Diary of a Mad Bride (25 page)

T
he shit has officially hit the fan.

I got a phone call at 1:30 this afternoon from George Harriman of Harriman Carpets, one of the “Faces in the City” profiles. He'd been sitting at the Park Avenue Café for over an hour waiting for me to show up to a lunch meeting that I didn't even know was scheduled. He was understandably ticked off. I apologized profusely for the mix-up, promised to reschedule with his secretary, then stormed out of my office and gave Kate a scolding that she'd never forget. I reminded her that Mr. Harriman's profile was a focal point of the issue, that Mr. Harriman's time was incredibly valuable, as he's on the board of directors for over twelve different charitable organizations, was the regional spokesperson for the Urban Children's League, and ran one of the biggest carpet companies in the country. Then I told her the next time she wanted to forget to inform me about a meeting she should choose someone less important.

That's when Kate stood up and informed
me
that she
had told me about the meeting, that it was written in my appointment book, and that she had included it on today's itinerary—a copy of which was sitting on top of my desk.

I looked at my appointment book. She was absolutely right. The meeting was right there. The whole thing was my fault. And everyone in the office knew it.

I
can't sleep.

I keep thinking about that girl in my freshman literature class. The one who married the guy with chronic dandruff. She was so desperate to marry and there were hundreds of guys to choose from—wealthy, handsome, pre-med, pre-law, well-groomed. But she chose the one with decent tennis skills and dandruff.

I used to think it was an act of desperation, but now I think maybe it was love.

I
broke down today in the office bathroom. Tears of appreciation all over the place.

Because things aren't good. They're
great.

When all this fighting, negotiating, and planning is over I am going to spend the rest of my life with the world's most incredible man. Someone who may not be perfect but who understands me, accepts my faults, loves my strengths, and keeps me smiling no matter how many foolish ideas he has about our wedding band.

I don't ever want another wet and wild sex dream again. Not about Rick or Anthony or Jon or Denny or Jonas or Tim or Dylan.

All I want is Stephen. My wonderfully boring Stephen!

Overwhelmed by emotion, I decided to call Stephen's office and share my love. Louise answered his phone. Apparently Stephen had stepped away from his desk. After offering to take a message she mentioned how sorry she was that the Ecuadorian woodwind band had fallen through. It seems she's a fan.

But if the band plays in the subway station near Stephen's house and Louise lives all the way across town, how does she know what they sound like?

Breathe. I must remember to breathe.

And then I called Anita.

ME

This is a warning. Louise is a sign. I've been inconsiderate, self-centered, and I enjoyed my sex dreams. I'm being punished.

ANITA

By whom?

ME

By God!

ANITA

God? I thought you were an agnostic.

ME

I am. I was. Maybe I'm reconsidering.

ANITA

Don't tell me you found God while planning your wedding. Where was she? Hiding in the flatware department?

ME

I'm being serious, Anita.

ANITA

That's what worries me. Look, this is why I didn't want you to get married. It's turning you into an idiot. Besides, assuming there is a God, don't you think she'd be more merciful than to pit one woman against another?

ME

You've got a point.

ANITA

That's the first intelligent thing you've said in months. Now remember, if you start hearing strange voices, it's not God—it's your Inner Bride. So unless she's telling you to serve premium liquors at your reception, silence her immediately. She's
insane.

T
he good news and the bad news.

The good news: I went upstate tonight to sample the menu Jeb is proposing for our wedding reception. Lamb with almonds and currants, couscous, and glazed yams…It was fabulous! As is Jeb, who continues to be the most pleasant, easygoing man, despite his ongoing battle with hay fever. I may not be having a fancy New York City wedding in some elegant ballroom, but you can be damn sure the food will be KICK-ASS. No beef medallions for this gal.

The bad news: On the way back to the train station I stopped in the mall to buy a twelve-pack of nylons. A man
was taking a leak against the side of the building. It was Reverend Mac Kenzie.

While You Were Out

4/29 11:05
A.M.

From: Your Wedding Photographer

Message: Has a last-minute double suicide to photograph. Needs to reschedule this afternoon's meeting about portraits.

While You Were Out

4/29 11:06
A.M.

From: Kate

Message: Your voice mail box is too full to accept messages. Please empty it IMMEDIATELY.

While You Were Out

4/29 11:15
A.M.

From: Mandy

Message: Has chosen an ankle-length sleeveless dress made of Asian nubby silk in an elegant cherub pink with a hint of silver for the bridesmaids. Will this coordinate with your tablecloths?

While You Were Out

4/29 11:25
A.M.

From: Julie Browning

Message: Anne Von Trier wants a guarantee that her profile will be ahead of James Royce's. Can she do that?

While You Were Out

4/29 11:35
A.M.

From: Anita

Message: What the hell is “Asian nubby silk in an elegant cherub pink with a hint of silver” and why does she have to wear it?

While You Were Out

4/29 11:43
A.M.

From: Jeb the caterer

Message: Has forgotten how many people he's supposed to be feeding at your wedding.

While You Were Out