The Making of a MoH-FO: Lessons from a Retired Maid of Honor

Every boo goes through an evolution of sorts in her lady bromance. You go from primordial boos, to early/primitive boos, to upright-walker kind of boos. I used to be in the upright camp, having conquered ominous trees in cute-as-fuck small towns, a biblical plague and a homicidal mouse in a mansion of horrors (#LivermoreNeverForget), and the writing of a soon-to-be cult classic young adult novel, all with my partner in crime. Together, I thought we’d seen it all, done it all, and ate it all; I thought I was already the most evolved boo I could possibly be; I thought we had arrived.

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But last year, I suddenly got called up to the big leagues (yeah, the extended evolution metaphor is over; it’s time for the metaphor vaguely related to baseball, about which I know nothing). Last year, my then newly-engaged best boo stared at me puckishly across the table at brunch and asked, “Boo…will you be my maid of honor?” And so I dove head-first, grinning like a buffoon, into my year-long evolutionary journey (never mind, that metaphor’s sticking, apparently) from a Maid of Honor, or a MoH, to a towering, majestic, “do what the bride says or I’ll hang you from a tree by your useless, pathetic intestines while a pack of starving wolves circle you maniacally!” MoH-FO: Maid of Honor – Fuck Off!

The differences are subtle, but undeniable: a MoH does what she’s told, but a MoH-FO anticipates your needs; a MoH will offer her shoulder when you’re stressed about the incompetence of LITERALLY EVERYONE, but a MoH-FO will repeatedly and unrelentingly harass everyone out of the dark assholes they’re hiding in until they do their goddamn jobs; a MoH will cry as you walk down the aisle, but a MoH-FO will cry the ugliest and most uncontrollable of ugly-cries like an abandoned third-world orphan. Anywhere. Any time. At random intervals. For no distinguishable reason whatsoever. Like this:

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