Diary of a Mad Bride (8 page)

EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD

Your engagement ring is lovely.

ME

Thank you. It's a family heirloom.

EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD

Ah, I was wondering why you didn't get a diamond.

Yeah, me too, asshole.

M
andy's a walking time bomb. Say the wrong thing, touch her the wrong way, suggest she eat something more substantial than low-sodium consommé, and she'll snap your neck like a diseased twig.

But she smiled continuously from the wedding rehearsal to her rehearsal dinner at the oh-so-elegant Chez Jacques. And when Marcel, our snotty waiter, mistakenly referred to her as Madame instead of Mademoiselle, I swear I thought she'd take her butter knife to his heart. But her smile never once faltered. Like Prudence—only armed with cutlery.

And thank God for that cutlery, because the food was terrific. All sorts of delicacies you rarely get to eat because you're too old to order the children's portion but old enough to owe rent. Escargot, foie gras, baked brie, and pâté. Stephen and I ate everything that would fit in our mouths.

But not Mandy. No sluggishness, hangover, or water retention for this bride-to-be.

The highlight of the evening came when Mandy's dad made a toast. He praised her for growing up to be such a poised young woman. And while this made me suspect that he'd been out of town during her anguished search for place-card holders to coordinate with her burgundy organza overlays, it did make me teary. I mean, here was this sixty-something corporate lawyer who's spent the last forty years downsizing companies, facilitating hostile takeovers, and pink-slipping entire towns, choking up while publicly professing his love for his child. Sure, he'd deny his own mother medical treatment if her HMO didn't cover the procedure, but his love for his daughter was just so touching. In fact, the whole evening was loving and heartwarming and would have been perfect had Jon not been there. I mean, come on. Even
his
family doesn't seem to like him.

I can only imagine what tomorrow will bring.

As for our rehearsal dinner, I have to admit that I think it's old-fashioned to expect the groom's family to pay for it.
¹⁸
It's like a throwback to the days when women viewed their engagement rings as an insurance policy against their virtue. If they got dumped before the wedding, then their diamond's trade-in value would compensate for their sullied purity.

Well, these days purity is more about soap than sex, so I see no need to be prehistoric about our wedding costs. On the other hand, the Stewarts are a bit on the traditional side—except for Mr. Stewart's generationally challenged girlfriend. I wouldn't be surprised if they offered to pay for the whole thing. I just hope it's not too outlandish. As a decorator Mrs. Stewart spends every day preoccupied
with appearance and taste and style. She may insist on turning it into a real “affair” at Le Cirque or Tavern on the Green.

I'd be happy with a celebratory gathering down in Chinatown. After all, nothing says I love you like a plate of sesame noodles.

T
alk about overkill. Mandy's wedding was more like a coronation than a blessed event. From the 250 guests to the doves and the horse-drawn carriage, EXCESS had its day.
Dynasty
meets Liberace, Marie Antoinette, and Cher.

And no, that's not the wind whistling. It's the jubilant cheers of a wedding planner putting an addition onto her house. Who knew Mandy's parents had so much disposable income?

Our pucker-mouth lemon dresses were UNDERSTATED in this setting. And Jon, what an idiot! He wore a morning coat at
night.
Do top hat and tails mean anything to anyone? If you're going to overdo it, at least do it right. Like Mandy. If you're going to act like a princess, then dress like one. Which she did. Right down to her ten-foot train that everyone stepped on. But she looked radiant.

The more weddings I see the more I thank God that I've got common sense. More is not necessarily better. Sometimes more is just annoying. The floral centerpieces, those damn out-of-season Holland tulips at 15.78 percent over their original quote, were so big that we couldn't see across our table.

And the entrees. Would you like fish or meat? The grilled
salmon or the beef medallions? How obvious. Where's the thought? The creativity?

And I know Stephen feels the same way. We simultaneously reached for each other's hand when the horse-drawn carriage appeared.

