Diary of a Mad Bride (19 page)

I
spoke with Lucy last night. I filled her in on my latest disasters. She advised me to follow my heart, but I think it's too late to elope.

I
knew I couldn't afford a big-time caterer. And I knew that none of the city caterers would travel upstate for a $10,000 wedding. So I acted responsibly. I aimed low.

Apparently not low enough.

Karry, of Karry's Kitchen, a nice little caterer located two towns over from my folks, took one look at my budget, then packed up her display book. “I'm afraid there's no way I can do dinner for ninety in your price range.”

I was mortified. Ticked off. Alarmed. “Well, do you have any suggestions? Is there anyone else I should call?”

“Yes. Chef Boyardee and Little Debbie.”

Nice. Real nice.

With such monetary realities in mind, Stephen and I have decided to honeymoon in South Carolina. This way we don't need to worry about passports, visas, or shots. And we can actually afford to sleep in a hotel instead of the backseat of our rental car. Besides, Stephen's got this incredibly romantic notion about the beach. “It's so warm and relaxing. How could you not want to go there? Unless, of course, you've seen
Jaws.
”

Oh, and for the record, I've officially decided to take Stephen's last name.

A
fter picking up my wedding ring from Lancaster's I spent the entire night strutting around my apartment with it on my finger. Imagine me, Ms. Costume Jewelry That Comes on Little Plastic Squares from the Twirling Display Racks at Macy's, all decked out with a gold band and an emerald ring. Sure, I've got nothing on those Indian brides who wear so much gold it looks like lamé, but I do feel special. Like a princess. Or a syndicated talk-show host.

I'm well aware of all the antiquated reasons why married women are decorated in precious metals and stones. To display their husband's wealth, to ensure them monetary compensation for their soiled purity should their fiancé/husband suddenly dump them, to publicize their husband's ownership of them, and, lastly, to highlight their worth—like giving a prized pig the biggest pen.

But screw it. My husband's not wealthy. We paid for our rings with
our
money. My “purity” was soiled long before we met. And the only thing about me that Stephen possesses is my love.

And if this is about highlighting my worth, then forget the rings. Bust out my crown and scepter, because I'm a damn good person with good intentions—most of the time. But for now I'm putting my wedding ring back into its box. I once heard that wearing your ring before the ceremony is bad luck, and I've got enough to worry about without some hex hanging over my head for
Bytes Infinitum.

A
nita came over last night to watch bad TV. During a commercial break I told her I was changing my name to Amy Sarah Stewart. I expected her to rant. To accuse me of being a sellout, a Stepford Wife, a Mandy.

Instead she dissolved into hysterics.

ANITA

That's priceless! Your new initials will be A.S.S.!

Maybe I won't take Stephen's last name.

I
've called eight caterers and none of them will do our wedding. Between date conflicts, budget restrictions, and outright disinterest, I've come up empty-handed.

For all its billions of chapters,
BB
never once mentions how to handle being turned down by everyone you ask. I guess the answer is obvious. Forge on. Grin and bear it.

No wonder Prudence smiles so much.

N
ot being able to sleep has given me plenty of time for reflection. I spent all last night thinking about the first time Stephen and I met at our friend James's party. Who would've guessed that almost two years later we'd be getting married. How bizarre. If you had told me back then, I would've said you were crazy. But here we are.

And what if I hadn't gone to the party? What if I hadn't met Stephen? What if I hadn't heard the warm, embracing laugh that won my heart?

I'd probably be dating a sociopath. A freeloader. A white-collar criminal. Or (D), All of the above. But never again. I won't ever date another man. I'll never have a romantic dinner with anyone else. I will never see another man naked. I will never have sex with another man. Stephen is the only man I will ever date, see naked, have sex and eat with for the rest of my life. For the remainder of my mortal existence I will be exclusively with Stephen.

Is that humanly possible? Am I genetically capable of this? Sure, Stephen's great, but is he THE ONE?

T
he more I look at Prudence the more convinced I am that she's trying to tell me something.

T
o comfort myself from the painful realization that my wedding dress will undoubtedly have a frontier theme, I decided to shop for shoes. Again.

Having gone to all the department stores, bridal boutiques, and specialty shops I could think of, I finally braved the Bridal Building in Queens.

To my mind the Bridal Building is where dreams go to die. It's filled with wholesalers and a handful of retailers who make a living off bridal misfortunes. What's that, you say you've got almost no money? Fear not. People without
the ability to utter complete sentences will sell you the cheapest, tackiest, most grotesque wedding accessories that child laborers in Malaysia, Taiwan, and the Dominican Republic can make. And in an effort not to discriminate, there's a healthy showing of products manufactured domestically by preteens in Mississippi and the Bronx.

Needless to say, I brought my
own
nylon peds. The last thing I need is some crusty foot fungus—international or domestic.

The Bridal Building is truly bad to the bone. The architect must have been a sadist, because there are virtually no windows. Just like in casinos on the Vegas strip, your internal clock is set by the buzz of fluorescent lights. Is it day or night outside? Who the hell knows. You're stuck in the land of stale, recycled air and permanent noon. But unlike the lush, albeit tacky decor of Vegas, the Bridal Building is stark and clinical. Its hallways of cheap Formica and yellowed linoleum floors lead you to an endless number of unmarked doors—like an old medical building with unlicensed doctors lurking around every corner. Is this periodontistry or organ donation?

I spent hours wandering into single-room stores filled with progressively less attractive merchandise. Plastic bridal bouquets, fuchsia garter belts, and cubic zirconia engagement rings with adjustable bands. On an up note, I did see wedding dresses uglier than my own, but there was no time to gloat. I have three months and fourteen days to find wedding shoes.

