Diary of a Mad Bride (13 page)

M
y parents have agreed to let us use their backyard for our wedding reception.

I beg for a month—zip. Nicole asks once—voilà! Apparently whatever Nicole wants…

A
nita and I went to a symposium for women in journalism. As employees of
Teen Flair
and
Round-Up
we were seated in the back with a partially obstructed view.

Although the lectures were interesting I was hoping that the topic of married women in the workplace would be discussed. It wasn't. According to Anita it's old news: “What's to discuss? It's the same as if you were single—keep office romances quiet or you'll be considered a slut, and don't let your personal life interfere with your work.”

What about discrimination? Hyphenated surnames? Spousal medical benefits?

During the cocktail reception, as Anita enjoyed the open bar, I spotted Janet Brearley. Janet profiles unique and noteworthy weddings for one of the city's biggest newspapers. I met her last year at the symposium, but now I had something to talk about. “Hi, Janet. I'm Amy Thomas
from
Round-Up
magazine. We met last year.” Janet smiled and shook my hand. She had bits of duck confit wedged between her front teeth. “So how's everything at the newspaper?” Blah, blah, blah. “Did I mention that I'm getting married in June?” I tried to be subtle. To go for the soft touch. I guess Janet gets that a lot, because her spine immediately stiffened.

“Is that so?” She rubbed her temples. “Why don't you tell me all about it.” So I did. And she smiled the smile of pity. Like I was a dyslexic struggling to spell the word IMPORTANT. “How lovely. It doesn't sound like the type of wedding
my
paper would cover, but I wish you the best of luck.”

And there it was. Janet Brearley had confirmed what I'd long suspected. My fiancé's in computers. I'm in second-rate publications. We're having our reception in my parents' backyard in upstate New York surrounded by Common Man. Neither poverty-stricken nor fabulously wealthy, we've never been arrested, broken a world record, nor been leaders of an extremist religious group. Our wedding was going to be a boring, connect-the-dots affair.

All in all, we're just another brick in the wall.

I joined Anita at the bar.

M
y great-aunt Lucy is back in the hospital. A new drug designed to increase her circulation gave her an incredibly high fever instead. And while it's not life-threatening, the doctors felt it was best to admit her to the hospital. I called her room, but a nurse said she was sleeping.

Why do good people have to deal with such horrible things?

Here I am running around, moaning about my $10,000 wedding, and Lucy's in Milwaukee General fighting a hundred-plus fever. Priorities, anyone?

I
'm going to be a wife. I can't be a wife. That's RIDICULOUS!

A wife is a chain-smoking, fifty-year-old woman who looks like Edith Bunker. I'm no wife. I'm too cute to be a wife!

Not to mention the fact that I still crack up when I refer to Stephen as my fiancé.

(Which I think he's beginning to take personally.)

T
oday was Stephen's thirty-second birthday. At six
P.M.

Mr. Spontaneity decided he wanted to celebrate at a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Two hours later, ten of us were knee-deep in frozen vodka.

I swear he's got some magic power to make things happen. Maybe it's his awkward charm. His tilted smile. His willingness to laugh…

It was a great evening. And I had a terrific time. But as I chewed my sturgeon, I couldn't help but wonder when Mr. Spontaneity was going to apply his magic power toward procuring us a wedding band.

M
andy's agreed to go dress shopping with me later this week. After hearing Bianca's list she assured me we could do better. “Oh, please. Saks? Barney's? Bergdorf's? Those are flash-and-cash stores. They provide the flash, you hand over all your cash. Only bozos and tourists pay retail. The real bargains are in the outer boroughs and on Long Island. You'd be amazed at the deals you can find in Queens.”

I have to admit I was impressed. This was not the whiny, pampered bride of months gone by. This was Superhero Mandy—frugal, irreverent, and sensible. “Is that where you bought your dress?” I hesitantly asked.

“Of course. At Helman's in Forest Hills, Queens. They have fabulous sales on discontinued styles.
And
they negotiate.”

So even the rich economize? Even the rich haggle over dollars and cents? I find this incredibly comforting.

Now I just have to find a dress that brings out my inner beauty—and hides my saddlebags like Houdini. If nothing else, at least I know it will be white.

T
he
Round-Up
holiday issue has only been out for a week and already we've gotten six complaints from readers who have actually made Barry's choice for the “best” eggnog in New York. The recipe came from a small pub on Staten Island named Scotty's. It appears Scotty's eggnog recipe tastes great but has a significant expulsive—read LAXATIVE—side effect. Sure it's got nutmeg and egg
yolks, but that's not holiday cheer you're feeling. Two people have already gone to the hospital for dehydration.

A good editor would have tested the recipe before sending it to the printers. But this is Barry we're talking about. So instead he spent the whole day with the legal department, hammering out a defense strategy.

I bet my rejected story idea on caterers seems like a real winner just about now.

A
nita and I are going to the revival house to see Steve McQueen flex his wild thing in
The Getaway.
It seems like forever since Anita and I made a public spectacle of ourselves. I can't wait. I view the evening as an unofficial celebration of Barry's weeklong suspension without pay. Yippeee!!!

F
inally some frivolity!

My mom's decided to invite Stephen's family for a big Christmas Eve buffet in celebration of our engagement. Obviously this is the result of her conversation with Nicole. And while I'm thrilled at the prospect of an engagement party, it's further proof that Nicole's her favorite. I can't believe it took me this long to notice.

M
andy and I dress shopped for ten hours today—and zip. Over sixty dresses later I'm still naked at the ball. Who knew there were so many shades of white?

I even followed all of
BB
's helpful hints on the topic of “Shopping for Your Bridal Gown” (Chapter Twenty-two): I wore pantyhose, slip-on shoes, and an easily removable outfit. I brought a pair of pumps whose heel is similar to the heel I want on my bridal shoes, assuming I ever find any. And I sucked on hard candy all throughout the day, just to keep my energy up.

But no matter how much candy I sucked, I just couldn't get my blood sugar high enough to buy anything I saw. There were ugly dresses, atrocious dresses, flammable dresses, and dresses that were okay and passable, and even some that were very beautiful. But the very beautiful dresses weren't flattering on me, and if I'm bothering to get married, it better be “very beautiful.”

Mandy found a skirt.

I
t just dawned on me that Christmas is in two weeks and I still haven't shopped for presents. What rock have I been under? Oh, yeah. That wedding boulder.

S
tephen discussed our wedding date with those brain surgeon friends of his, Larry and Mitch. Together the Three Stooges decided that June 2nd is “not a great idea”
because it might conflict with the NBA playoffs. Stephen doesn't want to make anyone choose between our wedding and a game.

I really thought he was kidding. I kept expecting him to say “Gotcha!”

But he was dead serious. After four months of being engaged he suddenly wants to change the date? This is no time for spontaneity. I couldn't believe it. A basketball game or someone's wedding—is it really
that
difficult a choice? I know my friends wouldn't have a problem with it. And somehow I don't see Mrs. Stewart running out to the sports arena. So what he's really saying is that Larry and Mitch might have a “conflict.” Boo-hoo. I'll weep later.

As an alternate date Stephen proposed March 2nd—the middle of the basketball season but way before the playoffs. I needed no time to consider it. “Have you ever heard of anyone getting married in March?” “No.” “Well that's because March is a horrible month. It's cold and it's gloomy.” “But that's the great part. It's off-season. We'll get great bargains.” Thank you, Homer Simpson. But I'm not getting married outside in three feet of snow unless someone pays
me.