My Best Friend Gave Me the Wrong Dress Code for Her Wedding – I Decided to Outplay Her Smartly
When Emily’s friend, Elle, gets engaged to her boyfriend, Brian, she is completely over the moon. Emily does everything she can to help Elle plan her dream wedding. But then Elle starts acting secretive and gives Emily a wedding invite with the incorrect dress code. Thankfully, a mutual colleague gives Emily the correct details, allowing her to show up to the wedding to teach Elle a lesson.
“I’m engaged, Em!” Elle said, rushing through my door while I was sitting on the couch and reading a book.
A woman reading on a couch | Source: Unsplash
“What?” I exclaimed, standing up to hug her tightly. “I’m so happy for you, my girl!”
Elle sat down on the couch and showed me her hand.
“Look at this rock!” she said.
A close-up of an engagement ring | Source: Unsplash
Of course, I was over the moon for her. We’d been through so much together, and now it was her turn to walk down the aisle.
For my wedding, a few years ago, Elle had been right by my side. She helped me plan every little detail, from the font on my wedding invitations to the menu selections.
“It’s more like you and Elle are getting married,” my husband, Grant, laughed one evening when I told him everything that Elle and I had planned.
A laughing man | Source: Unsplash
“Well, she’s been around longer than you,” I replied, showing him the mockup for our wedding invitations.
And it was true, Elle and I had been friends since our childhood, having lived on the same street and gone to the same kindergarten together.
We shared every major milestone, from awkward teenage years to college graduation, together.
Two women lying on a bed | Source: Pexels
We even ended up working at the same company, making sure to have lunch and tea breaks together every day.
So, naturally, I expected her to be just as involved in her wedding planning as she was in mine.
“Brian and I don’t want to be engaged for too long,” she said one day at the office while we were having tea and pastries.
An office kitchen | Source: Unsplash
“So, we’re planning for the wedding to be in a few months.”
“That’s a lot to do in a few months, Elle,” I said, sipping my tea.
“I know,” she agreed. “But you’ll help me!”
A woman drinking from a mug | Source: Pexels
As the weeks went by, Elle asked me for advice on the venue, the dance, and the flowers.
“I need it to be perfect, Em,” she said. “Brian and I are the only children of our parents, so this is the only chance they’re going to get to be parents of the bride and groom.”
A smiling older couple | Source: Midjourney
I helped her wherever I could. I booked visits of stunning venues that she could see. I booked her appointment with the florist who had done all the flowers at my wedding. And I arranged for her to meet my choreographer for her first dance with Brian.
“I don’t know how I could have done any of this without you,” Elle said, holding my hand.
Two women holding hands | Source: Midjourney
But that’s not the best part of this story.
Despite our shared history and all the assistance I had given Elle throughout her wedding planning process, she didn’t tell me anything about the actual wedding.
“I want to keep the location a secret,” she said sheepishly, a small smile on her face. “I want it to be a surprise. So, you’ll know when the invites come out.”
A close-up of a smiling woman | Source: Midjourney
And yet, when the invitations came out, I never received mine.
“Darling,” I asked Grant when I got home one day. “Did Elle’s wedding invitation come in the post?”
“No,” he said, looking up from his tablet. “Shouldn’t she have just given it to you?”
A man using a tablet | Source: Midjourney
“I thought so, but I’m not sure where our invitation is.”
“Ask her, love,” my husband said.
I was puzzled, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.
A close-up of a surprised woman | Source: Midjourney
So, I asked her directly.
“Oh, right,” she said, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I must have forgotten. I don’t have any on me at the moment, but I’ll bring one for you tomorrow!”
The next day, Elle handed me an invite. To my surprise, the dress code was “Mermaid.”
A wedding invitation on a table | Source: Midjourney
“Like the cartoon character?” I said aloud.
It seemed bizarre, but Elle had always loved that cartoon, so I tried to rationalize it.
“Maybe she’s going for a whimsical theme?” I muttered, thinking about a mermaid-themed wedding.
