Diary of a Mad Bride (28 page)

CHET AND NICOLE ARE DIVORCING.

CHET AND NICOLE ARE DIVORCING.

CHET AND NICOLE ARE DIVORCING.

J
ust when I'd gotten used to the idea of me being married, Chet and Nicole are breaking up. It's like the whole world's flipped inside-out.

Or maybe things have been backward from the start. Maybe it's Nicole who's not the marrying kind.

I
went down to Chinatown and picked up the invitations from Bunny. It was the first really hot day we've had this year and Bunny's shop hasn't got air-conditioning. One would think the case of Budweiser chilling in a Styrofoam cooler by the cash register would help Bunny beat the heat. But no. To relieve her discomfort, and add to everyone else's, seventy-something Bunny was wearing hot pants and a halter top. It wasn't pretty.

But the invitations are. Crisp, clean, and pristine, they're beautiful.

As I turned to exit the shop Bunny hacked up some smoker's phlegm and offered a nugget of wisdom. “Listen, kid, marriage can be great or it can stink. My first two were disasters. But the third was a keeper. We had twenty-six terrific years, right up to the minute he kicked from liver failure. And if I hadn't spent those five years in court fighting over his bodily remains with the
other
wife he'd been hiding up in Buffalo, my memories of him would be nothing but sweet.”

Yes, Bunny. Love
is
a battlefield.

M
y parents are refusing to discuss Nicole's divorce. Something along the lines of if they ignore it, it will go away. Fat chance. I've been trying that with Gram since Christmas.

On another unfortunate note, Human Resources still hasn't found a replacement for Kate, and Barry won't stop grousing about it. Loudly. Especially when Mr. Spaulding's within earshot. Our temps have ranged from English-as-a-Second-Language students to unemployed street performers. How a street performer can be out of work is beyond me. But suffice it to say that not one of them has known Microsoft Office or where to buy a decent pair of wedding shoes.

That's right, I asked.

W
hile Stephen and Mitch went to hear potential wedding bands at a Long Island club, Paula and Kathy came to my apartment to help prepare the invitations. I'd already had my temp address the envelopes on the laser printer at work, but we still had to stuff the envelopes (invites, protective tissue paper, response cards) and stamp them. We were doing fine until I noticed that Kathy had started to slip. Her once neatly aligned stamps were suddenly slapped haphazardly on envelopes. Some listed to the left, others sloped to the right.

How much skill is required to stamp an envelope? I immediately reassigned tasks.

We were done by midnight. After a crazed scramble back in March, the invitations were now under control. A
hundred and twenty beautiful invitations would be mailed out six weeks prior to my wedding. Eat your heart out,
BB
.

H
aving completed her five designated wedding tasks, my mother decided to take the bull by the horns. Shooting straight from the hip, it was “tough love” all over the place.

My menu is too outlandish. My floor plan has no “flow.” My floral design is poorly conceived. And my caterer is a
pothead
?!

“Come on, Amy. You honestly didn't know? Why do you think his eyes are always bloodshot?”

“I don't know. Onions, hay fever, a high pollen count?”

“Try a quarter ounce of reefer a day. Trust me. I teach public school. I know these things.”

Reefer, food, flowers, flow. Whatever. Just handle it. I hereby abdicate my throne.

T
hings are starting to come together. The July issue of
Round-Up
is falling into place with an extensive six-page article on hot trends in municipal playgrounds. My “Faces in the City” issue is on schedule, with four of the ten profiles already completed. And my wedding is now officially a Terry Thomas Production.

Welcome back, life.

S
tephen hired a band for our wedding.
Diggie's Delight
will be headlining at the Thomas-Stewart reception. Though they favor classic rock songs, their repertoire ranges from classical to jazz instrumentals, they own their own sound system, and for an extra fifty bucks they'll provide the ceremony music.

Sold.

M
rs. Stewart and Chuffy joined us at United Presbyterian for our second meeting with Reverend MacKenzie. We reviewed the basic structure of the ceremony and the wording of the vows.

Afterward, Mrs. Stewart reminisced about United Presbyterian—the moving Christmas pageants, the invaluable Sunday school lessons—then broke down in tears about her life ravaged by divorce, a world that no longer appreciates heavy brocades, and her preliminary stages of menopause. As Stephen comforted his mother the only thing I could think of was Reverend MacKenzie whizzing in broad daylight, and how NOT to shake his hand.

On the train ride home, as Stephen and I cuddled in our seat, he happened to mention that Louise has canceled her wedding. Something about cold feet.

MANDY

Okay, Amy. It's time to worry.

D
ue to insufficient postage, all 120 invitations have been returned. My elegant invitations are now covered in hefty black RETURN TO SENDER stamps.

Can this be anything but an ugly omen?

M
y newest temp is a musical theater aficionado named Fabrizio. Although he's a fairly good secretary, he can't seem to work without singing Sondheim. As much as this annoys me, it drives Barry absolutely nuts.

