Diary of a Mad Bride (3 page)

I
'm getting married!!!!!!!!

S
tephen's been a pain in the ass because he was so nervous about ASKING ME TO MARRY HIM! Some jerk at his office told him this horrible story about proposing to a woman. Instead of saying yes the woman turned him down, told him off, then married his brother. No wonder
Stephen was a mess. He
hates
his brother. But so do I! And now we're getting married!

There I was at the movie theater concessions counter with Stephen, about to see the new Jackie Chan film, wishing that I were going to see the new Sandra Bullock movie instead, still deliberating whether or not I should break up with Stephen before he dumps me when—Boom! Before I can ask for a medium Diet Coke and a bag of Gummi Bears, Stephen drops to one knee and asks me to marry him. In front of everyone. I couldn't believe it. The next thing I know, the women on line are screaming for me to say yes and some guy at the back is yelling at us to hurry it up so he can get his nachos and Sprite before the previews start and all I can think is—

How much I love Stephen.

How this feels more right than anything else in the world.

How I wish I could stop crying long enough to say “YES!”

And who the hell orders
nachos
at the movie theater?

I
can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes the words “I'm getting married!” roar through my head. It's definitely surreal. But does it count if I haven't told anyone yet? Is it like when a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it? Or is that “No one can hear you scream in space”? I don't know. I can't think straight. My mind just keeps spinning and spinning like a ballerina pumped full of amphetamines.

Holy shit! “YES.”

Just one word and my whole future has changed. I can't handle this.
I am going to explode.

I
had to wake Stephen up.

ME

Do you realize that this is the only moment in our entire lives when only you and I know that we're engaged? We should cherish this moment.

Stephen's eyes vaguely crack open.

STEPHEN

You're right, honey. I do cherish it.

His hand reaches out limply to stroke my arm.

STEPHEN

But could we talk about it tomorrow? I've got an 8
A.M.
conference call and I really need to sleep.

Puckering his lips, he manages a kissy sound before passing out.

Do I get annoyed that he won't cherish this moment with me, or do I rejoice that even at 4
A.M.
he's considerate enough to call me “honey” before blowing me off to go back to sleep? I go with loving and responsible. After all, he does have an 8
A.M.
meeting and he could have gone back to his apartment to sleep, but he wanted to spend our engagement night together.

I'm marrying a man who's romantic AND gainfully employed. What a rush! Good-bye, losers!

• Jonas the painter: An “abstract-impressionist”?

• Anthony the inventor: Who's going to wear Velcro swimwear?

• Rick the conga drum player: Constantly sweet-talked me into doing his laundry. What was I thinking?

It all seems like ages ago. As if my decision to marry has suddenly put decades of distance between my life before Stephen and now. Our commitment to each other has solidified our union and built this impregnable wall around us. This is forever.

W
ork was a complete waste today. I couldn't stop smiling and I had the attention span of an A.D.D. poster child. I was certain that someone would figure it out. I mean, for Christ's sake, I was glowing! All during the department meeting—glow, smile, glow, smile, glow, smile…

But no one noticed. Which is strange, because I work at New York's least read magazine. No one ever smiles. Or glows.

Further complicating matters was the fact that I couldn't tell anyone about my engagement. I decided on my way to work that my mother should be the first person to know. After all, she gave me life, right? It's a matter of respect. So here I was with the greatest news since control-top pantyhose and I'd sworn myself to silence.

Silence isn't my style. Just ask my secretary, Kate, who pops Advil throughout the day and routinely complains of carpal tunnel syndrome when I dictate letters.

I decided to take the commuter train upstate this weekend and tell my mother in person. Face-to-face so we can embrace in this most intimate of mother-daughter moments.
The minute I got to my office I called to tell her I'd be arriving on Friday night.

Unfortunately the woman who gave me life is too busy to see me for the next two weeks.

School starts in less than a month and she's got to prepare a new curriculum for her fourth-grade class. So I'll wait. I may have to staple my mouth shut, but I'll wait so those lice-infested, snot-encrusted nine-year-olds can have a shot at a decent education. But it's worth it. After all, how many times does a girl get to tell her mother she's getting married?

T
his silence thing is killing me. Stephen thinks I'm crazy. I think I'm driving him crazy. He's the only one I can talk to about the engagement so I've called him forty-six times since yesterday morning. That's approximately once every half hour. I've gotten no work done and he's forwarded his calls to voice mail.

So in an effort to contain myself I channeled my exuberance toward a worthy cause: shoe shopping.

I pass the Kenneth Cole shoe store every day, and this was the first time I noticed the display of bridal shoes in the window. After work I tried on a pair of simple, classic, reasonably priced white satin sling-backs. I actually considered buying them before it occurred to me—

I'VE ONLY BEEN ENGAGED FOR SEVENTY-TWO HOURS AND ALREADY I'M BUYING FOOTWEAR?!

Talk about overzealous. It's like preparing the spit before you've shot the pig. How Mandy of me! So I hurried
out of the store and bought a low-fat blueberry muffin instead.
¹⁴

I
don't understand why people have such trouble organizing weddings. All you need is a good list.

Luckily, I'm the list queen.

I've always made lists. That's why I'm so good at my job. I'm organized and in control. I'm on top of the situation, always. As a fast-rising magazine editor I've overseen articles on housing scandals, crack babies, and boat shows. Not to mention a six-part series on yo-yo dieting. I think I can handle a wedding.

It drives me nuts to think that people like Mandy actually spend thousands of dollars to hire a wedding planner. Sure she wants everything done “just right,” but how about putting that money into something practical? Like an IRA. Or a new vacuum cleaner. Those are investments. But thousands of dollars on a wedding planner? Another couple thousand on flowers? Not to mention the million-dollar dress you only wear once. Forget it. I refuse to wake up in debt the day after my wedding.

I
t started as a lark. Since I can't actually talk about my wedding I figured I should at least use my time wisely and get all the planning out of the way. You know, zip through that “Things To Do” list, then get back to the important things in life, like my story ideas for the October
issue of
Round-Up.
So, looking for guidance, I stopped at the newsstand to buy a bridal magazine.

Except it wasn't that simple.

I work in the magazine industry and even I never realized how many bridal magazines there are. And they cost a fortune. Ten dollars a pop? That's what some guys get for sperm donations. And sperm's got a longer shelf life. These magazines are useless after I'm married. Even if I give them to a girlfriend, she's got to get married within the next year or the dresses will be out of fashion, the prices will have changed, and the vendors will have moved.

And they're 90 percent ads.

But which one to buy? I probably should've waited to ask Mandy, but I still have eight LONG and TORTUROUS days of silence left, and I see no reason to be idle. So I purchased ten. I'm too busy
living
to waste a second agonizing over how to choose a bridal magazine.

A
fter studying the bridal magazines and weeding through all the advertisements, it seems I left a few things off my list.

Although only freaks and Mandys would seriously consider numbers 30, 31, 36, 38, and 39.