Diary of a Mad Bride

by Laura Wolf

  april 5th

  I took another sick day from work. And to be honest, I really do feel sick. I may have lost Stephen, but between the fine folks at Kraft and Mandy’s goody basket, I’ve eaten his weight in foodstuff. Unlike those thin girls who get depressed and can’t eat, I’m biologically driven to drown my sorrows in cheese dip.

  And for the record, I’ve officially forgone bathing for forty-eight hours. A fact that did not escape Anita when she came to my apartment—straight from the airport.

  ANITA

  Filthy really isn’t a good look for you.

  ME

  It’s part of my angry phase—I’m the anti-bride. Thanks for coming.

  She gave me a hug.

  ANITA

  I knew you couldn’t have one of those normal, repressed weddings. I knew you’d delve into hysterics.

  ME

  I didn’t delve. If anything, it was only a dabble. And it was wholly justified. He said I was a pain in the ass.

  Anita laughed.

  ME

  What are you laughing about?

  ANITA

  Nothing.

  Opening her suitcase, Anita removed an 8 × 10 glossy of Bobby Flax—the thirteen-year-old whose root-cellar recording was burning up the pop charts.

  ANITA

  Here. I thought this would cheer you up.

  Bobby had scribbled “Love Ya, Babe” in red ink.

  ANITA

  I know it’s not a solution to your immediate problem. But in four years he’ll be at his sexual peak. And those braces are coming off next summer.

  Anita poured us some cheap white wine she found in my refrigerator. I climbed back into bed.

  ANITA

  So, do you want to talk about it?

  ME

  It’s pretty simple. I was struggling, as usual, to plan our wedding and he was entirely unhelpful and unappreciative and unsympathetic. And then he said he didn’t realize he was marrying someone like “this” and that I was a turnoff!

  ANITA

  Harsh! What’d you do?

  ME

  I told him to go to hell, then I came back here and began my crusade of food and filth.

  ANITA

  Very mature.

  ME

  Thank you.

  Anita sipped her wine. It was clear she was trying to find a way to say something that I wouldn’t want to hear. After two false starts, she finally got it out.

  ANITA

  Look, I don’t mean to sound unsympathetic. And I certainly don’t like seeing you so upset. But on an intellectual level, as well as a personal level, I’ve always felt that matrimony was a losing proposition. Anything that involves monogamy is unnatural. We’re not supposed to be with one person forever. Even most married people aren’t with one person forever.

  I thought of Bianca Sheppard. And Donald Trump. And my cousin Paul who’d had a “mistress” for six years before anyone found out. Yes, Anita was definitely onto something. And it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It was simply a reality. People had urges. Why deny them? Just look at my sex dreams. Besides, I never wanted to get married. I never wanted to be a wife. I just wanted to love someone for longer than a calendar year.

  ME

  Maybe you’re right. Maybe canceling this wedding is the best thing that could happen to me. Stephen’s a wonderful guy, but do I really want to spend eternity with him? Especially now that I’ve gotten a glimpse of the future—me doing all the work, all the planning, and him sitting back and criticizing and…ohmygod!

  Unable to sit still, I jumped up and grabbed Anita by the shoulders.

  ME

  What was I thinking?! I don’t want to be married!

  ANITA

  Like I’ve always said, marriage is a societal ill.

  ME

  No wonder I’ve felt so miserable! I’ve been ill!

  It was as if I’d suddenly been released from some horrible burden and I could finally see sun peeking through the clouds. It was hope. It was freedom. It was my life reclaimed!

  ANITA

  Not to mention a total farce.

  ME

  You’re absolutely right!

  ANITA

  I know. Now get the hell out of this bed and make up with your fiancé.

  ME

  What?!

  ANITA

  You heard me. Shake a leg. You can’t get married without some sucker to say “I do.”

  ME

  But you just said marriage is a societal ill. You said it was a farce!

  ANITA

  It is. But I’ve never seen you so happy as when you’re with Stephen. So for you, I’m thinking maybe marriage won’t be so pathetic. Maybe.

  ME

  So you think I should get married?

  Anita averted her eyes and mumbled,

  ANITA

  Yeah. Just don’t tell anyone. Especially that troll Jon.

  I clutched her tightly to my bosom.

  ME

  Thank God! Because I really want to marry him!

  And before you could say “Hello, Sybil,” I was sobbing again.

  ME

  I miss him so much! I miss his tilted smile, and his laugh, and—

  ANITA

  I know, I know. You miss his smile, his laugh, his knobby knees—

  ME

  You think his knees are knobby?

  ANITA

  Forget I said it.

  I continued to cry.

  ME

  I wanna get married!

  Anita poured herself another glass of wine.

  ANITA

  Before you launch into your “I Love Stephen” show tunes, there’s something I need to say. He’s a fool for calling you a turnoff, and he’s got no business complaining about all the work you’ve done, but as far as his not helping goes—that’s your fault.

  Excuse me, but when did the Tough Love seminar start?

  ANITA

  You told him it’d be okay if he did nothing. You’re an enabler.

  I was so shocked that I stopped crying.

