Diary of a Mad Bride (5 page)

L
ast night was Stephen's turn to make the pilgrimage upstate and tell his family about our engagement. Considering his parents' acrimonious divorce he thought it would be best if he went alone. Reading between the lines—which in this case an illiterate could do—this means that his parents are still duking it out over their financial settlement, so the topic of marriage might not be met with the usual enthusiasm.

Judging by the migraine that Stephen's had since his return, I think he was right. Apparently Mrs. Stewart was so thrilled by the news that she fed Chuffy a fresh can of Beef Feast before dissolving into a deep depression. Her comment, “My son's getting married. I'm getting old,” set the tone for the evening. After putting his mother and Chuffy to bed, Stephen went across town to see his dad.

Mr. Stewart celebrated the news with a group hug: Stephen, himself, and Misty—Mr. Stewart's new girlfriend and Stephen's tenth-grade lab partner. Being wedged between his father's armpit and Misty's left breast was just
about all the happiness Stephen could take. But Misty insisted on a champagne toast. And though it's a gesture most clear-thinking adults would recognize as thoughtful and kind, Stephen was disgusted. He viewed it as Misty's self-serving attempt to ingratiate herself to the family, and specifically blames the champagne for his migraine.

And as the threesome drank champagne, Mr. Stewart made a toast. “To a happy marriage, and if necessary, a painless divorce!”

The minute he saw my jaw drop, Stephen knew he shouldn't have repeated it. I was livid. What kind of creep puts a divorce provision in the middle of a marriage toast?! But Stephen quickly reminded me that if I wanted to be pissed at his dad I'd have to take a number and get in line…behind him, his mom, his brother, and his sister. Apparently I have yet to earn my right to bitterness.

I met the Stewarts for the first time ten months ago. Mrs. Stewart had invited us to dinner so she and the rest of the family could meet me. Everyone was there, including Stephen's older brother, Tom, and his little sister, Kimberly.

It was a disaster. The entire family was completely nuts. Straight out of the Menendez family Christmas album. Mr. Stewart complained bitterly about the food, which Mrs. Stewart had made. Mrs. Stewart did her best to ignore him by spoon-feeding Chuffy at the table. Tom repeatedly told us how much smarter, better looking, and sexually active he is than his coworkers at the Xerox Corporation.
¹⁵
And Kimberly, who had recently graduated college and was about to start work at a local public-relations firm, was presented with a brand-new Honda Acccord.
A new car!!! When I graduated college my parents handed me a diploma and a debt-repayment schedule.

Kimberly was moved to tears. She had wanted a Camry.

The Stewarts announced their divorce two days later. I remember feeling relieved.

M
andy called me this evening in hysterics. She'd just come back from her parents' country club, where she's getting married. It turns out that the club won't allow their fancy chairs to be moved outside for the ceremony. They're available for the indoor reception, but they insist on using folding chairs
(Quelle horreur!)
out on the lawn. I tried to convince Mandy that it didn't matter. That no one was going to notice the chairs because she was going to be such a beautiful bride and there would be all those stunning Holland tulips to focus on and of course eight bridesmaids in “special”
buttercup
dresses. But it was no use. No matter what I said, Mandy continued to insist that folding chairs would make her ceremony look like an AA meeting in a church basement.

As a bride-to-be I tried desperately to look inside my soul and locate some empathy for Mandy and her disastrous plight.

But I couldn't.

W
ho proposes on a movie theater candy line?

Am I evil for being dissatisfied with my wedding proposal?

I
finally reached my great-aunt Lucy. She's eighty-five, lives in Wisconsin, and refuses to get Call Waiting. Technically she's my mom's second cousin once removed, but ever since I spent summer vacation with her when I was ten I've called her my great-aunt. She's the only relative I have who enjoys roller coasters, and at sixty-six she drove two hours to the Grand America amusement park so we could ride the “Devil's Pitchfork.” After parlaying her advanced age into repeatedly cutting the line, we rode it nine times and she won my undying affection.

Recently she's been confined to bed with a bevy of medical problems ranging from high blood pressure to poor circulation. I had hoped that news of my engagement might help to lift her spirits, and it did. She hooted, hollered, and no doubt terrified her neighbors with shrieks of delight. After demanding a front-row seat at the ceremony, a nimble dance partner, and the inside track on my bouquet toss, she vowed to attend.

And when she said that she hoped Stephen was worthy of me, I started to cry. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to me.

Now I really can't wait to get married.

I
don't want this wedding to be just about me and Stephen. I want it to be about everyone—our parents, our siblings, our friends. After all, I'm the last child in my family to marry and Stephen is the first. This isn't about two people. It's about two families.

I
told Kate about my engagement today. She met my news with a particularly frosty reception. When pressed, she admitted to her selfish feelings of anxiety. She didn't actually use the word “selfish,” but that's what it amounts to. Instead of congratulating me, or even mustering a fake smile, she CRINGED. I'm her boss, for Christ's sake. You'd think she'd at least be smart enough to suck up.

