Diary of a Mad Bride (16 page)

I
nvigorated from the holidays, Barry swept into my office and inquired about the status of my wedding plans. Was there anything he could do?

Not in the mood for his crap, I decided to taunt him by saying that Stephen and I were reconsidering the whole marriage thing. Maybe we'd just keep dating. Barry looked sick. He begged me not to make a rash decision that I'd undoubtedly live to regret. “Good men are so hard to find!”

So are good jobs, and I'm keeping mine. Now step away from my desk, Barry.

Agitated and anxious, he exited my office. I couldn't help but smile. Then I began to wonder, of all the possible ways to taunt Barry why had I chosen that one?

I
tracked down some of my long-lost married friends to ply them for information on photographers. No one had any recommendations. But they all had plenty of complaints. The photographers were late to show up, failed to show up, got drunk at the reception, were intrusive and distracting during the ceremony…

And they were all outrageously expensive. We're talking thousands of dollars.
²³
It seems in addition to the film, the processing, and the photographer's hourly rate, you pay for the prints and the photo albums. Sure, you don't want to develop your wedding photos at the Quickie Foto stand in the mall, but do you really need to pay $15 per photo? Who cares if it's printed on archival paper that's guaranteed to last for a hundred years.
I'm
not guaranteed to last for a hundred years. And most of these photographers insist on owning or at least maintaining possession of your negatives, so you couldn't bring them to the Quickie Foto even if you wanted.

Then there's the issue of the photo albums. The book for your parents, your maid of honor, your sister…

Sure, I could forgo a real photographer and just buy a bunch of those disposable cameras and set them on the tables for guests to take pictures, but even that will cost a couple hundred dollars. And I still won't have a formal portrait suitable for framing of Stephen and me and our families. The kind of photo that you see on the walls of old-style Italian restaurants, with the bride and groom flanked by fifty of their closest relatives and the family pet.

You bet Chuffy will join in the fun, but will she help pay for it?

T
he more time I spend with Prudence the more I wish she was the chatty type. She seems so levelheaded.

S
ince Nicole is the family
darling
, I decided to talk to her about Gram. I told her Gram was going out of her way to draw attention to herself at the expense of my wedding. That she was purposely manipulating people, and that, in short, she was plotting outright sabotage.

Nicole looked at me like I was crazy. “You're kidding, right?”

I wish. “Look, I know she does the sweet old lady routine, but behind that façade lurks a woman with some bizarre chip on her shoulder and a selfish plan in her heart.”

Nicole remained unconvinced. “The woman who sewed our Halloween costumes, who gave us fudge when we were sick, and who still shows a vital interest in our lives is secretly plotting to sabotage your wedding?”

“I told you that sweet old lady bit is just a front.” “A front? For God's sake, Amy, she can barely walk.” “She may be slow, but she's sly. Why else would she act so strange?”

“I don't know. Maybe she's lonely. Maybe she's come to depend on the family's attention. Or maybe you're just completely
paranoid.
”

“Have you been talking to Mom?”

“See! You are paranoid. And no, I haven't talked to Mom. I may not be some big magazine editor, but I'm smart enough to realize how ridiculous this whole thing is.”

Maybe Nicole was right. Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe this is like me thinking more about myself than
Lucy. Selfish. New Year's resolution #1—Be a better person. And worse yet, resolution #9—Resolve difficulties with Gram. What if Gram's behavior is just a desperate attempt to cling to her family's love? After all, she actually reads
Round-Up.
Could I be such a chump?

“All right. Maybe I am overreacting. But it's only because I haven't felt a lot of familial support for my wedding.”

“What about the engagement party last month?” “That was great, but I have to be honest. I really expected more sustained enthusiasm from everyone. Including you.” “Me?” “Yeah, you. I would have been happy with a lousy thumbs-up, but you've barely shown any interest at all.”

“You mean like the interest you showed in my wedding?”

“What are you talking about? I was in Europe until the day before.”

“Exactly. You didn't help or support or enthuse anything at my wedding. You just popped in a few hours before the ceremony.”