Barry hates Sondheim. He's more the Andrew Lloyd Webber type. Think
Evita.

So it was with mixed feelings that I interrupted Fabrizio's snappy rendition of “I Feel Pretty” to send him down to Bunny's to get 120 new envelopes. When he returned I had him print the addresses and restuff all the invitations. I was about to have him mail them when I reconsidered. I'm already one week behind
BB
's schedule, so there's no room for error. I personally went to the twenty-four-hour post office and mailed them myself.

Afterward, Mandy came to my apartment to show me
the bridesmaid dresses. Ankle length, sleeveless, and a stunning shade of rosy-pink, the dresses are classy and sophisticated. Everything that my wedding gown should be but ISN'T.

What the hell's the point of having a wedding if the bridesmaids look better than the bride? This event is supposed to be about
me.
I'm the center of attention. I should be the best-looking, or at least the best-dressed, woman in the room.

But what can I do? It's certainly not like I can say that to anyone. They'd think I was the most egoistic person on the planet. And maybe I am. But that's okay.

I'm the damn bride!

Meanwhile, I can't help but worry that the man I'm about to marry is having an affair with his genetically perfect female coworker. On a rational level I know Stephen is good, honest, and faithful. But he's still
human.
And anyone who watches daytime television knows that every man with proper urological functions has been unfaithful at some point in his life. Hell, if it weren't for infidelity and evil twins, soap operas would cease to exist.

And while Anita says my Inner Bride is insane, Mandy is convinced that no one gets cold feet and cancels their wedding unless they've met someone else. I'm just praying that someone else isn't Stephen.

Is there a nonconfrontational way to ask your fiancé if he's nailing his coworker?

T
urns out Nicole's paramour, Pablo, is the guy who comes to your house and hooks up your cable. Stephen
suggested that if you can't beat them, understand them, or condone their actions, the least you can do is get free cable. I think he's onto something.

New York Electric Works

“We keep the energy flowing”

Dear Valued Customer,

Please be informed that your check to New York Electric Works in the amount of $45.19 has been returned unpaid. If you do not pay the entire amount due by the above date a 19 percent interest rate will be assessed on your balance. Additionally, as per our company policy, a $15 returned check fee has been assessed on your account.

Sincerely,

Narda Mingala

Account Representative

T
his is great. Here I am throwing a $10,000 party, but I can't pay my damn electric bill!

W
e're Jewish.

A
t first I thought it was some old show tune. The forgotten “We're Jewish” medley from
Fiddler.
But no. As Mrs. Stewart, Stephen, and I sat around the living room merrily telling my folks about the beautiful United Presbyterian Church, I could sense that all this joy was really making Gram mad.

So I wasn't too concerned when she suddenly stood up and clutched her heart. I figured this was just the most recent in her string of attention-stealing ploys. The old Heart Attack routine: clutch your heart, hold your breath, and get that “faraway look” in your eyes. Standard summer-stock fare.

I am so naïve.

Heart attacks are for amateurs. Gram is a world-class pro. “We're Jewish!”

Excuse me?

“No church. No minister. It's an insult. It's a
shandeh
!”

A
shandeh
? Since when did Gram start honing up on her Yiddish? From the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. Stewart clutch Chuffy tightly to her bosom, no doubt wondering what the hell a
shandeh
was.

Mom struggled to reason with Gram. But Gram just shook her head. Her parents were conservative Jews. They had a Judaica store in New Jersey, for which she used to make ceramic dreidels. But my grandfather was Protestant so she didn't mention it. After they were married she moved to upstate New York and raised her family in a Christian home. She didn't want to inconvenience anyone. Until NOW.

It seems thirty-five days prior to my wedding is the most convenient time to mention that my family is intimately
linked to thousands of years of religious history and turbulent social events. That my people are strewn from New York to Jerusalem. That we are the Chosen.

Well, that's just swell. Had it been any other point in time I would have been interested to hear all about it. But not NOW. Not when I'm getting ready to tie the knot in a Presbyterian church under the eyes of friends, family, and Reverend MacKenzie.

“What do you mean ‘no church'? It's a done deal. We've reserved the date. Mailed the invitations. Had premarital counseling with the minister!”

My mother tried to calm me, to contain the situation, to make sense of those years spent painting Easter eggs. “Mother, pl ease. Are you
certain
you're Jewish?”

“Of course I'm certain. What do you think? Jews are stupid? Don't forget, this makes all of you Jewish too.”

With enough of her own domestic problems to last a lifetime, Mrs. Stewart slipped Chuffy into her handbag and politely said her good-byes. Two minutes later she was gone. Like a rat from a sinking ship.

How dare Gram turn my wedding into a sinking ship! I was furious. My parents were speechless. And Gram was on her way to bingo—but not before declaring me an anti-Semite and hip-checking my college graduation photo to the floor.

The upside? Stephen finally agrees that Gram's a lunatic.