I jump out of the cab, throwing a generous tip through the little window, more because I don’t want to wait for change than to thank him for his excellent service. I run inside the store and look around, at a complete loss. In typical Pottery Barn style, a friendly employee quickly greets me.
“Help!” I yell at the poor girl, who is probably just working there while she is on winter break from college. “I need a shower gift for my sister!”
“Is she registered here?” the girl asks, trying to keep her calm but obviously frightened by me.
“I don’t know?!?”
“Let’s check,” she says as she scurries over to a terminal that looks identical to the hundreds I have stood before to select engagement presents, bridal-shower presents, and wedding presents. “What’s your sister’s name?”
“Jamie Harrigan-Hope,” I say and start to spell it, but before I get to the second R the Pottery Barn Savior says she has found her and prints out a list.
Who knew you could register for baby gifts?!? This probably is not good information for me to have. I scan the list over ... I wish I had time to adore all the cute things Jamie has selected for baby Kate.
“Ah-ha! Bumpers. I’ll take the bumpers,” I inform the girl.
“Don’t you want to see them first?”
“Yes ... but I’m in a huge rush.”
“Okay,” she says, going back into fear mode. “They are right over here,” she says, leading me to a display and taking down some adorable pink-gingham, quilty-looking crib bumpers.
“Perfect, adorable—can you wrap them?”
“We have a courtesy wrap that is—”
Before she can describe it, I say, “I’ll take it!” and whip out my credit card.
As I’m waiting for the trembling girl to wrap the package, I fill out the courtesy wrap card, Bumpers for Bumper. Love, Auntie M. Perfect. I grab the package, slip my card through the ribbon, and am back in a cab headed for the restaurant in record time.
I arrive at 11:10, thank God, exactly three minutes before my mother. The restaurant has done everything perfectly, with white tablecloths and pink napkins. Iris has set up the centerpieces and party favors/seat assignments perfectly. Everything is perfect. And all the running around and panicking and insanity is worth it when Jamie walks through the door, incandescent with pregnancy glow, and gets teary at all the perfection.
Jamie is in her element. Her adoration of the spotlight helps her to shine even more and the party goes off perfectly. Everyone goes crazy for the cake. And Jamie receives the thirty-nine cutest gifts I’ve ever seen. I think she likes mine the best, though, because it’s the only one she cries a little for. It’s a wonderful afternoon. Phew. Now I can get back to wedding planning ... oh yeah, and Christmas shopping.
40
Tiptoeing Through the Tulips (and Calla Lilies and Hydrangeas)
It’s Friday morning, the last day of school before the winter break, and I think I am more anxious for vacation to start than my students ... but I like to think I contain myself better than they do. I have a room full of eight-year-olds literally bouncing off the walls. If I thought last week all they could think about was Santa, this week is off the charts. Luckily, nobody is expected to actually learn anything today.
Because of the start of the break, today is an ever-more-abbreviated Friday than usual. I do have a quick (and easy—I didn’t want to be a Grinch) spelling test to give, as I do every Friday, but after that it’s a holiday party and then everyone is home free. I decide to take it ridiculously easy on the kids and test them on twenty words that are all holiday-related. What can I say? I’m in the spirit, too.
Although they make a fuss when I announce it’s time to take out a piece of paper and a pencil, they eventually calm down and take the test. Then I let them color holiday cards while I grade the tests. Some of the students, even at eight years old, are very intense and would be stressed about the test results over the two-week vacation. I don’t want anybody stressing on vacation! Overall, the scores aren’t as high as I’d expected, considering how easy I thought the words were, but I look up and see them giddy with anticipation and understand what they are going through. I give it a 50/50 chance that I would misspell the word “presents” today, too.
The wedding is fast approaching and baby Kate is approaching even faster. Even though she’s not due for over a week, Jamie’s doctor said she has already dilated three centimeters and the baby could come any day now. I am so impressed with Jamie that she decided to work up until the break ... she must be more terrified than ever about the peeing thing, though.
