Diary of a Mad Bride
Read Diary of a Mad Bride Online
Authors: Laura Wolf
A Delta Book
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
Copyright © 2001 by Laura Wolf
eBook design adapted from printed book design by Lynn Newmark
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Publisher.
ISBNâ9780385335836
eBook ISBNâ9780804181259
v4.1
a
june 26th
M
y best friend, Mandy, is getting married, and no one is suffering more than my secretary, Kate.
KATE
I'm an administrative assistant. Not a security guard.
ME
And I appreciate everything you do for me. Didn't I get you that gift certificate from Saks last Christmas?
KATE
Macy's.
1
ME
Whatever you say. But I can't talk to Mandy right now. Just take a message.
KATE
I already did that. Six times.
ME
What'd she say?
KATE
“UrgentâCall me.”
ME
It's a bluff. Tell her I'm in a meeting.
KATE
That's what I said the first time she called.
ME
I'm in the ladies' room.
KATE
Used it twice. Once more and we'll be saying urinary tract infection.
ME
Hey, that's aâ
KATE
Forget it. I have my pride.
ME
All right. Put her through. But if I'm not off the phone in three minutes call my other line.
KATE
You know, this wasn't in my job description.
2
Kate struts out of my office. I wish I could go with her. Instead I pick up the phone.
ME
Hi, Mandy. What's going on?
MANDY
Just the usual bridal nightmares.
ME
What nightmares? You found the guy. He found you. In just three months it'll be eternal blissâ
MANDY
Three months and two days.
ME
Like I saidâ¦Now relax and enjoy yourself.
MANDY
Oh, you couldn't possibly understand, Amy. You've never been married.
ME
Then why'd you call me?
MANDY
What?
ME
Never mind. Just tell your spinster friend what's ailing you.
MANDY
You're mocking me. Don't mock me.
ME
I'm not mocking you.
3
Suddenly there's loud sniffling on the other end of the phone.
ME
Don't cry, Mandy. Everything's going to be okay.
4
MANDY
I'm just so tired. Today the florist called to say that her original quote on Holland tulips was under by fifteen-point-seven-eight percent.
ME
Wow! Fifteen-point-seven-eight percent? How'd you even figure out how much that was?
The sniffles become sobs. Did I say the wrong thing? My other phone begins to ring. Kate's just earned a pay raise.
ME
Oops, there's my other line. I've gotta go. Just remember this is about you and Jon getting married. That's all that matters.
MANDY
But the tulips are an integral part of our floral concept.
ME
We'll talk soon!
I hang up. I know I should feel guilty, but all I feel is relief. Moments later Kate returns to my office with a scowl.
KATE
We both know she's calling back in an hour.
KateâSo young. So wise.
ME
You're probably right. Now tell me why getting married turns normal people into total freaks?
KATE
Don't ask me, Ms. Thomas. I'm not married.
ME
That's why I like you, Kate.
5
It's true and you know it. People who are about to be married magically transform into raging narcissists. They're like those robot dolls we had as kids. The ones that transformed from a human to a car to a prehistoric animal. Well, put a veil and a string of pearls on one of those T-Rexes and you've got yourself a bride-to-be whose personal evolution is powerful enough to sweep every living man, woman, and child into its turmoil. And that's not malicious. Just fact.
Trust me. I know.
Mandy's asked me to be a bridesmaid at her wedding this September. On a certain level it's flattering. She's been one of my closest friends since sophomore year in college. Stunning, determinedâand extremely high maintenanceâshe's the only person I've ever known who arranged her clothes by season. It's an odd mix of awe and incredulity that seals our friendship.
But now the terms of that friendship dictate that I appear at her nuptial soiree in a yellow satin dress with an empire waistline. Mandy has convinced herself that the “buttercup” color and the empire waistline are a subtle yet elegant interpretation of Camelot-era gowns.
6
Yeah, right.
First off, the fabric may be called “buttercup,” but it's really “pucker-mouth lemon”âlike cheap mustard at picnics and ballparks. Or New York City taxicabs. And only young girls with eating disorders look elegant in empire
waistlines. The rest of us look pregnant and dumpy. So you can forget Camelot.
But I'll wear it and smile. Because Mandy loves it and I love her.
Besides, I'm secure enough to appear in public as a livery vehicle. I'm an attractive twenty-nine-year-old brunette. I've even been told that I look like Julia Roberts. The Size 10 version. But shorter. With smaller boobs. So for one day I can endure the shame and humiliation of joining seven other women in pucker-mouth lemon dresses as we cruise down Mandy's wedding aisle to the tune of three hundred bucks a pop.
Oh, did I forget to mention
that
part?
And the spewing wallet doesn't stop there. There's still the engagement gift, the shower gift, the wedding giftâit all adds up.
7
Then there are the eight groomsmen who have to buy suits or top hats or full-body armor (I've been too afraid to ask). Not to mention the 250 guests she's invited to share in this intimate event, which she's been painstakingly planning for twelve long and laborious monthsâ¦
I sound callous. I hate that, because I'm not. In fact, I try to be as patient and understanding as possible. I try to remember, as Mandy constantly reminds me, that I've never been through this. I really
don't
know what it feels like to endure the tumultuous storms that mysteriously accompany weddings. I try to remember that all those insane brides used to be my thoughtful, intelligent, truly enjoyable
friends. Women I loved being with. The whole “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” doo-doo.
