Diary of a Mad Bride (14 page)

W
e are now getting married on June 22nd, at which point, I've been assured, there is little chance of any professional sport being in the playoff, finals, or trophy stage of their season.

I must really love this guy.

M
r. Spaulding and I met today to discuss assigning the ten “Faces” profiles. Since the profiles are in-depth looks into the way these people live, work, and think, it's imperative that the writers have plenty of time to study their subjects. We spent an hour going through a list of possible writers. I lobbied hard for Julie Browning. In addition to Julie being a talented journalist, the karaoke story got killed because
Glamour
did it first, and I think anyone who gets edged out of a job for getting married deserves all the opportunities she can get. And while I didn't say anything, I secretly longed to profile the Unified wedding minister myself. But who am I kidding? I barely had time to buy Christmas gifts.

But not so for Barry. He made a big scene of presenting Kate with a cashmere sweater. He made certain that the whole office heard about his generosity, knew it was
two-ply
cashmere, and was aware of his close ties to the “support staff.” Kate was so thrilled by her new sweater that she wore it for the rest of the day.

It really was nice.

Note to self: Exchange Kate's designer peanut brittle for nicer gift.

T
he company Stephen works for had their Christmas party last night. Not bad for a bunch of computer nerds pinning all their financial hopes on Stephen's ability to perfect a program that enables one type of computer to talk to another type of computer when something else is also going on. He's explained it to me thirty times and that's
as much as I understand. But he can barely write a letter let alone a magazine article, so in the end we're well matched.

The company rented a Mexican restaurant in midtown and hired a live band whose upbeat salsa music I was really enjoying until I heard Stephen talk about hiring them for our wedding reception.

“That was a joke. Right, honey?” His fleeting nod did little to inspire my confidence. But it was more than enough to get Louise, one of Stephen's coworkers, to start talking about her own wedding plans.

Louise is like Central Casting's idea of a successful computer programmer. Barely in her twenties, she's 5'9”, 130 pounds, blond, and beautiful. Nicole Kidman would play her in the movie. And despite what the packaging may lead you to suspect, she's also extremely intelligent and hardworking. I breathed a long sigh of relief when I learned of her engagement. Irrational as it may be, ever since she joined the company I've harbored a deeply rooted fear that Louise and Stephen would fall madly in love and run off to beget some dippy, albeit outrageously attractive colony of computer geeks named Byte, Ram, and Mouse. But no. Louise is marrying some guy she met in an on-line chat room.

Which is good, because she's recently been assigned to help Stephen develop his computer program. This means that every night Stephen's working late, he's working late with Louise.

Thank God for cyber-love.

Over one too many margaritas Louise told me about her mother, who was so distraught at the thought of “losing her baby” that she had channeled her grief into collecting an enormous
trousseau
of all the nightgowns, robes, and lingerie Louise will need for the REST OF HER LIFE. Louise was getting a friggin' trousseau!

My envy was only vaguely tempered by the fact that the thought of my mother buying me lingerie makes me queasy.

I
t's official. I've seen every wedding dress on Long Island. And Mandy now has bunions.

I
forced myself to brave the holiday crowds and shop for wedding shoes after work. Result: nothing. I know I should wait until after New Year's. I might even catch some sales that way. But I can't. I'm desperate to feel some sense of accomplishment. Of progress. It's barely six months from our wedding day and all I've got is a backyard with a newly reseeded lawn.

Thank God I've got a groom. But he doesn't count. I had him before all this started.

According to the schedule in Chapter Three of
BB
I should be spending this time planning the menu with my caterer and engraving gifts for our attendants. But I don't have a caterer, a menu, or gifts.

At this rate I'll be walking down the aisle in a plastic trash bag and a pair of rubber flip-flops.

I
must have been crazy to let my mother invite both our families for Christmas Eve. It's the first time I'll be meeting Stephen's grandparents. I want them to think I'm
charming and beautiful and worthy of their grandson. Not to mention their heirloom emerald ring. I should have bought a new outfit.

Then there's the issue of Stephen's parents getting along with my parents. Not to mention with each other, since Mr. Stewart insists on bringing Misty. I'll have to put Nicole on the lookout to ensure that Mrs. Stewart doesn't quietly slash Misty's throat with a cake knife. That would just fuel Gram's argument about Stephen's genetic predisposition toward disastrous marriages. And I should probably watch my own back lest Kimberly decides to reclaim her precious emerald ring while my finger's still in it.

And then there's Tom. Maybe Chet can regale him with tales of suburban life. Or dish the dirt about seventh-grade Social Studies—the secret life of Pilgrims, why Columbus really sailed the ocean blue…anything to keep Tom away from my relatives.

