Diary of a Mad Bride (4 page)

I
showed my list to Stephen. After looking it over he felt confident that I'd remembered everything. And just as I suspected, he agrees that we should not, under any circumstances, allow our parents to get involved with the planning. Stephen's folks live only a few towns away from my parents upstate, so it's not like it'd be impossible for them to commute to the city and help. But where my parents can be overbearing, especially my mother, the Stewarts are just plain insane. That's Stephen's word, not mine.

Mr. Stewart owns an electrical repair company and Mrs. Stewart's an interior decorator with a passion for dogs—in particular, her little chow named Chuffy, whom she carries everywhere in her handbag. The Stewarts separated ten months ago after thirty-five years of marriage. Mr. Stewart now lives in a bachelor pad across town and is dating a woman with whom Stephen and his brother, Tom, went to high school. Perhaps “insane” doesn't really begin to capture
the family gestalt. In any event, we'll take their money with sincere gratitude, then handle all the details ourselves.

Actually, it looks like
I'll
be handling most of the details. Although I've been given the enviable responsibility of overseeing next fall's “Faces in the City” issue of
Round-Up
, Stephen's entire company is relying on him to complete production of a new software program by June so they can release it in September. He hasn't got a moment of free time. So he's agreed to let me handle all the wedding details—except the band, which he wants to choose. The only thing he asks is that the meal be “real.” He hates finger food.

Not a problem. I've got plenty of time, my trusty list, and an easygoing fiancé who I adore.

How hard can this be?

L
ittle Women
was on TV tonight. Overwhelmed with love, Professor Bhaer proposes to Jo in the pouring rain.

No movie theater, no concession stand, no artificial butter-flavored popcorn. Just romance.

I
t's my first mini-crisis. The Maid of Honor Dilemma. Mandy, Anita, or my sister, Nicole? It seems so small and insignificant a decision, but the more I think about this the bigger the problem gets. A misstep so early in the wedding process could seriously cripple my chances for smooth and
harmonious sailing, not to mention lay the foundation for years of bitterness and latent hostility.

I guess Nicole's the easiest to edge out since she didn't ask me to be her maid of honor, and honestly, we may be sisters but we're not that close. I mean, let's be real. She's Mr. Coffee and I'm a double espresso. Blood may be thicker than water, but unlike me, she'd know exactly what cleansing product to use to get it out of your carpet.

But Mandy or Anita? My yin or my yang? I'm not Mandy's maid of honor, and Anita will never have a maid of honor, since hell will freeze over before she ties the knot, so I can't use the “payback” principle. On a practical level, Mandy is better able to handle the responsibilities. After all, she is the repository of all wedding knowledge. And I doubt Anita even knows about bridal showers, let alone that it's the maid of honor's responsibility to throw one. But certainly a party spearheaded by Anita would be significantly more fun than the Stepford Wives luncheon Mandy's likely to pull together.

It's the difference between Sabrina the teenage witch and Buffy the vampire slayer. Neither is truly “right” for the job, but somebody's got to do it.

I
went over to Stephen's apartment last night to work on the wedding.

We decided on an evening ceremony with “festive attire,” which means sharp and elegant. Although Stephen and his best man will definitely wear tuxedos. After all, Stephen
is
the groom.

But it wasn't the planning that alarmed me that evening. It was his apartment. I've been there a hundred times since
we started dating. We've had meals there, entertained friends there, had sex in his bedroom, his bathroom, and on his kitchen floor. But this visit was different. This was the first time I ever really
looked
at his apartment. The apartment of the man with whom I am going to share my life and my living space. Sure, it's well-lit and fairly clean, but when did it get so TACKY?!

Is he going to keep that horrible plaid couch after we're married? Not to mention the light-blue toilet seat, the collection of plastic cups from his favorite sporting events, the neon bar sign that reads “HOT ICE,” and don't get me started on the entertainment center with the remotecontrolled doors.

Sure, these things were cute and fun when we were dating, but now that we're going to be sharing an apartment they're positively TERRIFYING. I can't live with a neon bar sign.

