Taffeta horse blankets with ruffles, anyone? It’s not too early to go dress shopping

I love a good confession, especially if it’s not me making it.

If anyone notes the need to confess something, I’m all ears. Immediately, the confession will take precedence over anything else I’m doing.

I’ve pulled my car over on the side of the road to hear a confession so I could give it my full attention. Who wants to worry about turn signals and changing lanes when someone is sharing shocking news?

Of course, not all confessions are life-shattering — but they’re usually a bit juicy. At least one thing will make you raise your eyebrows a bit, or even laugh.

I most enjoy a low-impact confession: one that’s eye-opening, yet has little to no consequence for the confessor.

I made one of these low-impact confessions to my daughter last week. I was doing something that might freak her out a bit, which led me to feeling a tad sneaky and guilty.

Don’t worry — I’m not a tease. I would never talk about a confession and then not tell you. Also, I feel like I need a public rebuking as punishment for my foolishness.

For background, you need to know that my 24-year-old daughter has been dating a delightful young man for a couple of years. He even spent a week with us over the Christmas holidays and my husband and I still really liked him after a week.

This is seriously a minor miracle because I don’t even like my own kids after a week of togetherness.

The essential piece of information to know is that they’re not engaged. My daughter has even expressed that she’s not ready to be engaged. Yet, this entire month I have been madly shopping for a mother-of-the-bride dress. Yes, you read that right.

In defense of my actions, as a general rule, mother-of-the-bride dresses are evil monstrosities. They’re either horrifying matronly or weirdly sexy.

The “sexy” dresses are all sleeveless with plunging necklines that invite way too much cleavage to the party, and there’s usually a slit in the dress that makes wearing underwear a bit of a predicament.

What makes these dresses “weirdly” sexy is that the fabric conjures up images of a great granny’s sofa. Think creepy floral brocade meets Victoria’s Secret.

The matronly dresses, without fail, look like taffeta horse blankets with ruffles, or worse, ruffles with sequin encrusted belts. A part of me has to resist whinnying when I look at them.

Then there’s what I’m going to call the house-coat dresses. They’re primarily satin, in gloomy colors, usually with a few sparkly buttons that only serve to highlight the painful despair of the garment. No part of these shapeless, sad gowns say, “I want you to feel pretty today.”

The way I see it, I’m going to need a couple of years to find a great dress so time’s a-wastin’.

When I confessed all this to my daughter, she thankfully laughed and then asked, “OK, Mom, but are you buying any dresses?”

To that I said, “No comment.” I have a strict one confession a day policy.

Reach Sherry Kuehl at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com, on Facebook at Snarky in the Suburbs @snarkynsuburbs, on Instagram @snarky.in.the.suburbs, and snarkyinthesuburbs.com.

This story was originally published January 29, 2025 at 5:00 AM.