ME

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

STEPHEN

Trust me. I am.

And as one of the horses began to neigh uncontrollably, Stephen looked into my eyes, desperate.

STEPHEN

Please tell me you don't want livestock at our wedding. Because honestly, I don't think I could take the pressure.

Stephen can relax. The only animal at our wedding will be that jackass brother of his. In fact, Mandy's wedding really drove home how much I value Stephen and his down-to-earth sensibilities. It even helped me make peace with my engagement ring. So it's no marquis-cut diamond. Big whoop. It's stunning and it's unique.

A
recent poll of my friends, presented as a potential story idea for the magazine, revealed what I suspected: My wedding proposal stank.

Margo: Husband delivered a personalized fortune cookie
to her at a Chinese restaurant. Done before? Sure. But it demonstrates good planning skills.

Mandy: Jon presented her with a two-carat diamond ring while they were watching the Boston regatta from his parents' waterfront penthouse. Proves the old adage: Birds of a feather…

Lisa: Hand in marriage asked for at Café des Artistes. No particular creativity, but illustrates ability to choose romantic locale.

Meghan: Got engaged while ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. Displays romance, youthful charm, and a solid knowledge of cheesy eighties movies such as
Ice Castles.

Jessica: Husband proposed during a picnic lunch in an apple orchard. It doesn't get more Hallmark.

And then there's my SECRET SHAME…

Amy: The Multiplex Concession Stand Proposal.

Sure Stephen got down on his knee, and yes, we skipped the movie and celebrated with a nice dinner, but is this really the tale you want to tell for generations to come? Me, Stephen, and the unmistakable stench of stale popcorn? And it wasn't spur-of-the-moment. By his own account, this man who thrives on spontaneity had been planning it for months. He
chose
to ask me on the candy line. What does that say about him? What does it say about me?

S
tephen and I have come up with a tentative guest list of seventy people, which I think is a nice intimate group for a meaningful experience. The last thing I want is one of those impersonal functions like Mandy's extravaganza where you're not sure whose wedding you're at.

“Did we take a wrong turn? Was it Ballroom Number One or Number Two?”

“Is this the Henson wedding or the Lieberman bar mitzvah?”

Size is especially important, since
BB
says the bride and groom are expected to personally thank each guest for attending the wedding. Smile and shake hands. Smile and shake hands. This would explain why Mandy was wearing a wrist guard by the end of her wedding. But there's no way I'm spending my big day shaking 250 hands. Not a chance. I won't have time to eat my pumpkin bisque.

Lobster risotto. Asparagus ravioli?

Our guest list includes friends and family, and allows everyone to bring their spouse or significant other. We decided that if someone's not seriously involved and they know other guests, then single folks will be invited alone. There's no reason to subsidize someone's dating life. And Lord knows Stephen's got plenty of cheapo friends who would just love to bring their gal du jour to a fancy wedding with a fabulous meal and an open bar—all free of charge. Well, forget it. That's what Club Med is for. Go buy some beads.

Besides, being realistic, I know that our parents will want to include some of their friends in the list, so we're bound to get up to eighty-five by the time all this is over.

Surprisingly, making the list, or rather agreeing on the list, was not as easy as I thought it would be. Stephen didn't want me to invite my friend Jane because he can't stand her, so I volunteered to bump her from the list on the condition that he not invite his ex-girlfriend Diane “I'm a Big Pain in the Ass” Martin. But he didn't want to bump Diane since she invited him (without me!) to her wedding last year and he didn't want to seem petty. I also wasn't so crazy
about him inviting the guys he plays softball with on the weekends. I've only met them once. After hours of arguing we finally compromised with him inviting Diane and her husband but not the softball gang, and my not inviting Jane but getting to seat Diane off in some corner with my cousin Eddie, who suffers from chronic halitosis.

The one thing we immediately agreed on is that neither of us wants to invite Stephen's brother, Tom.

