Diary of a Mad Bride

by Laura Wolf

  january 31st

  It was parent-teacher conference day, so my mom was free by 1 P.M. After she did some shopping in the city we met for dinner at T.G.I. Friday’s. We always eat at T.G.I. Friday’s, because it’s well priced and the portions are large. My mother’s criteria for a good meal. Value and size.

  This explains so much about my wedding dilemmas.

  Unwilling to appear paranoid or selfish, I went out of my way not to mention Gram. Instead we talked about the parents who refused to believe that their kids are nose-pickers, chronic potty mouths, or attention deficit. Inevitably the parents themselves are nose-pickers, potty mouths, or attention deficit. This always fascinates my mother, so she was in a particularly good mood. In fact, she was downright effusive. She even brought up my wedding.

  Over Cobb salad and minestrone soup she asked if I’d found a caterer (I haven’t), if I’d chosen a florist (I haven’t), and if I had a dress yet (I don’t). “You know, Amy, this may sound old-fashioned to you, but I still have the dress I wore when I married your father.” News to me.

  “The day you were born I did two things. I decided to name you Amy after my favorite of all the Little Women—well, actually Beth was my favorite, but she dies in the end and that didn’t seem right—then I packed my wedding dress into a box in case the day came when you’d want to wear it. I saved it especially for you.”

  Finally, some mother-daughter bonding! It was my Terms of Endearment moment.28 I was shocked. “I’d love to wear your wedding dress!”

  * * *

  28 But without the whole death thing.

  february 1st

  I actually slept well last night. Since my mother offered me her wedding dress I feel like an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Her very own wedding dress. It’s a token of her affection, it’s family history. And it’s a lucky charm—my parents have been happily married for over thirty years.

  May we all be so fortunate.

  And there’s even more good news. One of Stephen’s coworkers has a brother who’s a freelance newspaper photographer but wants to expand into wedding photography. Since he needs to build his portfolio he’s agreed to shoot our wedding for free! All we pay for is the film and the processing and the printing! No overly precious, able-to-withstand-nuclear-fallout $15 prints, and he’ll give us the negatives!

  A wedding dress. A photographer. Next thing you know I’ll find shoes!

  february 3rd

  I went shoe shopping at Bendel’s after work. I found nothing.

  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. Buy wedding dress

  15. Buy 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

  february 4th

  I took the train upstate right after work to go see my mom’s—my—wedding dress. I’d originally planned to go tomorrow morning, but I couldn’t wait. I was on the 7 P.M. train.

  I found my parents sitting down to watch a rerun of Diagnosis Murder. My father had already slipped into his pajamas. But that didn’t matter. This moment was about us girls. It was a female thing.

  Bursting with excitement, I followed my mother to her bedroom and into her closet—a place forever off-limits to my sister and me. Consequently a place forever filled with mystery and intrigue. As kids, Nicole and I spent hours speculating about what lay behind that closet door: boxes brimming with dazzling jewels, a safe filled with the family fortune, love letters from my mother’s previous husband—a tall, dark figure whom my sister and I had inexplicably conjured up. A man who looked like Humphrey Bogart and took my mother to smoky bars where they swore. Even as adults we weren’t allowed into that closet. And yet here I was, being shepherded in by my mother herself.

  Shepherded into what had to be the world’s most claustrophobic space. Crammed with shoes, clothing, old luggage, and forgotten sporting gear, it was poorly lit and smelled like mothballs. It was, indeed, our family’s fortune. And from the back, under a pile of ancient Good Housekeeping magazines and some knit jumpers from the early eighties, my mom unearthed an enormous cardboard box. It was the box in which she’d kept her wedding dress, for decades, in hopes that one day I might wear it.

  Together we carried the box to her bed. My heart was pounding. My mother lifted the lid and began gently to pull back layer upon layer of yellowed tissue paper.

  Then, when the final layer of tissue paper was finally removed, I saw my wedding dress—and wept. Really wept. Not delicate girlie tears, but the kind of tears reserved for occasions of monumental joy. And horror. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen in my entire life. And it was all mine.

  Not wishing to insult my mother, I quickly repacked the dress in its enormous cardboard box and took the next train home. Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d be robbed at gunpoint.

  february 5th—2 A.M.

  I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes all I can see is that horrible dress—the high collar, the flowing sleeves, the pinafore front, and the hooplike skirt. I look like a cross between a Little House on the Prairie extra and a cast member from the road company of Godspell.

