Diary of a Mad Bride (10 page)

I
can't sleep. I keep reviewing the numbers in my head, and there's no way to have an elegant wedding for $10,000. After all, this is America. Not Taiwan.

And for the record, if I could, I'd be more than willing to
pay for this wedding myself. Except I work in magazines. It's a notoriously cheap industry. I do it for love, not money. Especially at
Round-Up.
So I can't pay for it out of my own pocket. I can barely afford clothes that have pockets. And despite Mandy's raving about how lucrative the software industry is, Stephen's at a start-up company, which is having trouble starting. He makes less than I do.

I'll just have to beg my parents for more money.

But what if they're being honest about their retirement fund? What if their accountant is right and they need to save now so they won't be in the street when it's time for premasticated foods and saltwater enemas? How selfish of me to bug them for more money. The very people who clothed and housed me and sent me to Girl Scout camp when I was twelve. Where do I get off deciding how they should spend their money?

On the other hand, it's not like they're impoverished. They both work, they both have pensions, and they own their house. They're debt-free: Nicole and I are repaying our college loans. And it's not like they'll starve—my dad's middle-management at a supermarket chain. They're even planning a trip to Europe next year for my mom's fifty-fifth birthday. So come on, people, ease up those purse strings!

And why is Stephen's family suddenly so tightfisted? thought they were delighted about this marriage. Why else would they give me the coveted emerald ring?

B
arry interrupted our review of the December proofs to ask how many kids Stephen and I are going to have. Why's a guy I'd love to see sail the
Titanic
thinking about me procreating? He shouldn't even look at my briefcase, let alone envision me splayed out on a hospital bed with another life spewing from my loins.

ME

It's not something we're thinking about yet. How long is your eggnog piece going to be?

BARRY

A double-page spread. I've always felt that six children made a good-sized family. Very Brady Bunch.

ME

My writer covering the city's various religious celebrations says the piece is running over. He's going to need another quarter page. And having six children has been out of fashion since medical science perfected that smallpox vaccine. Besides, if Carol Brady actually birthed all six of those kids she wouldn't have had time to do the show.

BARRY

Why not? Shirley Partridge had five kids
and
a band. And with those hips you could have an entire litter if you wanted.

What the hell's wrong with my hips?!

But before I could respond he was out the door and complimenting Mr. Spaulding on his choice of tie.

I
saw two more reception venues today.

The first was a Veterans Administration party room. And they say war is hell. You should've seen this room. Throw a few certified morons in there and it could pass for the D.M.V. No wonder vets are so depressed.

The second was the ballroom at the Marrion hotel. It's where Stephen's ex-girlfriend Diane “I'm a Big Pain in the Ass” Martin got married. Sure that makes it a hand-me-down venue, but I figured with $10,000 I should just be happy it's not the Motel 6.

But even the Marrion wanted $4,000 just to rent the room. What are they, crazy? They're barely above the Days Inn on the hotel food chain, and they want more than a third of my entire wedding budget? Forget it. That would leave a buck-fifty for decorating, and even I can't be creative on a buck-fifty.

How the hell do people afford these things?

M
y parents are holding their position—no more money. Stephen's parents are taking their cue—no more money.

Apparently the Stewarts are so busy arguing over the terms of their divorce that the mere mention of money sends shivers down their spines.

Well, they'll be sure to shiver when Stephen and I are married at the homeless shelter at Port Authority.

K
ate expressed concern about my wedding today. She claims that it's consuming too much of her time. She's fallen behind on her filing, her typing, her interoffice memos…and Barry's starting to complain that she isn't paying enough attention to
his
needs.

I don't get it. I'm an easygoing boss. She should be happy I'm not asking her to retype my file labels in a more “stylish” font like Barry did last month. Besides, if she's got time to give herself a manicure in the middle of the day, then she's got time to call the Chambers of Commerce for all the metropolitan areas in the greater tristate region, in search of a potential reception venue.

I know how this sounds. I know it sounds bad.

The greater tristate region?
Who the hell wants to get married there? But I'm afraid it's come to this. No matter how creative I get there's just no way $10,000 will pay for a unique and creative eighty-five-person wedding in New York City.

Stamford, Connecticut, still beats my hometown. Trust me.

O
ur parents have given us the names of people they want to invite to our wedding. All 135 of them!!! My parents had twenty-six, Mr. Stewart had eighteen, and Mrs. Stewart rang in with
ninety-one.
We don't even know most of these people. For instance, who the hell is Hans Lindstrom? And how are we supposed to pay for his lobster risotto with a budget of $10,000?!

M
andy, who is still perfectly tan from her honeymoon in Hawaii, just told me that she and Jon exchanged engagement gifts. Who knew people even did this? Apparently
BB
discusses this custom in Chapter Sixteen. I'm still on Chapter Eight.

Well, there's no way Stephen and I can afford engagement gifts right now. He has to save money for his tuxedo, I have to save money for my stress management seminar, and we both have to save money for Hans Lindstrom's lobster risotto!