  Could I really be an enabler? It was like discovering I was tone-deaf. Or had really bad breath. If you hadn’t cringed the minute I opened my mouth, I never would have known.

  But what if Anita was right? Lord knows she’s right about Stephen being an idiot. Maybe I am responsible for this mess. And all for what? A wedding? Well, like Anita says, you can’t have a wedding without some sucker to say “I do.”

  But where’s my sucker?!!!

  ANITA

  Now please, mellow out. It’s just a wedding. You can always have another one.

  april 5th—11:30 P.M.

  What have I been thinking?! My fiancé’s petrified about losing his job and I pick fights with him about dishware and flowers. I abuse my position of authority and turn my secretary into a serf. I forget to call my favorite relative despite the fact that she’s got chronic health problems. I resent my mother for saddling me with the world’s ugliest wedding dress. And my own grandmother hates me. Stephen’s right! I have become a pain in the ass!

  Who still hasn’t found wedding shoes!

  I swore I’d never let my wedding get the best of me. New Year’s resolutions #s 4, 5, and 10. But suddenly here I am. My nerves are shot, I haven’t slept in months, and I’ve got the onset of back acne. Yick. Somewhere along the line I became what I’ve always hated –

  A BRIDE!

  So despite Anita’s pleas, now is not the time for me to “mellow out.” Now’s the time for me to tell Stephen how incredibly sorry I am for totally losing perspective, for being a pain in the ass, for enabling his bad behavior, and for jeopardizing the very thing that means the most to me—my love for him! Or more accurately—his love for me.

  From now on I keep my priorities straight and my head screwed on properly. I’m getting a clue. And buying a vowel. “A ‘u’ please, Vanna.” For under control.

  The hell with tropical flowers and unique presentations. Daisies, carnat
ions, and bud vases for all!

  But first, I need to get my fiancé back.

  april 6th

  I spent all night trying to figure out how to reconcile with Stephen—assuming he even wanted to, which looked unlikely, since our last exchange ended with me telling him to go to hell.

  But I had to try. Our Flower Shop Fallout had driven home how much I love him. Yes, he was insensitive, and yes, he was unappreciative, but for that I had to assume part of the blame.42 For in Stephen’s immortal words, I had become a real “pain in the ass.”

  And yet I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone. I was just too scared. What if he hung up? Or told me that it was over? It felt so odd—less than a week earlier this was someone to whom I could tell anything, and now I was literally too nervous to call him. So I decided to take a less direct approach.

  One that involved neither face-to-face contact nor linguistic interaction. In fact, the crux of my plan was rooted in his total absence.

  At eleven o’clock in the morning, when I was certain he’d be at work, I went to Stephen’s apartment. Using my key I let myself in, and hoping to convey the depth of my affection, put a vase full of daisies on top of his big-screen TV.

  After all, hadn’t he vehemently declared his appreciation for daisies?

  But in the middle of this heartfelt, conciliatory gesture I realized that unlike my apartment, which was littered with the remains of my bingeing bacchanal, Stephen’s apartment was positively tidy. Sure, men grieve in a different way, more machismo than melancholy, but a close inspection revealed that the garbage was void of sob-filled tissues, and stacks of our relationship mementos—amassed for grieving purposes—were nowhere to be found. It was like we’d never fought. And like I’d never existed.

  Stephen had already moved on.

  Faced with the obvious, I locked the apartment and slid the key under the door.

  I walked home. Over thirty-six blocks in the freezing cold, chiding myself for being so careless with something so precious. I had sabotaged my own happiness. Even Mandy could do nothing to save it. By the time I was opening my own apartment door I was too exhausted to cry.

  Or so I thought…

  Until I saw that my entire living room was filled with ginger blossoms. While I was putting daisies in Stephen’s living room, he—assuming I was at my office—was filling my living room with ginger blossoms.

  It was like “The Gift of the Magi.”

  Seconds later the phone rang. It was Stephen calling from his apartment. Daisies in his hand. I didn’t know where to start, so I just spewed. “The flowers are beautiful and you were right I have become a pain in the ass but I’ve been so overwhelmed and everything just seemed so important and I’m so sorry and—”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I love you so much. You’ve been terrific about handling all the wedding arrangements and I’ve been a complete dolt. I’ve been so wrapped up with work that I haven’t stopped to thank you. I never should have complained and I promise that I’ll deal with the wedding band, and Amy—you’re the biggest turn-on in the entire world.”

  Now, that’s what a girl likes to hear.

  * * *

  42 A fractional part—say, between one-fourth and one-third.

  april 6th—8 P.M.

  Considering my own emotional roller coaster, I feel like I should personally apologize to all the brides whom I mocked or ridiculed about their wedding hysteria.

  But time’s tight. And that could take all week. So I left an apology on Mandy’s answering machine. She can be symbolic of everyone I taunted. Besides, I mocked her the most. Whether she’s aware of it or not.

  april 7th

  I called Lucy today. Resolution #6—Call Lucy twice a month—has bitten the dust hard. It’s been over six weeks. I know she doesn’t hold it against me, she’s far too gracious. But I hold it against myself. Especially since a new problem concerning her sugar levels has landed her in the hospital twice since our last conversation. I tell myself that I don’t have enough time to call her. But that’s a lie. The truth is, I don’t make the time.

