about this bridesmaid gig for far too long.
And now, I must suffer.
And suffer I did.
In skin tight lilac taffeta that actually managed to hang like a sack which when you think about it is a fucking FEAT OF MODERN ENGINEERING. My boobs were squashed, my stomach looked like I was about to give birth, excess material on the back gave me a hump that Quasimodo would be all ‘girl, that is some hump you got there’ and then it fell like a sack of lilac and black taffeta to just on my knee ensuring that my legs looked like stumps of a lymphedema patient ending in my feet stuffed into those horrific shoes with my toenails painted THE SAME COLOUR AS MY EYESHADOW.
But the bride looked beautiful.
And the groom cried, which made me cry.
And then her father cried and I cried again.
Alas that was not enough to budge the PURPLE OMG PURPLE eyemakeup.
It was four billion degrees in the shade and I was standing in full sun.
Laura Palmer style.
Wraaaaaapped in plaaaaaaastic.
So besides the grumpy bridesmaid that in every single photo bar one has a scowl on her face, the day was pretty much a success.
And if I wasn’t the scowling frumpy grumpy bridesmaid with the rats nest of hair on the side of her head that she paid FIFTY MOTHERFUCKING BUCKS FOR which was all bouncy curly in the salon and then fell out and tangled around itself like a mess of brambles before she reached the CAR because CLEARLY the hairdresser has no fucking idea and I should have asked for her hairdresser licence or something when I realised that she was going to curl and pin my hair with no motherfucking product in it AT ALL, I would be all ‘the wedding was beautiful, but OMG YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE MIDDLE BRIDESMAID! Bwaaaaaaaa haaaaaa haaaaaaaa! That bitch was uuuuuuuuugleeeeeee.
And that is the only picture you are getting.
Unless I work out how to photoshop like they do in the magazines.
Brightside? At least I know it is all up from here. I cannot EVER be as ugly as I was that day.
And I made the bride look even more beautiful.
Cause nothing makes you supermodel material like a fat ugly friend.
And the lemon tart? I decided to forgo dinner so I could eat my body weight in lemon tart and then swim in the chocolate mousse (that I had to kick some serious caterer arse for cause they were all ‘ooops we made pavlova’ and I was all ‘hellz to the motherfucking NO, pav costs you like a dollar per 100, you best be making some motherfucking mousse or I will be going all hot and sweaty crazy biatch up your arses.’ So they made it. Cause I am WAY scary in lilac taffeta and purple eye shadow to match my toes) and I got called away to kick some old codgers arse for insisting they turn off the airconditioning and managed ONE FUCKING BITE before they took it away.
So I had wine for dinner.
Lots and lots of wine.
From what I can remember, it wasn’t pretty.
I think I may need to get the guest list… should I pop in a cupcake with the apology letter?