I wonder if he'd like a subscription to
Round-Up.

I
had lunch with our staff writer Julie Browning. She's spent the last two months doing an article on karaoke's impact on New York nightlife, and we needed to hammer out a new angle since the latest issue of
Glamour
featured the exact same story. Did I mention that
Round-Up
is New York's least read magazine?

While we were eating, Julie noticed my engagement ring. Turns out emerald is her favorite stone. Classy lady. We started to talk about marriage and life and work. Julie used to be a senior editor at a magazine in D.C. I always assumed that she'd left because she preferred the freedom of a writer's lifestyle. WRONG. Seems that once her boss got wind of her plans to marry she was surreptitiously edged out of her job. She was no longer invited to big corporate meetings, she was left out of the loop on major issues, and her story ideas were routinely passed over.

I told her that I wasn't worried about that since, unlike her socially conservative magazine in D.C.,
Round-Up
is a very liberal glossy. But Julie wouldn't waver. She kept warning me to watch my back. “People assume that marriage, specifically being a WIFE, will affect your dedication to the job. They assume you'll devote your energies to your husband's career and turn your own into dilettantism. And of course, they assume you'll be quitting any day to have six kids.”

I suddenly flashed to Barry, Carol Brady, and the arrangement of lilies. The flowers of death and funerals! What a fool I'd been! And when I returned to the office, there he was—Mr. Bridal Booster himself—eyeing my corner office.

Rank with the stench of coup d'état.

K
ate's had no luck with her search. She's called all the major metropolitan areas in the tristate region in search of a reception venue in our price range that can accommodate anywhere from 85 to 220 people (we've yet to settle this issue with our parents). Apparently she's come up empty-handed. Or at least she says she has. I doubt she truly applied herself to the task. I can't help but think that if I'd asked her to find the address of Ricky Martin's summer home or Brad Pitt's shoe size she would have had better luck.

But I can't complain too much. I've got to keep a low profile on my wedding. Julie's cautionary tale really spooked me and I don't want to provide anyone, especially Barry, with ammunition to take my job.

So I spent the rest of the day reworking an article on the efforts of hot-dog vendors to unionize.

B
ianca Sheppard called me last night. I've known Bianca since the third day of college, when she hip-checked me across the room while charging toward our handsome dorm adviser. To this day she swears she tripped. Since then she's been Bianca Sheppard, Douglas, Izzard, Santos, and Rabinowitz. Marriage seems to agree with her. Repeatedly. Hence her nickname “Repeat Offender,” or “RP” for short. She marries, it lasts about two years, then she decides it's not what she wants and splits. A month later she's getting married again.

At a certain point, going to her weddings stopped feeling like romantic unions and started feeling like biannual wine tastings. Needless to say, she was the last person I'd think of for wedding advice.

But a natural resource for wedding dresses. She knew exactly where to go. After all, she's already had four.

I
've become an insomniac.

Which is crazy, because I've never had trouble sleeping. Back in college I had to chew espresso beans in order to stay awake. But now the minute my eyes shut my mind races—venues, menus, bridesmaid, bands. Bands! I've got to ask Stephen if he's started to look for a band.

Breathe. I must remember to breathe.

But not Stephen. Somehow he's managing to breathe
and
sleep. Ever since the engagement we've been trying to spend each night together. Usually at my house since I need more stuff in the morning. It's a strange sensation to see him lying next to me—his adorable little snores, the cute way he drapes his arm over my chest—and to realize that I'm going to spend the rest of my life with this man. Every night for the rest of my life I'll roll over and see him.

How the hell did I get so lucky?

L
ast night we went to Larry and Mitch's Halloween party. Larry went as a groom and Mitch went as a bride. They did it to needle Stephen, who thought it was hysterical. I thought it was totally obnoxious.

STEPHEN

Come on. He's even wearing a garter belt. You've got to admit it's pretty funny.

There was nothing funny about the fact that Mitch had a wedding dress before I did. Besides, most brides wax their backs before the big day.

ME

It'd be a whole lot funnier if Larry didn't have the word “sucker” written across his forehead in lipstick.

STEPHEN

I admit that borders offensive, but you have to understand it's their way of showing support. They dressed up
for
us.

I could tell Stephen was trying to endear his Neanderthal pals to me. But it wasn't working. They weren't carnie freaks passing through town in a traveling show.

The show's permanent. They're here to stay.

Stephen wrapped his arm around my waist and gave me a hug.

STEPHEN

You have to remember, they've never been wildly in love. Larry hasn't had a date in over a year because he's too nervous to call a woman. And Mitch is so insecure that he'll sleep with anyone with a futon.

That's half of New York. Suddenly the article we did last May on the rise of venereal disease was starting to make sense.

STEPHEN

Trust me. Once they're more comfortable around you they'll start to relax and show you their more interesting side. I swear it's there.

ME

That'd be a lot easier to believe if Mitch was wearing underwear.

As I pointed across the room, Stephen saw what I did—the bride sitting on the sofa, straddling a giant bong, giving everyone a glimpse at his full-frontal.