So I forged on through rows of stiletto-heeled white pumps and bubble-gum-pink sling-backs adorned with tiny plastic angels. I saw open-toed mules with fur appliqué and white sandals with long leather laces that tied all the way up your thigh. If it hadn't been
my
wedding I would have laughed. But it was. So I was just about to cry when I
happened to catch sight of some rhinestone hair combs in Mrs. Cho's Bridal Accessory Shoppe.

I made my way to the cabinet. Was that really an attractive object in the bastion of all that is cheap and flammable? Yes! The hair combs were darling—and could be used to highlight a fabulous hairstyle without causing radio-wave disturbances, like Prudence's massive headpiece. Suddenly my mind was racing. I'd never considered wearing anything other than fresh flowers in my hair.
³¹
But these hair combs were so delicate, so sparkly, so special. Just the thing to add a touch of class to my cowgirl bridal ensemble.

But as I took the comb from the display cabinet and brought it to my head, Mrs. Cho—a diminutive Korean woman with a piercing voice—shouted, “No! Fa kids.”

ME

Excuse me?

MRS. CHO

Not fa adults. Too little. It's fa children.

ME

Sure. But couldn't a grown-up wear these hair combs if she wanted to?

MRS. CHO

It's not hair comb. It's tiara. Like princess. Fa little kid princess. You too old.

And tearing it from my hand, she swiftly returned it to the display case.

Since when do hair accessories have age limits?

I
once saw a news report about a woman who went insane from sleep deprivation. Not nutty, or irritable, or cranky, but full-out INSANE from lack of sleep. For anyone who's remotely skeptical, let me tell you now—

Oh yeah, it could happen.
Just keep me in your crosshairs.
Every night I get a bit closer—sleep-deprivation
extremis.
And Stephen's certainly no help, with his damn “little” snores and the way he throws his arm across my lungs. Even if he doesn't sever my oxygen supply with his bony elbow I'm sure to go deaf from those foghorn snores. Deviated septum, my ass!

How can
this
be the man I'm going to spend the rest of my life with?
What the hell am I thinking?!!

I must be insane. I can't be insane.

I'm too well dressed!

Maybe I should bail. Maybe that's what Prudence has been trying to tell me.

I
t's been several weeks since I heard from Gram. Nothing but silence. Silence isn't good. Silence means something bad is brewing. Now as I lie awake at night, I'm waiting for the other shoe to fall.

I
'm screwed. I need to edit an exposé on sanitation disposal, reassign an article on computer-related joint diseases, and come up with a complete list of summer story
ideas for the June issue, by
tomorrow.
Sure, I could have done these things yesterday. Or last week. But no. I've been running around with my head cut off looking for a caterer and a florist and a loophole in my medical plan that will qualify me for mental-health benefits!

All this because of a wedding that I'm no longer certain I should be having.

S
tephen is refusing to sleep over anymore. He says I make him nervous. How could I possibly make him nervous? I'm the one doing everything, so it's not like I'm asking him to participate beyond his one task of finding a band, which he's doing slowly and poorly and I'm beginning to worry he won't complete until two weeks before the wedding. So let's be real. I'm the one who's got an unrelenting list of things to do, not to mention finding a pair of wedding shoes!

And how difficult can it be to find shoes? I'm not asking for a miracle. Just something classy, comfy, and affordable that I can walk in without breaking my neck, and he says I'm making
him
nervous?
Oh, please.

Let him try being a BRIDE!

Official THINGS TO DO List

1. Choose wedding date

2. Tell boss wedding date

3. Vacation time for honeymoon

4. Decide on honeymoon

5. Get minister

6. Choose reception venue

7. Make guest list

8. Choose maid of honor

9. Choose best man

10. Register for gifts

11. Arrange for engagement party

12. Buy engagement ring

13. Buy wedding rings

14. Choose wedding dress

15. Choose maid of honor dress

16. Order wedding cake

17. Hire caterer

18. Hire band for reception

19. Order flowers for ceremony

20. Buy shoes

21. Plan rehearsal dinner

22. Invites to rehearsal dinner

23. Hire musicians for ceremony

24. Decide on dress code

25. Get marriage license

26. Hire videographer

27. Hire photographer

28. Order table flowers

29. Order bouquets

30. Order boutonnieres for men

31. Order nosegays for women

32. Order invitations

33. Decide on wine selection

34. Postage for invitations

35. Choose hairstyle and makeup

36. Buy gifts for attendants

37. Buy thank-you notes

38. Announce wedding in newspaper

39. Buy headpiece

40. Buy traveler's checks for honeymoon

41. Apply for visas

42. Get shots and vaccinations

43. Order tent if necessary

44. Order chairs/tables if necessary

45. Make budget

46. Divide expenses

47. Make table-seating charts

48. Choose bridesmaid dress

49. Decide on menu

50. Decide on hors d'oeuvres

51. Decide on dinner-service style

52. Decide on staff-guest ratio

53. Decide seated or buffet

54. Reserve vegetarian meals

55. Reserve band/photographer/videographer meals

56. Make photo list

57. Choose hotel for wedding night

58. Hire limo for church-reception transport

59. Buy guest book for reception

60. Find hotel for out-of-towners

61. Decide on liquor selection

62. Hire bartenders

63. Verify wheelchair accessibility

64. Choose processional music

65. Choose recessional music

66. Choose cocktail music

67. Choose reception music

68. Choose ceremony readings

69. Prepare birdseed instead of rice

70. Schedule manicure/pedicure/wax