An imagined mermaid-themed wedding | Source: Midjourney
But still, I planned my outfit for Elle’s wedding.
It was about a week before the wedding when our colleague, Jane, and I were standing outside during one of our tea breaks and chatting.
“I’m actually looking forward to getting all dressed up,” Jane said. “It’s been a while since I put on a good pair of heels and did my makeup for fun and not work.”
A woman putting on makeup | Source: Unsplash
“What do you mean? Is your costume all sorted?” I asked.
“What costume?” Jane asked, her reaction priceless; she looked at me like I had lost my mind.
“Elle’s invitation said that the dress code was mermaid-themed,” I said.
A surprised young woman | Source: Midjourney
“I think she’s joking with you,” Jane laughed. “My invitation said ‘Cocktail’ as the dress code.”
My heart sank.
Elle was setting me up, but why?
For the next few days, I kept my head down, barely interacting with Elle.
A close-up of a sad woman | Source: Midjourney
I was feeling sidelined and hurt. We’d always been honest with each other, so why was she doing this now?
I remembered how supportive she was during my wedding and couldn’t understand why she didn’t want me involved in hers.
On the day of the wedding, I arrived in a long, elegant gray dress.
A woman wearing a long gray dress | Source: Midjourney
Grant and I sat at the back, away from the crowd, and we watched the beautiful ceremony unfold. I wondered why I wasn’t a bridesmaid.
But it was only during the reception, when Elle saw me, that the truth came out.
A bridal couple kissing | Source: Unsplash
“What the hell are you wearing?” she demanded when she saw me.
The guests around us glanced at us and each other, sensing the tension.
“You know, I really thought that ‘mermaids’ as the wedding theme was a bit extreme. But then Jane showed me her invitation.”
An angry bride | Source: Midjourney
Elle’s face went through a range of emotions, finally settling on a strained calm.
“Em… I guess it was a mistake,” she said.
“Stop pretending,” I said, my voice firm but gentle. “I’m your friend. It’s your wedding. What’s going on?”
She hesitated, her eyes darting around before finally meeting mine.
A close-up of a bride | Source: Midjourney
“Em,” she said slowly. “I was afraid that you’d outshine me. Everyone keeps talking about how perfect your wedding was and how beautiful you looked. I didn’t want to feel like I was in your shadow on my own day.”
I looked at her carefully, trying to process her words.
“My own mother kept talking about how wonderful your wedding was and that I should listen to you about everything,” she continued.
A close-up of a bride and her mother | Source: Midjourney
“Elle, you never had to compete with me. Your wedding is beautiful, and so are you. We’re friends, remember? I would never try to overshadow you.”
Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Em,” she choked. “I let my insecurities get the best of me.”
I pulled her into a hug.
Two women hugging | Source: Midjourney
“Everything is perfect,” I said. “You’ve planned your dream wedding, and it has all fallen into place. Now, come on. Let’s enjoy this day together, like we’ve always done.”
The tension melted away, and the awkwardness dissolved as we shared a genuine moment of reconciliation.
Grant and I sat at a table away from the crowd.
A table at a wedding reception | Source: Midjourney
“Are things okay with you and Elle?” Grant asked me.
“I think so,” I smiled. “But I think that there’s bigger things we need to discuss, too. I just want to make sure that we’re on the right page. That can wait until after her honeymoon.”
My husband took my hand and squeezed it gently.
A couple holding hands on a table | Source: Midjourney
What would you have done?
Sassy Neighbor Drove All the Tenants Crazy at Night – So We Found a Way to Give Her a Taste of Her Own Medicine
When Michelle moved in, she refused to follow one simple rule: bring your key. Instead, she pounded on my window at all hours, demanding to be let in. After countless sleepless nights, the other tenants and I came up with a plan to give her a taste of her own medicine.
I’ve always been a stickler for rules. Call me boring, but there’s something comforting about knowing where you stand. That’s why I loved living in our little apartment block on Maple Street.