Never before have I thought about the concept of joint property. His stuff is my stuff and my stuff is his. By virtue of our marriage I practically own that entertainment center. What an awesome sense of culpability that brings. And whoever thought I'd be the proud owner of a vintage 1990
Playboy
magazine featuring Pamela Anderson as Playmate of the Year? On a brighter note, I also own the foot massager, the big-screen TV, and the framed Ansel Adams prints.

But the couch!

I
went two weeks, two TORTUROUS weeks, without telling anyone about my engagement because I felt it was important to tell my mother first, in person, at our monthly
family meal. After all, she
is
the one who gave me life. Did she not birth me? Did she not scream in agonizing labor for thirty-six hours so that I could come into existence?

I actually kept quiet about the most outrageous thing that's happened to me since my orgasmic one-night stand with the guy who played Tom Cruise's younger brother in that pirate movie. That's right. I slept with what's-his-name. But this was bigger. Better. The best news I've ever had, and I saved it for my dear sweet mother.

Who couldn't have been less enthusiastic if she'd been doped up on cough syrup.

Sure, she smiled. She hugged me. She told me how happy she was and how great she thinks Stephen is. But then she turned around and finished scrubbing the grout on the kitchen counter.

No champagne. No euphoria-induced prancing throughout the house. Just grout. Grout so clean you could perform invasive surgery on it.

Dad gave me a hug. A big generous hug followed by a litany of questions ranging from how it felt to be engaged to whether Stephen's family was planning on splitting the expenses.

And while Chet and Nicole congratulated me, there was none of the weeping hysteria I was expecting from classics like
Beaches
and
Steel Magnolias.

NICOLE

That's terrific. I'm really happy for the two of you.

ME

That's it?

That's our
femme à femme
bonding? Thirteen years I share a bedroom with you and that's all you've got to give?

NICOLE

What do you mean, “That's it?”

ME

I mean, here I am sharing some pretty incredible news. No, correct that. The
most
incredible news I've ever told you –

NICOLE

I don't know. Sleeping with the guy from the pirate movie was pretty cool.

ME

Cool, yes. Incredible? No!

CHET

What guy?

NICOLE

The one who played Tom Cruise's younger bro—

ME

Can we focus here? I'm getting married and all you can say is “I'm happy for you”?

NICOLE

Well, I am happy for you, Amy. Stephen's a really nice guy and I know you love each other. I guess I'm just a little surprised.

ME

By what?

NICOLE

By the fact that you're actually getting married. I've never thought of you as the marrying kind.

There it is. Here we go. The gloves are off.

ME

What's that supposed to mean? What's the marrying kind? And why am I not it?!

NICOLE

I just can't imagine you settling down with one person.

CHET

Did you and Stephen consider living together first?

ME

Yeah, but we decided to get
married
instead.

Thank God Stephen was sick with the flu and didn't witness this delightful family tableau.

NICOLE

I didn't mean it as an insult. I just meant that some people seem better suited to marriage than others. Maybe that's just a part of your personality that I'm not aware of.

ME

How could you not be aware of that? Even Mandy's mealymouthed fiancé, Jon, knows that I'm the marrying kind. He thinks it's a great idea!

CHET

Jon, the guy you said had the IQ of dog shit on a stick?

ME

Yeah, Chet. That's the one. And by the way, thanks for listening.

I can't believe this! Chet is a Social Studies teacher at the neighborhood junior high. Nicole is a paralegal for a local law firm. They
are
Ward and June Cleaver. So why are they advising me to live with Stephen instead of marrying him? My head began to spin and for the first time in my life I literally could not speak.

Why wasn't my family happy for me? Was I expecting too much? Or did they know something I didn't? Had I jumped too quickly? Was I making a mistake?

My palms were suddenly cold and clammy, and as I walked to the living room, I realized that my feet had gone numb. Thank God Gram was sitting on the sofa.

GRAM

I heard the exciting news. How wonderful!

