Let's review the bidding: T-minus some-odd days and counting
The Beloved Sister, aka The Bride, has her dress. She has her crinoline and her veil and her pearl and crystal necklace. She has her shoes; with luck, she'll have flowers which I have already categorically refused to help arrange, as flowers die at my touch. Instead, I will pour wine and keep the dog entertained.
The Bride looks, even when she's trying hard to be sexy, like a milkmaid. She's all blond hair and buxom figure and rosy cheeks. Thus, she'll look perfect and wholesome and bridelike in her cream-colored silk and Mom's veil ("If you're sure you want the kharma from that," I said, "you're welcome to it, since I wore it too") and pearls. The Groom will be pleased.
He'll probably be even more pleased once I walk down the aisle. See, I *don't* look milkmaidish and wholesome. I do not glow. Instead, from the time I was a child, I have looked as though I just got out of bed, no matter what I do. As I've gotten older, it looks as though I've gotten out of a very well-populated bed. (Hi, Mom!) I have a dress that could cause a riot, shoes that are a miracle of modern engineering, and pearls that say, "Yes, I'm black and shiny and irregular; screw you."
We'll be diametrically opposed, The Bride and Her Attendant. I'll pour the wine; she'll say the vows. I'll keep the annoying relatives and friends at bay; she'll glow cheerfully and cut cake. I'll be the bouncer, and retrieve whatever vases sticky-fingered guests have tried to steal; she'll be bridelike and happy and, probably, not eat.
Which reminds me to put aside a plate of food for her. Brides never eat enough on their wedding days.
When I got married, Beloved Sister went back to the house in the 100* heat to retrieve the flowers we'd left behind by mistake. She had to drive an unfamilliar car through an unfamilliar town to do that, and then she had to get past the watchful wolf-hybrid that lived at my house. She managed all of that, and was still back in time for the wedding, unfazed.
I owe her.
I especially owe her for the full cup of rice she managed to throw down my cleavage as Der Hub and I ran out of the reception.
Bride, be warned. I am practicing my overhand pitch.