I pass out the test results, and though there are moans and groans, I can tell that nobody really cares. They want the party, and you know what? I do, too! By 10:00, the kids are stuffing their faces with cupcakes and Christmas cookies and Hanukkah gelt. I pity the nannies who are going to have to spend the afternoon dealing with these kids on extreme sugar highs.
By 11:30, all the hyper ones have been picked up and I am pretty excited about the pile of presents that a few parents (but mostly nannies) have dropped on my desk upon picking up their charges. One of the most insane (read: awesome) things about working at the private school that I do is that the families are extremely generous with their kids’ teachers at the holidays. From where I’m sitting I can already see three blue boxes!
I load as many as I can into my bag and hide the rest under my desk to pick up later, then take off to meet Justin for lunch. I feel like I’ve hardly had time for him lately ... I suppose he doesn’t really care, but I do, and I want to include him in the wedding planning, so we’re having lunch to go over stuff.
I meet him at a California Pizza Kitchen ... don’t ask me why, but I am crazy about that place. Brad always used to make fun of me for it, and it took quite a bit of convincing to get Justin to agree to go there, but for some reason, although I am a New York girl at heart and loyal to NY pizza, every once in a while I crave a barbeque chicken pizza. I said don’t ask me why! Of course, I get there first and secure a table for us and am chowing down my third slice of bread when Justin shows up.
“Good Golly Miss Molly,” he jokes with me, “when are you planning the move to the suburbs?”
“Huh?” I ask with my mouth full of bread.
“They love chain restaurants out there ... you’ll fit right in.”
“Shut up,” I instruct him as I take another bite of bread.
I continue to take shit for my love of the CPK as Justin complains about the menu, but finally finds a salad (ugh, healthy people can be so annoying) that will be acceptable. We order and I pull out my wedding binder. Yes, I have become one of those brides with a binder. Actually, according to both Maggie and Alex, you have to have one ... it’s, like, a law or something.
“So, flowers ... we’re meeting with Iris after lunch.”
“I love that you found a florist named Iris.”
“I know—me, too. So, I was thinking roses.”
“Bor-ring. Everyone thinks roses. Let’s think calla lilies.”
“Calla lilies,” I echo.
“And lily of the valley for your bouquet so it will smell good. We should also think about hydrangeas and tulips.”
“See, this is why I needed you with me.”
Justin and I finish our lunch, and although he complains about how awful the food is, he eats every last speck of his salad. We then head out to meet with Iris. Our plan is to order the flowers and then go Christmas shopping. We step onto the cold street and I can’t help but feel warm. I adore Manhattan at Christmastime more than any other time of the year. There really is a hustle and bustle that I know drives a lot of people crazy, but I adore it.
We arrive at My Secret Garden and Iris is cheerfully waiting for us. She warmly introduces herself to Justin and we get down to work. It’s like she and Justin are sharing a brain and I’m not even there. Iris had already decided that roses were “too ordinary” for us and was also thinking hydrangeas. Luckily, I lov
e hydrangeas ... although nobody asks. Then we—actually, they—move on to the bouquets.
“What color is your dress, Molly?” Iris asks me before taking it back, realizing I cannot discuss it in front of Justin.
“Oh no, that’s okay, it’s white,” Justin tells her, and on they go.
They decide that my bouquet will be pure white hydrangeas. Iris shows Justin a sample of how the flowers will look, and although nobody is asking for my opinion, I do think it will be stunning. I always thought down-home garden weddings were charming (in fact, it’s what I always thought I would have), and the feel that Iris and Justin are creating will re-create that in The Plaza! Next, they move on to the maid of honor’s bouquet.
“What color is Jamie going to be wearing?” Justin asks me.
“I dunno—I was going to let her pick whatever she wants.”
“NO!” Iris and Justin yell at the same time.
