She's had enough taffeta to last a lifetime.
Meet the author of "Bad Bridesmaid: Bachelorette Brawls and Taffeta Tantrums-Tales from the Front Lines."
Siri Agrell is a journalist. She gets paid to write for a living. But one friend thought she went too far when she wrote an article in a national newspaper about the role of bridesmaids in the modern-day wedding. And that same friend gave Agrell the boot from her bridal party. But Agrell lives to write about it. "Bad Bridesmaid" is a hilarious tale of weddings, bridesmaids and brides gone wild.
Read an Excerpt from "Bad Bridesmaid" below:
SEA FOAM BLUES
It's a bridesmaid's dress. Someone loved it intensely for one day. Then, tossed it . . . like a Christmas tree. So special, then bam-it's on the side of the road, tinsel still clinging to it, like a sex crime victim, underwear inside out, bound with electrical tape.
-Marla Singer, Fight Club
I didn't want to come out of the dressing room.
It was springtime and we were shopping for the bridesmaid dresses that I and three other girls would wear down the aisle in July. The outing had started out like any other weekend shopping trip with friends. It was a gorgeous, brisk but sunny Saturday morning and The Bride, another bridesmaid, and I strolled through a trendy shopping district laughing at people's outfits and chatting about where we would stop for lunch. The sidewalks were crammed with street vendors, hot dog salesmen, and women jumping the gun on summer, barelegged under their flirty skirts, despite the chilly breeze. Music blared from outdoor speakers and we ducked in and out of stores if something pretty caught our eye. We were not, however, the only female shoppers on the strip, and our bubble of bridal bliss would soon be burst. As we were planning our best friend's wedding, the city was abuzz with a different sort of major event planning. It was high school prom time, and the malls were teeming with teenage Lolitas, strutting around in size-zero jeans and taunting us with their tiny frames.
Psychologically, I wasn't ready to hunt for dresses alongside three hundred ninety-pound debutantes. I didn't want to hear them talk about how their minuscule asses looked fat or be forced to contemplate how many years had gone by since my own high school graduation, when I regrettably wore a dress I had made myself and hemmed with purple feathers.
Physically, I was equally unprepared for the task at hand. It was still cool enough outside to require socks, and I had wisely selected a dark pair that were sure to look fantastic when worn with my Hush Puppies and a strapless peach cocktail dress. It should also be noted that underwear has never been my thing, and I had convinced myself that going commando while dress shopping was an acceptable way to avoid having my pantyline pointed out by a stick-thin saleswoman who probably ironed her thong before putting it on. And so I found myself clad in a cheap, off-white gauzy number that I had managed to zip up over my pasty white back, my private areas fully visible through the translucent material, my socks and shoes doing little to heighten the outfit's already minimal appeal, wondering how I could avoid showing it to my friends.