Trust me, they don't need to know how highly sexed he is.

W
here do I begin?

I had intended to arrive at my parents house early this afternoon to help my mother prepare for the party. But I got there two hours later than planned because I missed my train at Grand Central Station. I missed the train because I was busy laboring over an extremely tricky and elaborate recipe for Sacher torte. At three in the morning I woke up and realized that despite the fact that this engagement party is in honor of Stephen and me, it is also the perfect opportunity for me to make a good impression on my future in-laws. I decided to accomplish that by
making a Sacher torte—the traditional celebratory dessert of Austria.

By 7
A.M.
I was at the grocery store getting the necessary ingredients. I'd never made a Sacher torte; in fact I hate cooking, but that didn't discourage me. I'd found a detailed recipe in my
New York Times
cookbook. Everything was fine except that my oven must cook at a particularly slow pace, because it took a full hour longer for the torte to bake than was indicated in the cookbook. But it looked great. Stephen went ahead to meet his own parents as I waited patiently for my torte to come into its own.

By the time I arrived at my parents' house everything was ready. Thankfully Nicole and Chet had come early that morning to help. After praising my culinary efforts we exchanged gifts, since we had all agreed that my engagement party would also serve as our Christmas celebration. We swapped the usual—sweaters, books, and CDs—but Gram didn't give me my annual Christmas check. Gram's given me a Christmas check for the last thirty years. And even though the amount—generally between twenty-five and fifty dollars—isn't going to change my life, I find the gesture comforting.

Gram must have sensed my distress, because she winked at me and said with a smile, “Christmas checks are for little girls. Not grown-up women who have decided to get married.” What?! I failed to see how my marital status impacted my ability to receive my beloved Christmas check. Am I any less worthy this year than last? Does getting married mean that I'm no longer Gram's little girl? After all, aren't I her favorite?

Separation. Confusion. Abandonment. Suddenly I felt every one of them. That Christmas check represented a bond that would never be broken. And yet now it was. But what could I say? Gram's from a different generation. She
probably feels like I belong to Stephen's family now. Swapped like a goat or some prized chickens.

The Stewarts arrived in two waves. First Stephen came with his mother and Chuffy, along with his sister, his grandparents, the Brocktons, who drove in from New Jersey. After all the introductions were made and people held drinks in their hands, everyone relaxed and got to know one another. It was fabulous—despite the fact that my mother momentarily lapsed into teacher mode when she had us go around the room and say our names.

Mrs. Stewart and my parents immediately hit it off (with my dad scoring big with his comment about loving dogs), while Nicole worked overtime to make Kimberly feel welcome. But it was the Brocktons who won the award for the most incredible couple ever. They showered me with kisses and raved about how happy they are about our engagement. Keeping an eye out for Kim, I proudly displayed the emerald ring and thanked them for their generosity.

Mr. Stewart arrived half an hour late, with Tom, Misty, and April—a cousin of Stephen's who's enrolled at NYU and had chosen not to go home to California for the holidays. A palpable chill went through the room, although we all tried to act normal. As Stephen informed me AFTER the party, it was the first time the Brocktons had seen Mr. Stewart since he left Mrs. Stewart. And it was the first time Mrs. Stewart had seen Misty since she and Tom graduated high school together.
This
he neglects to mention?

Accustomed to manipulating the attention of large groups, my mother the schoolteacher made quick introductions, then immediately announced dinner. Overwhelmed by the sudden need for comfort and security, people ran to the buffet table like deer during hunting season. Soon we were all face-deep in plates piled high with food. Except for Mrs. Stewart, who ate just enough to be polite to my
parents without giving Misty the satisfaction of knowing that she had ruined her appetite. Although I doubt Misty noticed. She was far too busy chatting with Chet. Apparently she had been a C.I.T. at his sleep-away camp.

Since Gram was already seated with Nicole, I chose a seat next to Stephen and the Brocktons. After fifty-six years of marriage, the Brocktons, who still hold hands, can finish each other's sentences and practically read each other's minds. Simultaneously they both began to tell me about their wedding. Mr. Brockton deferred to Mrs. Brockton, who went on to recount their wedding ceremony in the back of her mother's house in Philadelphia. She sewed her own dress, and each of her twenty guests made food for the reception. Mr. Brockton had surprised her that morning with a bouquet of roses to carry down the aisle. For her part, Mrs. Brockton was eternally grateful that her husband had remembered to remove the thorns. It was an incredibly romantic story, and as she finished telling it Mrs. Brockton gave Mr. Brockton a kiss. “He still buys me roses.”