But it's difficult. It's like they've been stricken with some Mad Bride Disease. And it's not their faultâit's the diet powder they've turned to in a desperate attempt to shed those extra ten pounds that they've failed to lose for the last thirty years.
Yet not for a second do I begrudge them their happinessâor their hysteria. I'm thrilled they've found soul mates, partners, whipping boys, playthingsâ¦Heck, life's hard. A spouse is an invaluable bonus. No one prepares us for the lonely weekends watching mediocre TV, wishing we had something better to do. Sure, I've got a great boyfriend and terrific friends. But boyfriends come and go and friends make other plans. A spouse is always on-call. You can stay at home and do nothing, because you're doing it
together.
But enough is enough. These days every time the phone rings it's another person calling to say she's getting married. They're bursting with excitement, spewing from the mouth, as their joy overfloweth for hours and hours and hoursâ¦Wedding dates, seating charts, flowers, registries, hors d'oeuvres, and gifts. Next they'll be calling about babies and twins and in-vitro fertilization. Hours of birthing details. Placentas, epidurals, and tearing. Do they
have
to talk about the tearing? Then it'll be Little League and Cub Scouts and car pools and extramarital affairs and couples therapy and divorce courtâ¦Soon I'll have to get a second phone just to order Chinese food!
Breathe. I must remember to breathe.
The thing that I really don't understand is the whole
desperation
to marry. I wasn't one of those little girls who sat around and fantasized about my wedding dress. I didn't know how I'd wear my hair or what type of flowers I'd hold. And I certainly didn't have visions of myself floating
down the aisle as hundreds of guests quietly weep into handkerchiefs while whispering in hushed tones about my exquisite beauty. My remarkable poise. My stellar choice of veil.
In fact, I pretty much assumed I'd never get married. I mean, why bother? I'm not religious. My family doesn't really care. And I have a sister who made it clear from infancy that she intended to lead the most June Cleaver existence possible, thereby assuring my family of at least one joyful nuptial.
I still remember the first week of college, when a girl in my literature class told me in all seriousness that college was our last chance to find a husband. According to her it was the last time we'd be in an environment with an abundance of men of the appropriate age, educational background, and financial strata. I was horrified. Here was an intelligent, good-looking, very young woman declaring that her main goal in college was to meet a mate.
8
College was simply an episode of
The Dating Game
honed to its sharpest point.
By junior year she was engaged to a guy with chronic dandruff and a history of kleptomania. She liked his sense of humor and thought his love of tennis would make him a good dad. She stopped talking to her friends and socialized exclusively with his. They were married two years later. I'm no devil-worshiping Satanist, but I just don't get it. Wasn't the whole point about birth control to liberate us from these shackles of dependency? Isn't that why we had the 1970s? Wasn't that why halter tops were invented?
And it's not like I'm “out of touch.” As the Associate Features Editor of
Round-Up
magazine, it's my job to know what people in New York are thinking and doing. And not just the Donald Trumps and models of the moment but
real people, who worry about public school violence and look forward to eating hot zeppoli at the next street fair. In fact, I'm so “in touch” that I've been appointed editor of next year's “Faces in the City” issue. So I know weddings are important and meaningful events. I just don't understand why they diminish my girlfriends' capacity for rational thought, increase their ability to cry tenfold, and entirely vanquish their fashion IQ. I mean, for God's sake,
I look like a taxicab with dyed-to-match shoes.
I think my sister, Nicole, innately understands my genetic inability to deal with marriage. Nicole, my vaguely younger sister, got married five years ago to her college sweetheart, Chet. A sincerely great guy. So storybook-touching it almost made me puke. But she was smart enough to plan the whole thing while I was backpacking through Europe. I returned just in time to slip into a pale pink spaghetti-strap dress and march down the aisle along with four of Nicole's nearest and dearest girlfriends.
The photos from that day are beautiful. People are joyful and excited, and then there's me. My eyeliner smeared into raccoon eyes and my pale pink dress so close to my skin tone that it looks like flesh.
Yeah, that's me. I'm the haggard naked chick on the left.
Nicole knew what I've suspected for a very long time. Weddings just aren't my bag.
1
Don't be fooled. The Macy's in Manhattan is really nice. It's their FLAGSHIP store. She was just angling for sympathy.
2
Technically an argument could be made against this comment. One of the nice things about working for a big corporation like Hind Publications is the way the employment contracts use broad, undefined terms such as “general support,” thus leading the way for grand abuses of power like the one you're seeing here.
3
I was totally mocking her.
4
That's right. Throw me a huge party, buy me an expensive dress, make me the center of attention, and to top it all off, shower me with gifts of my choosing, and I'll cry too.
5
That, and the fact that I love being called “Ms. Thomas,” even if it is by a twenty-one-year-old who has a Backstreet Boys screen saver on her computer.
6
That's Camelot as in Sir Arthur,
not
Jackie O.
7
People always say you don't have to bring a gift to the engagement party. They're lying. They never forget who brought what and who showed up empty-handed. The first person who told me engagement gifts weren't expected is still waiting by the mailbox for my present to arrive. That was four years ago. She stopped speaking to me after two. But I don't care. I'm not sending it on principle: liars really tick me off.
8
The degree she was getting in macrobiology? Merely a footnote.