I
still slip occasionally and call Stephen my boyfriend. It's going to take a while to get used to calling him my fiancé. Especially without laughing. And by then it'll be time to call him my HUSBAND!

T
oday was crazy. We had an early-morning staff meeting to discuss the December issue. I came armed with story ideas but somehow forgot that December means holiday issue. I've been spending so much time thinking about next June that the holidays just seem like a minor inconvenience on the way to the rest of my life. Needless to say, my pitches on sanitation negligence, cabbie cover-ups, and a profile on a woman who recycles hypodermic needles were met with hesitance. And when I quickly suggested a profile on city caterers (slyly figuring that the research could be useful to my wedding), Barry gallantly praised my “clever” idea, then sideswiped me by insisting that by the time the December issue hits the stands most of the city's caterers will be booked for the holidays. Meanwhile his lengthy list
of story ideas ranged from the ever-trite “Who Are the Men Who Play Santa Claus” to a search for the perfect eggnog.

Like anyone really drinks eggnog.

In front of all the other editors, associates, and assistants, my boss, Mr. Spaulding, made a point of asking me to submit a new list of holiday-oriented pitches by tomorrow. A serious blow to my image of authority. Besides, it's going to be near impossible to make that list by tomorrow, since I looked at two potential reception venues after work today and have another one scheduled before work tomorrow morning.

The venues I saw tonight, a famous hotel and a swanky nightclub, were all wrong. The hotel ballroom was too big and the nightclub was fine until you turned up the lights. Both were incredibly expensive.

And our time is quickly dwindling. Soon we'll be eight months away from our wedding. According to
BB
we may as well elope. So to expedite the process, I've given Kate a list of thirty-five potential venues to call and make viewing appointments. After all, we really are open to anything.

Except boats and riverfront restaurants. Stephen has an aunt who's afraid of water.

T
his morning we saw a photographer's loft down in Chinatown. Very hip, open, and all white. The right size for a group of eighty-five and could easily be transformed into a romantic setting with some clever decorations. The photographer even offered to throw in a couple of backdrops for free. But the neighborhood was too seedy. It's one thing to step over restaurant trash on your way to a celebrity photo shoot, but for a wedding reception?

I composed my list of holiday-oriented story ideas on the bus ride to work.

Kate's gotten in touch with twenty-two of the reception sites I asked her to call. Half were already booked for our date. She scheduled appointments for the remaining eleven. Unfortunately, Stephen's so busy with his project at work that it looks like I'll be seeing most of them myself. Hopefully Kate will be able to contact the remaining thirteen places.

As for the ceremony, Stephen and I have chosen a church on the Upper East Side—First American Presbyterian. Since Stephen's family is Presbyterian and my family is only vaguely Protestant, it makes the most sense. It's beautiful and classy and available for our date. We have an appointment to meet the minister next Saturday.

While Stephen thinks his mother will be disappointed that we're not being married by his family minister, Reverend MacKenzie, in the church that he attended as a child, he's fairly certain that she'll accept our decision to marry in the city. After all, First American is on the Upper East Side.

Besides, Stephen says Reverend MacKenzie gives him the creeps.

As for my parents, I'm certain they won't care. They didn't bat an eye when Nicole and Chet were married by Chet's renegade Baptist minister cousin who arrived five minutes before the ceremony after driving sixteen hours from Louisiana without stopping to shower. Trust me. The guy didn't shower.

I just hope my parents understand why I want to get married in the city instead of their backyard. Unlike Nicole, who's permanently ensconced herself in our hometown, I am no fan. Just going back to see my parents gives
me the shakes. It's quiet, it's manicured, it's boring. It's like the whole place is on life support. Getting married there would be tantamount to running a lawn mower over my head.

Not to mention the fact that if we get married in the city, our folks will be too far away to attempt a coup. I've seen
Betsy's Wedding
a thousand times on cable and I'm determined that this wedding be our personal expression, not some parental fantasy come true.