  As usual, Lucy was far more interested in hearing about my life than talking about her own. Aware that for Lucy, as a housebound woman obsessed with tabloid news, I often function like an issue of The National Enquirer, I did my best to recount the highs and lows of my life—including the infamous Flower Shop Fallout—with as much dramatic flair as possible.

  I was alarmed by how little embellishment was needed.

  april 8th

  Round two at the bridal registry.

  This time we had a hearty meal beforehand and wore sensible shoes. As for the plaid dishes, we compromised and decided to skip china altogether. Instead we’re registering for two sets of casual tableware. This way, if a piece breaks, we can afford to replace it.

  As for the rest of the registry, we made sure only to ask for things we’d really use. Have you noticed that every married couple has either a pasta machine or bread maker stuffed in the back of their kitchen cabinet? Used only once, if at all. And the cappuccino maker. Oh, please. Do you really see yourself slaving away over steamed milk when a cup of freshly brewed Colombian takes less than three minutes? Not to mention the fact that those cappuccino makers have about 1,005 parts, which need to be individually dismantled and cleaned after each use.

  But most important, we registered for gifts in every price range. When Bianca Sheppard got married the third time, she registered at Tiffany’s. The cheapest thing on her registry was a $125 sterling silver lemonade stirrer. I’m not kidding. I couldn’t afford to eat out for the next month. And I haven’t had lemonade since.

  april 10th

  I couldn’t wait to tell Mandy the great news.

  ME

  Great news! Stephen just told me that the Ecuadorian woodwind band is already booked on June 22nd!

  MANDY

  I know.

  ME

  What do you mean you know?

  MANDY

  They’ll be playing at my cousin Whitney’s birthday party in the Hamptons. You can thank me later.

  Wow. Sometimes Mandy’s really scary.

  april 11th

  Stephen must have told his mother that I was having difficulty finding a caterer, because Mrs. Stewart called me at 7:15 A.M. to offer some assistance. She recommended Betsy’s Banquets. I thanked her for her help, and meant it sincerely until she mentioned that Betsy’s Banquets caters for the Upstate Kennel Association. I’ve seen Mrs. Stewart feed Chuffy right off her plate too many times not to wonder if Betsy feeds the dogs or their owners. Or both.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against dogs. Heck, I saw Benji six times. But that doesn’t mean I want to eat his food.

  april 12th

  And people say I’m paranoid.

  Last night Stephen and I went upstate for dinner. The purpose of the evening was for us to bond as a family and to review some issues regarding the wedding reception.

  It was also the first time I’d seen Gram since her unfortunate dental incident with my Sacher torte.

  But the minute we arrived Gram was headed for the door with bingo chips in one hand and a wad of singles in the other. When I reminded her that the whole evening was designed to enable Stephen to get to know the family, she just laughed. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t need to be here for that. Besides, disappointment’s a hard thing to witness.”

  Excuse me?

  Then as she exited the house I distinctly heard her whisper in Stephen’s ear, “Too bad you didn’t marry up. Maybe next time.”

  Stephen just laughed. He says every family’s got a character and that Gram is ours. That’s a real embracing, nonjudgmental way of looking at things and it certainly makes me more comfortable about the idea of introducing him to my uncle Rudy, who believes excessive belching to be a sign of appreciation. But what Stephen doesn’t seem to understand is that Gram’s no character. She’s sharp as a tack.

  That’s not goofy talk she�
��s spouting, it’s venom.

  april 13th

  The Wedding Cake. The culinary representation of our nuptial love.

  It had better be REALLY good.

  Wedding cakes from caterers tend to look great but taste like cardboard. The caterers are assuming that by the end of the festivities your eyesight will be sharp but your taste buds will be catatonic from heavy drinking. In a perfect world I’d ask some gifted relative to bake us a towering tour de force of strawberry shortcake. But alas. My family specializes in Moist ’n Easy. The kind you microwave, not bake.

  So I called Bianca Sheppard. The cakes have been delicious at every one of her weddings. Moist, creamy, and beautiful. Bianca says she gets all her wedding cakes from Piece-A Cake down in Little Italy. And unlike her wedding dress recommendations, she swears Piece-A Cake is reasonably priced.

  Let’s hope so. Otherwise it’s my dear friend Sara Lee.

  april 14th

  We had an interoffice meeting today about the “Faces in the City” issue. My issue.

  In front of the entire staff I reviewed the progress we’ve made with our ten “Faces.” I discussed the focus of each profile and what our writers had come up with thus far. That Face #5, Ingrid Narez, an infamous performance artist from Spanish Harlem, had insisted on doing most of her interviews wearing an eyepiece and no shirt was of particular interest to everyone.

  After my formal presentation I took suggestions for the issue’s sidebars. Kate proposed a survey about employee satisfaction with bosses. On a scale of one to ten, 10 would be “highly satisfied” and 1 was “hoping for terminal illness.” Everyone laughed. Barry laughed the loudest.

  Nice. Real nice. Besides, she could have been referring to him.

  april 15th

  Finally we’re getting something accomplished!