Diary of a Mad Bride

by Laura Wolf

  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

  september 6th

  According to BB I’m alarmingly late in reserving a venue for my wedding reception. Flirting with disaster. Treading that thin line between a life of happiness and a dream unfulfilled.

  And it’s starting to worry Prudence. I can tell by her refusal to blink.

  It seems people typically reserve their venues a year in advance. I only have nine months. But I refuse to worry. If a human being can sprout in nine months from some spare biological matter, then I can plan a wedding. Besides, this is New York City. Not some little suburb with one church and a town hall. There are literally thousands of hotels, “event” spaces, and gardens for us to choose from. We could do a turn-of-the-century mansion, a hotel ballroom, a loft, a theater, a botanical garden, a private club, or a waterfront restaurant. And Lord knows, this city of sin isn’t lacking in places of worship. Even Gomorrah had churches.

  Besides, how bad can it be? After all, I’m going to be a June bride.

  Holy shit.

  september 8th

  While compiling my guest list for the wedding17 I realized that it’s been a while since I’ve seen several of my friends.

  This is strange, because I’m very social. I’m the one you call if you want to go out. I’m always up for a movie, a gallery show, or a meal. I love debating local politics and discussing career goals. Then it occurred to me that all these “lost” friends are married. I’ve only seen them a couple of times since their weddings. One by one my married friends have disappeared. How did this happen?

  Where did they go?

  I’m vowing here and now that THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN TO ME. I will not fall off the face of the Earth after June 2nd. I will not cease to exist.

  I wonder if my married friends made the same vow?

  * * *

  17 According to BB, you can’t start looking for a reception venue until you know how many people you’re inviting.

  september 9th—2 A.M.

  I can’t sleep. It’s just occurred to me that marriage is emblematic for lodging.

  The Jewish wedding canopy is symbolic of the roof on the couple’s new home. The Catholic church is the house of the Lord. And then there’s the “institution” of marriage, like the Institution of American Dentistry, which you “enter into,” like a home, a supermarket, or a car wash. But do you ever come out? Will I fade into my friends’ memories as that brunette with the great smile?

  And what if the lodging is substandard, like a hut? Or a log cabin? Or a studio apartment with roaches and no hot water? Who do I complain to?

  september 10th

  I went to Frutto di Sole with the girls tonight. Anita, Jenny, Kathy, and Paula. We just laughed and bitched and ate really great bad food. I felt like I was back in college. Except Mandy wasn’t there to complain about my use of profanity. She was too busy putting the fear of God into her wedding caterer.

  Several times during the evening I thought to ask my girlfriends about wedding venues, dress suggestions, and creative party details…but I decided against it. I’m not going to be one of those brides who won’t shut up about her wedding. As much as I love her, I’m no Mandy.

  Furthermore, I’m going to make a point of doing this at least twice a month when I’m married. Going out with the girls. Kicking back and talking, maybe Rollerblading in the park…I just hope Stephen won’t feel threatened. Forgotten. Left out. Neglected. Abandoned. Hurt. Ignored.

  For Christ’s sake! This is why I don’t own a pet!

  september 13th

  Barry held the door open for me on the way into the conference room.

  Something is very wrong.

  september 14th

  I went over to Stephen’s apartment for dinner. We needed to buckle down and come up with a rough estimate on our guest list. And though I purposely sat on and tried to bond with his plaid couch, visions of Goodwill just danced in my head.

  Since I always want sushi and he always wants Mexican, we generally compromise and order out for Chinese. But tonight Stephen surprised me with a homemade dinner. Seafood paella served by candlelight. And on our table was an ice sculpture the size of a milk carton, which Stephen himself had made.

  The man can cook but he can’t sculpt. He claimed it was a rose, and though I praised his artistry, I couldn’t help but think how much it looked like a human brain. Shrinking and dripping before our very eyes onto a saucer. All through dinner—drip, drip, drip. And when I suggested that we move it away from the candles, Stephen insisted on keeping it where it was. Drip, drip, drip went the human brain.

  Then, just as we were finishing dessert, and the human brain had shrunk to the size of a small tumor, I noticed something sparkling within it. Minutes later Stephen’s hand-carved rose revealed a dazzling jewel. He plucked it out and slipping it onto my finger asked how I liked my engagement ring.

  It was the most romantic, creative, thoughtful gesture. And the ring was sparkling and stunning and NOT A DIAMOND.

  It’s a glorious emerald set in a gold band. Lovely and elegant but NOT A DIAMOND.

  ME

  Oh. Wow. It’s an emerald. I don’t know what to say.

  STEPHEN

  I’m so relieved you like it. I thought you might prefer a diamond, but my grandmother convinced me to give this to you. It belonged to her mother and she’s been keeping it all these years, waiting for one of us to get married. I even had it sized to fit your finger.

  ME

  Oh yeah, it fits great.

  What could I say? It was his great-grandmother’s ring. To refuse would be insulting four generations of his family. So what if his wedding proposal was cut-rate? The ring is stunning and he cooked me dinner and he hand-carved a human brain from a block of ice, but it’s NOT A DIAMOND.

  I know this shouldn’t bother me. After all, I’m the one who keeps insisting that we avoid the shackles of tradition, blah, blah, blah, but when else in my entire life am I going to get a diamond ring? Never. This was my one chance and I blew it.

  september 15th

  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.

  september 19th

  Mandy’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.

  * * *

  18 Although I’m certain the prospect of pawning their son off on another family was enough motivation for Jon’s folks to shell out the cash.

  september 20th

  Talk 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.

  september 22nd

  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?

  september 23rd

  Stephen 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.

  september 24th

  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!

  september 25th

  Today 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.