A woman and her dog | Source: Midjourney
We had one golden rule: after 8 p.m., you always carry your key. Simple, right? Well, it was until Hurricane Michelle blew into our lives.
The day Michelle moved in, I should’ve known trouble was brewing. I was collecting my mail when she strutted up the path, wild red hair flying, and enormous sunglasses perched on her nose despite the cloudy day.
“Hey, new neighbors!” she called out, voice loud enough to wake the dead. “I’m Michelle! Who’s gonna help me with these boxes?”
A woman waving | Source: Midjourney
I exchanged glances with Matt from 2B. He shrugged, and we both headed out to lend a hand. As we lugged boxes up the stairs, Michelle chattered away.
“This place is so cute! It’s like, totally retro. I can’t wait to spice things up around here!” She winked at Matt, who nearly dropped a box labeled “PARTY SUPPLIES.”
“Yeah, well,” I puffed, struggling with what felt like a crate of bricks, “we like it quiet around here. Especially after 8.”
Michelle laughed, a sound like tinkling glass.
A laughing woman | Source: Midjourney
“Oh honey, the night’s just getting started at 8!” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You’ll see, I’ll breathe some life into this place.”
I should’ve taken that as the warning it was.
For the first week, things were okay. Sure, Michelle’s music was a bit loud, and yeah, she had a habit of clattering up and down the stairs at all hours. But it wasn’t until the second Friday night that the real trouble started.
A woman in her home | Source: Midjourney
It was just past midnight when the first thump-thump-thump echoed through my apartment. My dog, Biscuit, lifted his head with a whine. I tried to ignore it, burying my face in my pillow. But then came the buzzing. It was incessant, like an angry hornet.
Groaning, I stumbled to the intercom. “Hello?”
“Heeeeey!” Michelle’s voice, slightly slurred, crackled through the speaker. “It’s me! I forgot my key. Can you let me in?”
An intercom entry phone | Source: Pexels
I sighed, pressing the button to unlock the main door. My apartment was on the ground level so I opened my door to remind her about the key rule.
“Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver!” Michelle gushed, her breath reeking of tequila. “I was gonna be stuck out there all night!”
“Michelle,” I started, trying to keep my voice level, “remember the rule about always carrying your key after 8?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Pffft, rules are made to be broken, right? Besides, you’re right here! It’s no problem for you to let me in.”
A laughing woman | Source: Midjourney
“Well, actually…”
But there was no point in saying anything more. Michelle had already clattered up the stairs and disappeared, leaving me standing in the foyer, fuming.
I wish I could say that was a one-time thing. But over the next few weeks, it became a nightly occurrence.
Sometimes she’d bang on windows, other times she’d ring every buzzer in the building until someone let her in.
A woman in front of a staircase | Source: Pexels
It didn’t matter if it was 10 p.m. or 3 a.m. — Michelle seemed to operate in her own time zone.
One particularly frustrating night, I was jolted awake by a rhythmic tapping on my bedroom window. Groaning, I glanced at my alarm clock: 2:37 a.m.
“Adrienne! Adrieeeeenne! Wake up, sleepyhead!”
That was the last straw for Biscuit, who ran over to the window and started yapping. I stumbled out of bed. Pulling back the curtain, I was met with Michelle’s grinning face, illuminated by the streetlight.
A woman at a window | Source: Pexels
“Michelle!” I hissed, sliding the window open. “What are you doing?”
She giggled, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves. “I forgot my key, Addy. Be a pal and buzz me in? I’ve been tapping at your window for ages already.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Michelle, this has got to stop. You can’t keep doing this. What if I hadn’t been home?”
She shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the whole situation. “Then I would’ve buzzed Matt. Or Tiffany. Someone’s always home, right?”
A woman talking to someone | Source: Midjourney
The whole building was at its wit’s end. One day, Tiffany from 3A cornered me in the laundry room, dark circles under her eyes.
