Diary of a Mad Bride (18 page)

I
'm falling behind at work. Two of my writers are late with their assignments for the April issue and I haven't even begun to think about May.

The good news is that after begging and pleading I think I've convinced Kate not to take a leave of absence. This is a difficult time for me. I need her more than ever. She knows
where everything is filed, is familiar with the job, and she can read my handwriting. Sure, groveling at her feet was pathetic, but I think it tipped the scales in my favor. Few secretaries have the pleasure of bringing their bosses to their knees.

K
ate presented me with a typed list of demands ranging from her refusal to make phone calls or written inquiries relating to my wedding, to her request that wedding vendors be transferred directly to my voice mail, thereby relieving her of the apparently odious task of taking their messages. And then there's that little matter of my not discussing the wedding between the hours of 9
A.M.
and 6
P.M.
And though I sensed Barry's evil influence behind these demands, I readily agreed. What else could I do?

Meanwhile Stephen has become smitten with a woodwind band from Ecuador. He “discovered” them playing in the subway station by his apartment. He's just dying for them to play our wedding.

I fully support breaking with tradition. Soprano? Harpsichordist? String quartet? Forget 'em. Bring on the bamboo flute and bells. But shouldn't our band at least be familiar with American standards? If someone makes a musical request, shouldn't the bandleader be able to respond in English?

You bet. But this band issue is Stephen's domain. I'm not getting involved. No way. I'm keeping my mouth shut. Whatever he decides is fine. And he's decided on these Ecuadorian woodwind people. He says their music soothes him.

How nice.

But isn't that what
wives
are for? And how the hell do you play “Brick House” on a recorder? You don't.

Yet why quibble about that when my mother's just laid the “ground rules” for my wedding reception—in both the figurative and literal sense. Leave it to an elementary school teacher to be so clever.

Apparently the wedding reception must be wholly contained to the backyard and the first floor of the house. No one will be allowed upstairs. This means all ninety-five guests will have to share one bathroom, since Bud and Terry don't want a Porta Potti stationed in the backyard. Something about septic fluid and germs.

M
andy finally came to my apartment to see the dress. She was furious. “You drag me all over the city and this is the dress you choose?”

Who chose? This isn't free will. This is a horrible mistake.

Her suggestion—start a fire in my apartment, then use the dress to snuff the flames. What could possibly please my mother more than to know her cherished wedding dress had saved my life?

N
o matter how long I hold the dress over the lit stovetop it still won't ignite. I've singed my hair and melted my nail polish, but the damn dress WILL NOT DIE.

Lucky me. An asbestos wedding dress. What next? A poison-ivy bouquet?

O
n a lark I proposed James Royce as Face #2 for our annual issue. Royce is a best-selling crime novelist who's lived in and written about New York for the last twenty-seven years. He's also notorious for refusing interviews. Until now. Apparently he's ready to talk and is willing to do it in
my
“Faces in the City” issue of
Round-Up
!

Mr. Spaulding was thrilled. Barry was apoplectic. Stephen and I splurged on a fabulous steak dinner to celebrate. Who knew losing Murray Coleman as Face #2 was a stroke of enormous luck?

I
t's hopeless. There is no acceptable reason why I can't wear my mother's wedding dress. It's in pristine condition and fits perfectly. Like a glove. Like a huge dishwashing glove soaking in a big vat of ugly. And how can I tell her
that
when she saved it especially for me?

S
tephen and I went upstate for the requisite “premarital counseling” with Reverend MacKenzie. Stephen complained the entire way there. “I can't believe we're letting MacKenzie counsel us, let alone join us in holy matrimony. If he asks about our sex life, just ignore him. If he pressures you, talk exclusively in generalizations. Under no circumstances should you divulge details.”

“Would you relax? The guy can't be that bad. Your mother adores him.”

Stephen held his ground. “Just wait until you meet him. You'll know exactly what I'm talking about.”

“Is he forgetful? Rude? Verbally abusive?”

“No. It's more subtle. Like a bad vibe.”

A bad vibe? He's a minister, not a pawnbroker. How ridiculous. I was certain Stephen's feelings for Reverend MacKenzie were colored by recollections of interminable church sermons about sacrifice and shame. As far as I was concerned, so long as Reverend MacKenzie didn't carry a cell phone we had no problems. We could talk loyalty, respect, and fidelity until the sun set. Then confirm my wedding date, speak highly of me to my mother-in-law, and I'll be on my way.

Stephen just continued to pout.

The United Presbyterian Church, where Stephen's family has belonged for the last twenty years, is like the country club of churches. It makes First American on the Upper East Side of Manhattan look like a Pentecostal storefront. Built in the early 1920s, it gleams from its spotless whitewash exterior to its overpolished red oak interior. The hymnbooks are covered in full-grain leather and every carved pew boasts a fluffy seat pad to cushion the strain of religious devotion. It's elegant, classy, and luxe.

