“But it’s MY day!”
Dear Bridesmaids:
Thanks for supporting me and gritting your teeth through all of my hissy fits, meltdowns, passive-aggressive e-mails, inexplicable need for you to wear a hot pink, bulbous dress comprised primarily of taffeta, insistence on an unaffordable bachelorette party in Las Vegas at which I sobbed into my 10th margarita on the first (and second and third) night bemoaning the fact that my fiance was “totes getting lap dances from some bimbo right now — if he cheats on me it’s OVAH! OVAH!!,” five — count ‘em, five! — bridal showers at various inconvenient venues in the tristate area, plan to have the entire bridal party dance to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” (for which you had to take five $100 dance lessons) as we all enter the badly-decorate banquet hall I spent seven months obsessively kvetching over and finally — listening to me say, for the 1000th time in my most plaintive, nasal whine: “BUT it’s MY DAY!”
There’s just ONE more eensy thing you gotta do ladies: see all those unsightly expression lines on your face? They gotta go. And YOU have to pay for it!
This just in from The New York Times: bridepsychozillas are now insisting their bridal parties get botox.