Okay, apparently it is very important that Jamie wear a dress that follows the “feel” of the day. Justin decides it would be stunning if her dress was white, like mine, with a blue sash. Then Logan can wear a tie the same blue as the sash. I’d never thought about a white bridesmaid’s dress, but in all honesty, it does sound stunning. The flower aficionados pair a blue hydrangea bouquet with Jamie’s dress and coordinate boutonnières for the men. They quickly and easily select the rest of the flowers while I sit there like a little kid. I’m okay with it, though; impeccable taste in flowers is just another advantage to having a fake, gay fiancé. After we have finished and are getting up to leave, Iris pulls me aside and informs me that Justin is the most involved groom she has ever dealt with and is therefore quite a catch. I have no choice but to laugh to myself ... quite a catch, he is. Sure, part of me wishes that he was like most fiancés and got out of my way ... I mean, I am paying him good money to let me have my dream wedding; but on the other hand, it’s easier to deal with my enormous (and possibly atrocious) lie if I just sit back and let someone else do all the talking.
41
Christmas Shopping
Later that afternoon, as I follow Justin around a crowded Bloomingdale’s while he suggests perfect gifts for all my friends and loved ones, I share Iris’s comment with him. To say it tickles him pink is an understatement. Honestly, it gives him a new burst of energy, and minutes later he selects the most stunning cashmere gloves and scarf for my mother.
Some people on my list are easy, like my mom, and some are really hard ... like Logan. I’m trying really hard to find the perfect gift for him. Giving perfect gifts is a compulsion, even an obsession, of mine. It is important to find the gift for each person that just clicks. For Mom it was the gloves, since the week before at Jamie’s shower she stuck her thumbnail through the tip of her old, wool glove. I knew she would simply stitch it up when she got home, but these brand-new gloves are the perfect way to be practical, which she insists on, but also spoil her, which I insist on.
I comb the housewares department, looking for something for Logan to put in the apartment that will help make it feel like his, too, but nothing is calling to me. I take that back. Nothing is calling to me that would be right for Logan ... tons of things are calling to me that would be perfect to register for. I cannot wait to have my home filled with all these nice things. Eight years out of college, and I am still using the cheap, crappy stuff I could afford as a student. All of my friends have replaced this stuff with their registry gifts, so you eat at their homes on matching Villeroy & Boch plates and Target specials at mine. It probably doesn’t bother anyone but me ... but still.
I’m still searching around the housewares ... Justin has actually gotten bored and wandered off to the men’s department. You know you’ve been shopping too long when you tire out a gay man. I’m close to giving up for the day when my cell phone rings.
“Good Golly Miss Molly!” my mother practically screams with delight into the phone. “Your sister is in labor!”
My heart skips a beat ... maybe four or five ... and lands up somewhere in my throat.
“Jamie’s in labor?!?” I confirm.
“Yes, we’re already in the city. Meet us at the hospital. Maternity is on the fifth floor.”
“The fifth floor,” I repeat like a robot. “We’re on our way.”
I race out of housewares and fly down countless flights of stairs, since I am too impatient to wait for the elevators. I finally locate Justin in the dressing room of the men’s section, trying on leather pants. (Don’t ask ... but I do make a mental note that the pants are a possible Christmas gift for him.)
“Jamie’s in labor!” I yell.
“Oh my God!” he replies as he starts thrashing around the room like a fish out of water, trying to get the leather pants off and his regular (designer) jeans back on. Finally he does, and we fly out of Bloomingdale’s like the place is on fire. We hail the first cab we can (a week before Christmas, cabs are few and far between) and for a moment I curse the hustle and bustle I normally adore.
What feels like hours, but is only minutes later, we arrive at the hospital and run in like we are the ones about to give birth. We locate my family in a pleasant, but mostly bare, waiting room on the fifth floor.
“Where is she? We didn’t miss it, did we?” I breathlessly ask my mother as we hurry toward her. My father and Logan, who must have come from our apartment, which is closer to the hospital than Bloomingdale’s, sit tensely on the little mauve waiting room chairs.