And the problem would be…? “You had all your girlfriends here. You didn't need me. Besides, I assumed you wouldn't want me there. I'm not the marrying kind, remember? Weddings just aren't my thing.”

“Sure. Until now. How convenient.”

So there it was. Nicole's pent-up resentment released five years after the fact. No screaming or crying. No thrown objects or spewed invectives. That's not Nicole's style. She's reserved. Repressed. Suburban.

We'd never make the talk-show circuit.

C
iting bunions, swollen ankles, and migraine headaches, Mandy refuses to shop for any more wedding dresses
with me. The indefatigable wedding fanatic has declared me impossible to please. “I'll throw you a bridal shower, help you choose flowers, and give you a Valium before the ceremony—but no more dresses.”

How can she abandon me like this?

She's my maid of honor. My right-hand gal. My YIN! What about fealty?!

P
aula and Kathy went dress shopping with me today. Big mistake. Paula kept pushing me toward the tarty dresses generally reserved for child brides from Tennessee. Skintight, sleeveless, backless, frontless, adhered to your body with a piece of double-stick tape. And Kathy, no fan of the Super Tramp collection, went right for the Elizabethan fantasy. High-collared, corseted, billowing poet-sleeves, with a twenty-foot train. Give me a chastity belt and a leg of mutton, and to the throne I go.

M
y mother called to remind me not to forget my sister's birthday. Nicole's birthday has been on the same day for the last twenty-seven years. Trust me, I've memorized it by now. She was really calling to badger me into buying Nicole a gift. “I know she'd like some new gloves.”

Well, la-de-dah. “Mom, do you harass Nicole about buying me birthday gifts?”

“No. But your birthday isn't three weeks after Christmas. Everyone always forgets Nicole's birthday.”

“No one forgets Nicole's birthday, Mom. You do it because she's your favorite.”

Well, the cat's out of the bag now.

“Don't be ridiculous, Amy. I love you both the same.”

How many times have I heard
that
line? “Oh yeah? Who sits between you and Dad at every family meal?”

“We're all lefties. We sit together so we don't bump elbows.”

Isn't that convenient. “And who got to use the backyard for their wedding?”

“Have you forgotten where you'll be on June 22nd?”

Sure, but I had to beg. “And who goes with you to the Tanglewood Crafts Fair every summer?”

“Nicole does, because she
enjoys
crafts. The time I took you, you told one vendor to keep her day job and another to shave her armpits.”

She's right. I hate crafts. And underarm hair. I'm being a complete idiot.

Breathe.

A
fter careful scrutiny of
BB
's index I've concluded that there are no formal guidelines for elopement.

Just checking.

I
met Mandy and Jon at Frutto di Sole last night. Stephen had to work late with Louise, so it was just the three of us. Between their wedding and now the planning for my
wedding, it'd been a long time since we'd gotten together. Thankfully Jon couldn't pressure me about marriage anymore.

So he chose a new topic. “You lucked out. ‘Amy Stewart' sounds pretty good. Very British royalty.”
²⁴

“Actually, I'm not sure I'll be changing my name.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me you're going to hyphenate.”

“No, I may just keep my maiden name. It's who I am. It's part of my identity.”

Jon shook his head. “It'd be one thing if you came from a famous family, or had something named after you.
²⁵
But you don't. So what's the difference if you're a Stewart instead of a Thomas?”
²⁶

Mandy smiled and held Jon's hand. “Trust me, Amy. A shared name brings a greater sense of union.”

Great. In order to join that union, Mandy Alexander had to become Mandy Skepperman.
And
she has to sleep with Jon.

T
he word must be out, because no one will go dress shopping with me. Work commitments, family obligations, flulike symptoms, poor circulation, and flatulence. The list of excuses goes on and on….

And the timing couldn't be worse. The wedding “high season” is just around the corner, and new dresses are arriving in the stores every day. I just know my dress is out there. Somewhere.