The Brocktons are truly wonderful. “So, when are you two going to have kids?” And
pushy.
I thought for sure the ink on our marriage license would dry before the push toward procreation came. Hell, as far as the Brocktons are concerned we still haven't had sex. Keeping his grandparents blissfully ignorant of our rabid premarital sex life is one of the reasons Stephen and I never lived together. But Mrs. Brockton wouldn't let it rest. “You know, back in our day people got married to have babies.”

Regretfully Misty chose that moment to join in our conversation. “That's just a euphemism. Back then people got married to have sex. These days people don't wait for a license. They're much more liberated. Aren't they?” And she turned to look at
ME
.

A tortured, gurgling noise erupted at the base of my throat. It was the sound of my innocent façade—drowning.

The Brocktons fell silent, Stephen changed the topic to his mother's new hairdo, and I swiftly escorted Misty across the room to Mr. Stewart's side. She knew she'd screwed up. “Oh my God, Amy. I'm so sorry! It never occurred to me that they didn't know you and Stephen were sleeping together. After all, you're
adults.
”

Yes, yes, I'm a wimpy hypocrite who cowers in the face of octogenarian expectations. Sue me.

I ran to the bar for a glass of wine.

My grandmother no longer considers me her little girl, my future grandparents-in-law think I'm a tramp, and from where I stood, it looked like Tom was putting the moves on Nicole. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to run and hide in my childhood bedroom.

Desperate, I turned my attention to Stephen's cousin April. When Mr. Stewart asked if he could bring April he neglected to mention that she'd be dressed like a refugee from a Kiss concert. Wearing black from head to toe, including her eyeliner, her lipstick, and her nail polish, April was the type of person who made you want to bathe. It was something about her nose ring. But since she was Stephen's cousin and just barely a freshman at college I struggled to find some compassion for her naïveté. Someday she'd look back at pictures of herself and feel appropriately ashamed. We all did.

Besides, April is a student at NYU Film School and has agreed to videotape our wedding for free with the school's equipment. I was duty bound to be patient with her. “How's school, April?”

April adjusted her nose ring. “Pretty cool. I'm minoring in Women's Studies.” Oh, please. How can you minor in Women's Studies? It's a lifelong field of inquiry to any
woman. “So why'd you and Stevie decide to get married?”
Stevie?
“Because we're in love.” “So what? That doesn't mean you need a piece of paper from the government.” Great. The last thing I need is some brash college freshman doing her Gloria Steinem impression at my engagement party. “Stephen and I want to celebrate our joy.” April shrugged. “Well, you don't need the State for that.”

This is where I SNAPPED.

“True, but you do need them for the medical benefits and the bequeathment rights. Now, don't think I'm not happy that you just completed your first semester of Women's Studies. But reading a few Erica Jong books and mastering that Martina Navratilova hairdo of yours hardly qualify you as an authority on female liberation, let alone a spokeswoman for everyone with a vagina. So why don't you relax and soak up some holiday cheer before I kick your P.C. ass into the street. Okeydokey?”

April was stunned. “Jesus Christ, I'm gonna be your cousin. You can't get all aggressive with me.” And as she scurried across the room in search of a friendly face, I realized she was right. This Goth-attired, pain-in-the-ass, amateur feminist would soon be part of my family.

I looked around the room at all these people talking, eating, sharing, laughing, avoiding one another, and realized that in only five months and twenty-nine days we would all be related. We would all be next of kin, able to verify one another's identity in the morgue, ride in each other's ambulance, turn off life support.

All these people had come to celebrate our engagement. To celebrate
us.
How outrageously gracious and kind!

Just then my mother brought out my Sacher torte. “And here's a little something Amy made for the occasion.” Everyone “oohed” and “aahed.” Turns out Sacher torte is
the Brocktons' favorite cake. I began to relax. I was being ridiculous. I was overreacting. I was becoming a “Mandy.”

As my mother walked around serving the torte my father raised his beer and offered a toast. “I'd like to welcome you all to our house and to our family. Terry and I are very happy that Amy and Stephen found each other. Stephen's a wonderful man. Any father would be thrilled to have him marry their daughter. And Amy has grown from a little girl who used to teach her sister cusswords to a wonderful, intelligent…” It was a heartwarming speech. And as Stephen and I basked in the limelight of family love, it happened.

“Good Lord, how long did this torte bake? It's like a rock! I think I broke my bridge!” And there was Gram, hunched over and clutching her jaw in pain.

Suddenly everyone was converging upon her, running for ice, offering amateur dental assistance,
setting aside their Sacher torte.
My father's speech forever left unfinished as Gram soaked up all the attention.

That's when it hit me. Every time we start to celebrate my wedding Gram mysteriously injures herself. Tripping over the electrical cable when I first announced my engagement, choking on the turkey fat at Thanksgiving, and now this. The old woman was sticking it to me!