Gram moved in with my parents after my grandfather died two years ago. It seemed the natural thing for her to do. Once a large, regal woman who had won a slew of tennis trophies, she had gracefully shrunk to become a silver-haired septuagenarian who insists that she's 5'5” although we all know she's 5'2”. My only surviving grandparent, she has always been my favorite.

GRAM

Your Stephen's an absolute doll.

ME

Thanks, Gram. That means a lot to me.

GRAM

He's so dark and handsome. Just like Clark Gable.

ME

No, Gram. That was Jeremy. Stephen's shorter. Lighter hair. You know, more of a runner's build.

GRAM

The Dan Quayle look-alike?

ME

Dan Quayle?

GRAM

A little around the face, but it doesn't matter. Come here. Let me give you a big Grandma hug.

And just then, as she stood up from her armchair to give me a hug, she tripped over the television cord and fell to the ground. It was pretty horrifying. She didn't scream too much, but it was clear from her expression that she was in excruciating pain. The whole family had to carry her back to the sofa. And while nothing was broken, she must have smacked her head on the ground, because she kept complaining of a ringing in her ears. We spent the rest of the evening bringing her tea and adjusting her pillows.

All because she wanted to give me a congratulatory hug.

Now,
that's
the spirit.

I
just couldn't contain myself. The moment I got back from upstate I had to call everyone. Sure, it was 11:45
P.M.
, but good news is good news no matter when you get it. And wouldn't my dearest friends want to hear my good news regardless of what time it was?

—Hey, Mandy.

—It's a quarter to twelve.

—Yeah, at night. Listen, I'm sorry to wake you, but I've got great news to tell you.

—No, actually it can't wait. If it could wait, I wouldn't be calling you at midnight, now would I?

—I'm
not
getting testy. Just listen to me. Stephen and I are getting married. Isn't that wonderful?

—No, we haven't set a date yet.

—Of course I remember that your wedding is on September 20th. You call me every friggin' day about it.

—Do you really think that I would schedule my wedding on the same day as yours?

—What's that? What's Jon saying? Oh, just put him on the phone.

—Yeah, that's right, Jon. You found me out. All the single girls just say they like being single. Boy are you clever. So listen, tell Mandy to call me tomorrow. And Jon, it's been a real pleasure sharing this intimate moment with you.

M
andy called me back at 7
A.M.
this morning. She apologized for being so sleepy last night, then got all crazy with excitement—but not before verifying that my getting married would not in any way conflict with my duties as her bridesmaid or interfere with her wedding. Clearly she's experiencing difficulty focusing beyond her own existence.

Freak.

We spent the next hour giggling like idiots…until Mandy asked if I was going to keep my name.

Of course I'm going to keep my name. I've been Amy Sarah Thomas my whole life. To suddenly change my name to Amy Sarah Stewart seems as logical as changing it to Amy Groucho Marx. Besides, I'm not Mrs. Stewart. Mrs.
Stewart is some recently divorced eccentric from upstate New York who carries a dog named Chuffy in her purse. I'm Ms. Thomas, a fast-rising magazine editor.

I
've spent the entire weekend calling people about the engagement. It's been educational. Just when you thought it was safe to divide the population into those who shave and those who wax, there appears a whole new criterion—those who can successfully feign enthusiasm and those who can't.

I just assumed that everyone would be delighted. After all, doesn't it signify my happiness and shouldn't that please my friends? Apparently not. People I figured would be mildly pleased were overwhelmed with joy and emotion, and those who I was certain would be elated weren't.

And I will never in my entire life forget who those people were. Yes, that
is
a threat. And a promise.

ANITA

Married? But why? You've always been so anti-marriage.

ME

I'm not anti-marriage.

ANITA

Sure you are. You're the poster child for non-legally-binding unions. You abhor blood tests. Shirk at the thought of wearing white. And you Krazy Glued your toilet seat down.

ME

Is this some deeply coded way of congratulating me?

ANITA

Oh, screw congratulations. Of course I'm happy for you. Stephen's a major piece of ass
and
he's got a sense of humor. Just as long as you're certain this is what you want.

Why would she ask such a thing?