“Adrienne, we’ve got to do something about Michelle. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks!”
I nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion myself. “I know, Tiff. I’ve tried talking to her, but she just laughs it off.”
A woman in a laundry room | Source: Pexels
Matt joined us, his usually neat hair a mess. “I called the landlord,” he said, voice low. “Guess what? Michelle’s his niece. He said, and I quote, ‘She’s just having a bit of fun. You all need to lighten up.’”
“Lighten up?” Tiffany hissed. “I’ll show him ‘lighten up’ when I fall asleep at work and get fired!”
That’s when Riley from 4C spoke up. I hadn’t even noticed her lurking by the dryers.
“You know,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, “if Michelle won’t listen to reason, maybe we need to speak her language.”
A woman in a laundry room | Source: Pexels
We all leaned in closer as Riley outlined her plan. It was petty, sure. Childish, even. But after weeks of sleepless nights and Michelle’s careless laughter ringing in our ears, it felt like sweet justice.
The next night, we put our plan into action.
Michelle stumbled home around 1 a.m., and as usual, she started banging on windows and buzzing apartments. Someone let her in, as usual, and I listened as she breezed upstairs.
We struck an hour later.
A woman glancing over her shoulder | Source: Midjourney
I went outside and kept buzzing her apartment for a full ten minutes. Eventually, her voice crackled over the speaker.
“Who is this, and what the hell is wrong with you?”
“Hey, Michelle! It’s me, Adrienne. I took Biscuit out and forgot my key. Be a pal and buzz me in?”
“Are you serious? It’s 1 a.m.!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, but I always do it for you, so what’s the problem?”
A smiling woman | Source: Midjourney
I heard her mutter something, but she let me in. I quickly texted Tiffany and rushed upstairs for the next part. I arrived at Michelle’s floor just as a series of sharp knocks echoed down the hall.
“Michelle? Michelle? Are you home?” Tiffany called out as she knocked on the door.
“Tiff? What are you doing?” Michelle groaned.
“Oh, I just wanted to check if somebody had let you in. Good night!”
A woman knocking on a door | Source: Pexels
I leaned against the wall, stifling my giggles. But we weren’t done. Over the next few days, we kept up our campaign. If Michelle forgot her key, we made sure she couldn’t sleep. It was petty, yes, but it felt so good.
By day five, Michelle was a wreck. Her hair was a tangled mess, her designer clothes rumpled, and dark circles ringed her bloodshot eyes. As she trudged up the stairs, I almost felt bad. Almost.
A tired-looking woman | Source: Pexels
“Please,” she croaked, her voice hoarse from yelling, “can you guys stop this? I get it, okay? Just stop waking me up every night!”
Tiffany, who’d come out to watch the show, couldn’t resist a jab. “Oh, so you do understand how annoying it is. Funny, you didn’t seem to care when you were doing it to us.”
Michelle’s lower lip trembled, and for a moment, I thought she might cry. But then she squared her shoulders. “Fine. I’m sorry, alright? I’ll start bringing my key. Just… please let me sleep.”
A woman glancing to one side | Source: Pexels
We all exchanged glances. It wasn’t a grand apology, but it was something. Slowly, we nodded.
“Okay, Michelle,” I said, trying to keep the triumph out of my voice. “We’ll stop. But remember—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, fishing in her purse. “Always carry my key after 8. I got it.”
The next evening, I tensed as I heard Michelle’s distinctive clatter on the stairs. But to my surprise, there was no banging, no buzzing. Just the soft click of a key in a lock.
Keys in a door | Source: Pexels
I couldn’t help but smile to myself. “Funny,” I murmured, settling back on my couch, “how peace always comes when everyone finally starts playing by the rules.”
Biscuit wagged his tail in agreement, and I scratched behind his ears. Our little apartment block was back to normal — or as normal as it could be with Hurricane Michelle living upstairs. But hey, at least now she had the key to fitting in.
Leave a Reply