“Not yet ... but she’s been in labor all day, so it could be soon!”
“Why didn’t anyone call us sooner?”
“I guess she’d been having a lot of Braxton Hicks contractions this past week and she didn’t realize until her water broke about an hour ago that this was the real thing. Of course, when her water broke she actually thought she’d peed herself, but thankfully Bryan figured it out.”
I can’t help but laugh at my sister as Justin and I sit down with my family to wait for the newest Harrigan (Harrigan-Hope) to arrive. We sit and wait for a week ... okay, not really a week, but it feels like it. In the meantime, Bryan’s parents have arrived and all seven of us are beyond restless when, four hours later, an exhausted-looking Bryan comes out to inform us that Kate has arrived.
“She’s amazing!” He glows with warmth and personality rarely displayed by Bryan Hope. “She’s so beautiful—she looks just like Jamie. She is big and healthy—eight pounds, one ounce. You can see her in the nursery.”
We all jump up and try to walk, but really we run and scramble over each other to get to the nursery window first. She’s hard to miss because she really does look like Jamie. I’ve always thought it was crap when parents said a baby looked like one parent or the other the day it was born because in my experience all babies tend to look the same, but Kate is different. She looks like an old soul. She has Jamie’s upturned nose and full lips, plus, unlike all the other babies who are lying there sleeping, Kate is looking around making sure nobody is getting anything she’s not ... just like her mom would be. She could not look more amazing, wrapped in a pink blanket and wearing a tiny pink hat. They have her in a little plastic crib thing with a pink paper taped to the front that says, “Harrigan-Hope, Kate Anne.” Her handwritten name sign makes her so official. My niece has arrived. My mother has a granddaughter, Logan is an uncle ... so we do what we Harrigans always do: we burst into tears while my father gently shakes his head at us ... except today there are tears in his eyes, too.
42
Too Many Distractions
Needless to say, the two-week holiday break that I thought would be devoted entirely to wedding planning hasn’t exactly turned out that way. It’s just impossible to think about wedding bands and photographers with Kate in the world. I have spent almost my entire vacation at Jamie’s house staring at the baby sleep, staring at the baby eat, staring at the baby stare at me. She is beyond amazing.
I’ve also been amazed staring at Jamie. I never quite realized just what a born mother she is. She i
s so natural with Kate. There is only one thing she needs constant, and I repeat constant, reassurance about. Her fear of peeing in public has been irrationally replaced with the fear that Kate is an ugly baby and she can’t see it. She is convinced, as is probably true, that all mothers think their infants are stunning, no matter how monkeylike they actually look. Fortunately, in her case, Kate really is an exceptionally beautiful baby, but we still have to reassure Jamie at least twenty-five times a day.
So ... here it is, New Year’s Eve, my vacation is more than 75% over, and I need to get some wedding planning done. I’ve forbidden myself from going to Jamie’s; in fact, I’ve forbidden myself from leaving the apartment before Alex and Steve’s New Year’s Eve party tonight. Right now, I am sitting in front of the television, looking at tapes of wedding bands ... for the most part, they are making me want to shoot myself. Marion explained to me the importance of finding a band that had experience emceeing events, because more important than the music, they would be leading the entire evening. She gave me a stack of tapes of “Plaza Approved” bands, but so far, every single one of them has at least one member with a mullet and boasts their renditions of “Part Time Lover” and “Still the One.” They are so dorky that they make Adam Sandler in The Wedding Singer look studly.
“Ugh,” I grunt miserably.
Lately, anything and everything to do with the wedding has been causing a hard and uncomfortable knot in my stomach. I’m quickly realizing that wedding planning isn’t all fun ... it isn’t even half fun, and without the balance of actually being in love, it is often a big disappointment. There are some times, usually at moments like this, when I start to think that my decision might not have been a good one.
“Pull it together,” I command myself. “Eyes on the prize ...”
I think hard about why I am doing this—I need to think of something positive right now!
Not Quite A Bride Page 19