  It suddenly occurs to me that the photos of my mother at her wedding are shot exclusively in close-up.

  Is there any way to ge
t out of this without forever destroying the mother-daughter bond?

  february 5th

  I left a desperate message for Mandy this morning. She still hasn’t called me back.

  Meanwhile I returned home to a message on my answering machine from Gram. We haven’t spoken since my engagement party and I’m not sure whether anyone’s told her about my suspicions. In either event, her message was very sweet. Or was it?

  “Amy, your mother’s just told me that you’re going to wear her wedding dress. I’m so pleased. I thought of that dress the minute I heard about your engagement. That’s why I urged her to offer it to you.”

  So that’s how all this started. My mom assumed I wouldn’t want her dress, but GRAM convinced her to offer it to me.

  A well-intentioned bad idea or a setup? Should I worry, or seek psychiatric attention for advanced stages of paranoia? It’s so hard to tell these days.

  february 7th

  I’m falling behind at work. Two of my writers are late with their assignments for the April issue and I haven’t even begun to think about May.

  The good news is that after begging and pleading I think I’ve convinced Kate not to take a leave of absence. This is a difficult time for me. I need her more than ever. She knows where everything is filed, is familiar with the job, and she can read my handwriting. Sure, groveling at her feet was pathetic, but I think it tipped the scales in my favor. Few secretaries have the pleasure of bringing their bosses to their knees.

  february 9th

  Kate presented me with a typed list of demands ranging from her refusal to make phone calls or written inquiries relating to my wedding, to her request that wedding vendors be transferred directly to my voice mail, thereby relieving her of the apparently odious task of taking their messages. And then there’s that little matter of my not discussing the wedding between the hours of 9 A.M. and 6 P.M. And though I sensed Barry’s evil influence behind these demands, I readily agreed. What else could I do?

  Meanwhile Stephen has become smitten with a woodwind band from Ecuador. He “discovered” them playing in the subway station by his apartment. He’s just dying for them to play our wedding.

  I fully support breaking with tradition. Soprano? Harpsichordist? String quartet? Forget ’em. Bring on the bamboo flute and bells. But shouldn’t our band at least be familiar with American standards? If someone makes a musical request, shouldn’t the bandleader be able to respond in English?

  You bet. But this band issue is Stephen’s domain. I’m not getting involved. No way. I’m keeping my mouth shut. Whatever he decides is fine. And he’s decided on these Ecuadorian woodwind people. He says their music soothes him.

  How nice.

  But isn’t that what wives are for? And how the hell do you play “Brick House” on a recorder? You don’t.

  Yet why quibble about that when my mother’s just laid the “ground rules” for my wedding reception—in both the figurative and literal sense. Leave it to an elementary school teacher to be so clever.

  Apparently the wedding reception must be wholly contained to the backyard and the first floor of the house. No one will be allowed upstairs. This means all ninety-five guests will have to share one bathroom, since Bud and Terry don’t want a Porta Potti stationed in the backyard. Something about septic fluid and germs.

  february 10th

  Mandy finally came to my apartment to see the dress. She was furious. “You drag me all over the city and this is the dress you choose?”

  Who chose? This isn’t free will. This is a horrible mistake.

  Her suggestion—start a fire in my apartment, then use the dress to snuff the flames. What could possibly please my mother more than to know her cherished wedding dress had saved my life?

  february 10th—11 P.M.

  No matter how long I hold the dress over the lit stovetop it still won’t ignite. I’ve singed my hair and melted my nail polish, but the damn dress WILL NOT DIE.

  Lucky me. An asbestos wedding dress. What next? A poison-ivy bouquet?

  february 11th

  On a lark I proposed James Royce as Face #2 for our annual issue. Royce is a best-selling crime novelist who’s lived in and written about New York for the last twenty-seven years. He’s also notorious for refusing interviews. Until now. Apparently he’s ready to talk and is willing to do it in my “Faces in the City” issue of Round-Up!