But I can't go by myself. Shopping alone for a wedding dress is like confiding your first sexual experience to a pet rock.
BB
suggests going with a friend. Did that. Or a female relative. You couldn't pay me to do that.

I wonder who Prudence went shopping with.

S
tephen and I ordered our wedding rings at Lancaster Jewelers near Rockefeller Center. Two simple, matching 14-karat gold bands.

It was really exciting, not just because it's the first big wedding task we've done together, but because these rings symbolize the depth of our commitment. We'll be wearing these rings until the day we
die.
I could tell Stephen was nervous. He kept commenting on how strange it would be to wear a ring all the time. He isn't accustomed to wearing jewelry. Not a class ring, and sometimes not even a watch. Although some married men choose not to wear wedding bands, Stephen feels pretty strongly about it. In fact it was his idea to have them engraved,

Bytes Infinitum

It's computerese for “Forever.”

S
tephen, Mr. Spontaneity, wants us to start looking for a new apartment. Now.

According to Chapter Twenty-five of
BB
, weddings, moving, and death are the three most stressful events in a person's life. I'm already neck-deep in the first. If I do the second, then how far behind can the third be?

And while I can understand Stephen's desire to get this task out of the way, he's so busy at work that he can't even plan his own wedding. Lord knows I haven't heard a peep about that wedding band he was so eager to find for us.

And how easy will it be to find an affordable one-bedroom apartment on a safe block with at least two windows and no rodents? After all, this is Manhattan we're talking about. It took me eight months just to find my crummy studio, AND I had to pay a broker's fee. Not to mention all the delicate negotiations that will have to take place regarding the disposal of Stephen's “less than attractive” possessions.

Under no circumstances am I starting my marriage with a plaid couch in a fifth-floor walk-up.

As far as I'm concerned we can wait until after the wedding to find our new apartment. A love nest for Stephen, me, and Miss Pamela Anderson—1990 Playmate of the Year.

N
ot sleeping has certainly been educational. Who knew infomercials fill the airwaves from 1 to 5
A.M.
? Whatever happened to the shot of the American flag waving in the wind? So proud, so brave, so stoic.

Screw it. I'm getting one of those Fatbuster 2000 grills. It's endorsed by four celebrity housewives, and that's good enough for me.

I
t started very innocently. I was flipping through the newspaper on the bus ride to work when I noticed an advertisement for Elán Bridal Salon on Madison Avenue. They were having a one-day preview of Dalia Dolan's new bridal collection.
Preview.
The collection isn't due out for another month, but this preview would enable you to find your dress and place an order now. As in A.S.A.P. As in I'm getting married in four months and twenty-four days and need to act quick.

I love Dalia Dolan dresses. And she always has a “special” dress that is priced under a thousand dollars. Last year's was cut on the bias, so I couldn't get it past my hips. But somehow I knew this collection would be different. This year's “special” dress would have an A-line skirt. It would look ravishing on me.

One problem: The preview was scheduled for 11
A.M.
I had an editorial meeting at 10:30
A.M.
There was no way I could see the dress. Or was there?

Kate arrived to work fifteen minutes late. I told her not to worry about it. She spilled Diet Coke on my presentation packet. I told her just to print a new one. She accidentally erased part of yesterday's dictation. I told her we'd do it again. Then I sweetly asked her to do me a
favor.
If I gave her an extra long lunch break and spending money, would she buy a disposable camera, take a cab to Elán's, and photograph Dalia Dolan's “special” dress?

After squeezing me for an additional twenty bucks she
finally agreed. It cost me another ten to ensure that Barry wouldn't find out.

Who knew Elán's strictly prohibits photography in their store?

Something to do with design infringement and people making knockoffs: Gayle with her pistol and culottes. And no doubt Kate was anything but subtle with her task. So is it
my
fault that they confiscated the camera? Am
I
to blame that she was strip-searched by security then physically escorted out of the store?

Kate thinks so. She's filed for a stress-related leave of absence. Barry is livid. I am going to need a ton of Kate Spade handbags to fix this one.