Instead she's choosing to focus on the negative impact my wedding could potentially have on her job. What my wedding will mean to
her.
I assured her that it would not impact her job in the least. At most, a few extra phone messages. And you can be damn sure I won't inconvenience her with an invitation to the event.

Thankfully, my boss, Mr. Spaulding, was a little more supportive. A little. At first he seemed more surprised than anything else. That's probably because we never discuss our private lives at work. All I know about Mr. Spaulding is what I can tell from his appearance: a man in his mid-sixties with a receding hairline who wears nice blue suits with gaudy ties because he thinks they make him seem hipper than he is. He used to wear a wedding ring and keep a picture of an attractive middle-aged woman on his desk.
Then one day the picture and the ring disappeared. A few weeks later someone tacked on the cafeteria bulletin board a photograph of him with an extremely young woman from the Society section of a suburban newspaper. I was sure he'd freak when he saw it. But no. He just smiled and re-tacked it straighter.

Okay, so I also know he's a big pathetic cliché. If our office building had a garage he'd be cruising around in a cherry-red Corvette with a license plate that read “Loaded.”

But Mr. Spaulding was decent about my engagement. After cautioning me not to use company time to plan my wedding, or to allow my wedding to interfere with my job—the monthly review and assignment of feature articles—or with my new appointment as editor of our annual “Faces in the City” issue, he gave me a hearty handshake and reminded me to request my honeymoon time as soon as possible. Of course I will. That's #3 on my list of Things to Do.

Do men get this much “counseling” when they announce their wedding at work?

I
had dinner with Suzy Parks tonight. It'd been months since we last spoke, so she hadn't heard about the engagement.

I met Suzy eight years ago at South Publishing when she was a junior-level editor in the Y.A. division. She hired me after a summer internship to be her assistant. That was back when I was still naïve enough to find book publishing attractive and glamorous. I quickly realized that only masochists and people with trust funds can survive in book publishing. Suzy is the first and has the second, so needless
to say she's done well for herself. She's moved up through the ranks and last year at age forty-two was appointed Senior V.P. of East Coast Publishing. We get together for dinner every few months to catch up and for her to admit to a secret fantasy of my returning to work as her assistant.

While Suzy respects my career choices, it seems that I'm the best “message taker” she's ever had.

But I don't mind. It's flattering, in an odd sort of way. After all, I consider Suzy to be my professional role model. Besides, she
always
picks up the check.

After an hour of chitchatting about our jobs, books we've read, movies we've seen, and dream vacations we'd take if she had the time and I had the money, I told her I was getting married.

Suzy fell silent, and before I knew it her eyes were welling with tears. Now we're talking! This is the type of reaction I expected from all my friends.

As her tears rolled down her cheeks and her nose began to run, she tried desperately to catch her breath and say something. But she couldn't. She was overwhelmed with emotion and I was amazed at the depth of her love and affection for me.

Then I started to get emotional. So much has happened over these last eight years. I remember back when Suzy used to dream of being a senior editor. And I used to dream of dating someone for longer than six weeks, and here I am getting married!

I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of kindness toward Suzy. I even considered answering her phones for a couple of days.

Suzy continued to cry. Her napkin was soaked. I gave her mine and when the tears showed no sign of stopping I signaled the waiter for more. He took one look at the river of
mucus flowing from Suzy's nose and raced to the stockroom. It occurred to me that Suzy must care more about me than I realized. That after all these years she'd come to look at me as a little sister rather than a friend.

But now I was starting to get worried. Okay, not so much worried as embarrassed. Suzy had progressed from tears to sobs to all-out hyperventilation, and people were beginning to stare. I didn't know what to do. I'd never seen anyone act like this, especially in public. She struggled to speak but her inability to breathe stood in her way. It was mortifying. I WAS MORTIFIED.

I began to pat Suzy's hand, the one not covered in mucus, and to assure her that there was no need to speak or to cry. That I was flattered by her reaction but that I didn't want her to hurt herself. Maybe we should talk about something else—

Did you know there's only a three-gene difference between humans and chimps?

Then through her sobs and drool Suzy managed to utter, “I can't believe you're getting married. Everyone's getting married except me. I'm going to be the last single person on the face of the planet. I will die alone!!!” She continued to sob. People tossed
me
accusing stares. I didn't know what to do. The maitre d' asked us to leave. We hadn't even finished our entrees. It occurred to me that what I'd mistaken for Suzy's love, good wishes, and affection had in fact been a complete nervous breakdown.

Then she made me split the bill.

Now I really was mortified.

S
tephen called his grandparents in New Jersey to tell them about our engagement. They were thrilled. He says they can't wait to meet me. Apparently, after being married since WWII, only to witness their daughter's marriage fall apart after thirty-five years and have her now ex-husband date a woman young enough to be his child, they view our marriage as a beacon of hope in a storm of a disintegrating generation. I am honored to oblige.