  Mr. Spaulding was thrilled. Barry was apoplectic. Stephen and I splurged on a fabulous steak dinner to celebrate. Who knew losing Murray Coleman as Face #2 was a stroke of enormous luck?

  february 12th

  It’s hopeless. There is no acceptable reason why I can’t wear my mother’s wedding dress. It’s in pristine condition and fits perfectly. Like a glove. Like a huge dishwashing glove soaking in a big vat of ugly. And how can I tell her that when she saved it especially for me?

  february 13th

  Stephen and I went upstate for the requisite “premarital counseling” with Reverend MacKenzie. Stephen complained the entire way there. “I can’t believe we’re letting MacKenzie counsel us, let alone join us in holy matrimony. If he asks about our sex life, just ignore him. If he pressures you, talk exclusively in generalizations. Under no circumstances should you divulge details.”

  “Would you relax? The guy can’t be that bad. Your mother adores him.”

  Stephen held his ground. “Just wait until you meet him. You’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “Is he forgetful? Rude? Verbally abusive?”

  “No. It’s more subtle. Like a bad vibe.”

  A bad vibe? He’s a minister, not a pawnbroker. How ridiculous. I was certain Stephen’s feelings for Reverend MacKenzie were colored by recollections of interminable church sermons about sacrifice and shame. As far as I was concerned, so long as Reverend MacKenzie didn’t carry a cell phone we had no problems. We could talk loyalty, respect, and fidelity until the sun set. Then confirm my wedding date, speak highly of me to my mother-in-law, and I’ll be on my way.

  Stephen just continued to pout.

  The United Presbyterian Church, where Stephen’s family has belonged for the last twenty years, is like the country club of churches. It makes First American on the Upper East Side of Manhattan look like a Pentecostal storefront. Built in the early 1920s, it gleams from its spotless whitewash exterior to its overpolished red oak interior. The hymnbooks are covered in full-grain leather and every carved pew boasts a fluffy seat pad to cushion the strain of religious devotion. It’s elegant, classy, and luxe.

  As was Reverend MacKenzie, an affable albeit reserved man in his mid-sixties with a firm handshake and natty wing tips under his ministerial robe. Direct and expedient, he asked about our thoughts on marriage—what we expected from it, what it meant to us—then scheduled another meeting for the month of May. No inappropriate sexual questions and no shady solicitation of funds. Just the facts.

  The minute we exited the church Stephen was on a roll. “See what I mean? He’s creepy.” But how creepy could the guy be? His nails were clean and his breath smelled like Listerine. The minty kind.

  february 14th

  Love is about compromise.

  The day started with Stephen sending a dozen long-stem roses to my office. Then ended with the two of us at his favorite video arcade.29 We converted $30 into a bucket of quarters and went wild. He’s sharp with the Kung Fu Kick Fighter II, but I can still whup his butt at Mission Control Stun Gun III.

  Next Valentine’s Day I’ll be a WIFE.

  * * *

  29 Yes, my thirty-two-year-old fiancé has a favorite video arcade. It’s his secret shame. Okay, so it’s my secret shame about him. He’s a rabid arcade junkie. He prances when he wins free games and yells when the preteens hog the machines. Thankfully, like a fondness for airline food or a sincere appreciation for Elvis impersonators, the opportunity to indulge in this obsession is limited. It’s not so easy to find a good video arcade in Manhattan. Which is the only reason I’m in the game room
of the Summit (read: Slum It) Hotel on Valentine’s Day.

  february 18th

  I cannot wear this hateful dress.

  I must wear this hateful dress.

  Thank goodness for friends.

  Having heard about my disastrous wedding dress, Paula called to tell me about her friend Katrina—a clothing designer who’s got her own studio in Greenwich Village. Apparently Katrina’s agreed to take a look at Mom’s dress and see if there’s any way to redesign it. Who knows, I may end up with a custom wedding dress.

  february 19th

  It seems I hold only two points of interest.

  Either you’re wondering why my engagement ring’s not a diamond, or you want to know if I’ll be keeping my last name. So what’s my answer?

  I DON’T KNOW!

  I’ve been Amy Sarah Thomas for the last thirty years. It’s not like it’s some TV character I’ve been playing. It’s my real-life identity. And getting married doesn’t change that. But part of me likes the idea of sharing a name with Stephen. Sure I know that love is the tie that binds, but the same name can’t hurt. And on a practical level, it will make things a lot easier—restaurant reservations, legal documents, airline tickets…

  Then there’s the whole hyphenate thing. Mrs. Amy Jacob-Jingleheimer-Schmidt. Stupid? Damn straight. Yet suddenly it makes a little more sense. You get to keep your identity while publicly declaring your relationship to your spouse. But Amy Sarah Thomas-Stewart? It sounds like roll call at a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant support group.