As was Reverend MacKenzie, an affable albeit reserved man in his mid-sixties with a firm handshake and natty wing tips under his ministerial robe. Direct and expedient, he asked about our thoughts on marriage—what we expected from it, what it meant to us—then scheduled another meeting for the month of May. No inappropriate sexual questions and no shady solicitation of funds. Just the facts.

The minute we exited the church Stephen was on a roll. “See what I mean? He's creepy.” But how creepy could the
guy be? His nails were clean and his breath smelled like Listerine. The minty kind.

L
ove is about compromise.

The day started with Stephen sending a dozen long-stem roses to my office. Then ended with the two of us at his favorite video arcade.
²⁹
We converted $30 into a bucket of quarters and went wild. He's sharp with the Kung Fu Kick Fighter II, but I can still whup his butt at Mission Control Stun Gun III.

Next Valentine's Day I'll be a WIFE.

I
cannot wear this hateful dress.

I must wear this hateful dress.

Thank goodness for friends.

Having heard about my disastrous wedding dress, Paula called to tell me about her friend Katrina—a clothing designer who's got her own studio in Greenwich Village. Apparently Katrina's agreed to take a look at Mom's dress and see if there's any way to redesign it. Who knows, I may end up with a custom wedding dress.

I
t seems I hold only two points of interest.

Either you're wondering why my engagement ring's not a diamond, or you want to know if I'll be keeping my last name. So what's my answer?

I DON'T KNOW!

I've been Amy Sarah Thomas for the last thirty years. It's not like it's some TV character I've been playing. It's my real-life identity. And getting married doesn't change that. But part of me likes the idea of sharing a name with Stephen. Sure I know that love is the tie that binds, but the same name can't hurt. And on a practical level, it will make things a lot easier—restaurant reservations, legal documents, airline tickets…

Then there's the whole hyphenate thing. Mrs. Amy Jacob-Jingleheimer-Schmidt. Stupid? Damn straight. Yet suddenly it makes a little more sense. You get to keep your identity while publicly declaring your relationship to your spouse. But Amy Sarah Thomas-Stewart? It sounds like roll call at a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant support group.

And it will never fit on a credit card.

K
atrina howled with laughter when she saw my dress. None of the giggles or titters generally reserved for velour cowl necks or outdated swimwear. No sir. My goddamn wedding dress brought down the house.

Coincidentally, my insomnia has returned.

A
nita loves the idea of having an Ecuadorian woodwind band at our wedding. “Finally a wedding band that doesn't play ‘Unforgettable.' ” Give me a little credit. “Unforgettable” won't be played at my wedding no matter who the band is. I'm more concerned with getting some classic seventies disco. But Anita's delight went beyond music. “You know, Ecuadorian men are really sexy. Great skin. I'm definitely going to want an introduction.”

Sure. What better reason to hire a wedding band than to procure dates for your friends?

Mandy, on the other hand, was horrified by the idea. “Those men in the subway? Playing at your
wedding
? This is a disaster! Do they even have waltzes in Ecuador? You can't do this! Their music doesn't have downbeats!”
³⁰

But what can I do? The music was the one thing Stephen really cared about. I'm making all the other decisions. Shouldn't he at least make this one? No matter how completely stupid it is?

I
called our photographer to arrange for a meeting. I wanted him to come see the church and my parents' house and talk with us about portraits. After all, doesn't he need to assess the lighting conditions?

Yes. But not now. It seems that winter is low-season for brutal crimes and fires, which means to a freelance newspaper photographer that times are tough. He's got to stay
glued to his police scanner in case something good—BAD—comes up. He'll get back to us in the spring.

S
tephen is planning to sue the city for his pothole injury.

After spending the last six years attending law school and failing the bar exam three times, Larry's finally a bona fide personal injury attorney. He has big plans to advertise his services on buses and public-access cable.
This
is the source of Stephen's decision to sue.

According to Larry, Stephen has a solid case: a wretched pothole, a police report, eyewitnesses—and thirty-six staples in his head.

Luckily Larry's graciously volunteered to represent Stephen free of charge. It's his
wedding present
to us.

Cheap bastard.

Meanwhile, Katrina's decided that it'll cost $500 to redesign my dress, and even then she can only promise that it will be “okay.”

Five hundred dollars for a dress that's “okay”? That's obscene. But what could I do? I
have
to wear this dress. It's my familial cross to bear. Besides, $500 is still cheaper than a new dress and I can use the extra money to rent a tent for the reception.

I gave Katrina my blessing. Cut the thing to shreds. My check's in the mail.