Diary of a Mad Bride

by Laura Wolf

  One thing’s for sure—I’m NEVER taking them off.

  june 21st

  TO: Backstabbing Barry

  FROM: Amy Thomas-Stewart

  MESSAGE: Kiss my ass!

  I was magnificent at the advertisers meeting. Featuring statements peppered with salacious details—the performance artist who delights in nudity, the reclusive novelist with the mysterious past—I eloquently discussed our ten profiles and held everyone’s attention from start to finish.

  That’s right, fellas, throw your advertising dollars our way, because this issue’s gonna sell out!

  And when the meeting was over Mr. Spaulding personally presented me with a wedding present from the magazine: a crystal picture frame from Tiffany’s. I was speechless and touched.47 I almost felt sorry that I’d decided not to invite any of my coworkers to the wedding.

  Racing to catch my train upstate, my arms filled with a change of clothes, shoes, and makeup, I felt like I was floating. I’d impressed the advertisers, pleased my boss, received a picture frame, and in less than twenty-four hours would be marrying a wonderful guy.

  But before leaving the office I called Human Resources and specifically requested that Fabrizio, the Sondheim fanatic and Barry’s least favorite temp, be hired on a permanent basis. I considered it a wedding gift to myself.

  Because I’d been unable to take the day off from work, the church rehearsal for my wedding took place without me. It seems that Gram magnanimously stood in for the bride. Analysis anyone? But according to Nicole the event took place without a hitch—except for Tom bickering with Mitch and Larry about which one of them was the Best Man. Tom’s insistence that blood relations came before friends was countered with the announcement that Stephen didn’t even like Tom. My mother finally solved the dilemma with a round of “I’m Thinking of a Number.” Larry won. I’m certain it was rigged.

  The rehearsal dinner was held at the Mayflower Grill. Only a thirty-minute drive from my parents’ house, no one in my family had ever been there. Romantic and cozy, the restaurant was filled with heavy brocades. Mrs. Stewart herself had been the design consultant. And while the menu featured traditional American food, I sincerely doubt that the Pilgrims ever paid $7.50 for an à la carte order of yams.

  The entire wedding party and both our immediate families were at the dinner. That included April, Stephen’s videographer cousin, who although still dressed exclusively in black had painted her fingernails blue for the occasion. And to my surprise, Gram was also in attendance. Clearly unwilling to miss a good meal, she commanded court from a distant corner, where it was reported she was nursing a sudden bronchial infection. Every toast mysteriously provoked a round of wheezing, followed by a meek apology for the interruption.

  I know everyone raved about the meal but I can’t remember what I ate. In fact, I was so consumed with excitement that I barely noticed the little things. Like the fact that someone had foolishly placed Mrs. Stewart within smacking distance of Misty, and that Jon complained about the wine being too dry.48 The entire evening just seemed magical. Even my mother’s toast, which started with “We never thought Amy was the marrying kind…” and ended with “She was just waiting for the right man to come along.”

  Amen.

  Stephen and I stayed side by side for the entire evening. I think seeing our families assembled like this, with our wedding party present and the clock ticking down, really drove home the fact that by tomorrow afternoon we’d be married. That the months of preparation, anxiety, fights, and excitement were all coming together. Not next month. Not next week. But tomorrow afternoon—despite the fact that our photographer never managed to see our site or check the lighting conditions. But it was too late to worry. We both knew that whatever was going to happen would happen. There was nothing we could do except hold each other’s hand.

  This is the last night I’ll go to sleep a single woman. And before climbing into the bottom bunk of my childhood bed, I called Lucy and told her how much I love her.

  * * *

  47 Actually, I was speechless and touched and mindful of the fact that it would require a trip to Tiffany’s in order to exchange. It’s really too fancy for us, and besides, we could REALLY use the cash.

  48 Proving once again that Jon is undeniably a horse’s ass.

  july 5th

  South Carolina was fabulous. Beaches, sun, and absolutely nothing to worry about. We woke up when we wanted, ate where we wanted, and wore what we wanted. Pure pleasure and love.

  Which is the way it should be. Actually, it’s the way the wedding should have been too. But it wasn’t—exactly.

  The night before the wedding a huge storm appeared from nowhere at 2 A.M. Despite our pricey tent, the 12 tables, 115 chairs, 3 serving stations, and the dance floor all went flying. All the work that my family, my bridesmaids, and Jeb had done that afternoon was lost. And to make matters worse, the wind was accompanied by rain, so everything that was originally white became black and muddy. My parents and I dragged everything inside,49 then watched in disbelief as the beige living room carpet, which had been shampooed the week before, turned a foul shade of gray.

  Annoyed with the mess and her hysterical bride-to-be daughter, my mom chose that moment to scold my father for not getting a haircut for the wedding. She ranted about how he looked like a hillbilly who’d been raised in the woods.50 And though my father protested that he’d been too busy retiling the downstairs bathroom to get to the barber, my mother would have none of it. At 3:26 A.M. she was cutting his hair with the kitchen shears as he sat on the closed toilet seat in his pajamas and a raincoat. By 3:30 A.M. he’d gone from a middle-aged hillbilly to a Cub Scout. An angry Cub Scout.

  Unable to stand another moment, I went to bed. This wedding had gone from my hands to my mother’s and now into fate’s. If the rain didn’t stop there was no way to fit a band, the dance floor, a buffet dinner, and 115 people inside my parents 1800-square-foot house. Needless to say, I cried myself to sleep.

  I woke up the next morning comforted by the sight of my childhood bedroom. Sure, it’s been converted into a den with a La-Z-Boy chair and a color television, but my bunk bed remains, as does my Shaun Cassidy poster on the wall. For a moment I imagined putting on my clogs and overalls and running to catch the school bus outside Jamie Mitchell’s house. Then it occurred to me that the light coming through the window was sun.

  I jumped up and looked outside. The chairs, dance floor, and serving stations had all been cleaned and restored. The tables were covered in linens and bud vases. Beautiful paper lanterns gracefully dangled from the trees. And some guys in low-riding jeans were bent over assembling a stage for the band. It was my wedding day. I looked in the mirror and smiled. Then noticed my first gray hair—a reminder of what a long, hard road it had been.51

  Mandy arrived a few minutes later with a light breakfast in hand. I opted to skip the meal. For the first time in my life I was indifferent to food. Besides, Mandy’s foot was tapping. We had less than ten minutes to get to the hairdresser’s, where we’d meet Anita and Nicole. Then the four of us would return to the house, change our clothes, and head over to the church to meet my family, Reverend Mackenzie, the guests, and, God willing, Stephen. Mandy had the whole thing planned out. She even borrowed her father’s brand-new Mercedes for the occasion—an “S Class.”

  Since my town’s not known for its upscale salons, my bridesmaids and I had to settle for appointments at Glamorous Lady, a local beauty shop that’s been coiffing my mother’s locks for the last fifteen years. And since she still has hair, I figured, how bad could they be? Besides, we’re simple women. No high-voltage electrical appliances would be required for our appointments.

  Unfortunately, “glamorous” is a subjective term.

  An hour later I was seated under a thermal-nuclear dryer hood, bearing the load of fifty-six rollers, struggling to comprehend how my beautician, Abigail, could possibly think a case full of curlers would in any way replicate the Gwyneth Paltrow hairsty
le depicted in the magazine clipping I’d given her.

  Meanwhile, Nicole, who’d resigned herself to looking like Annette Funicello in Beach Blanket Bingo, was desperately shielding herself from the geriatric assistant who was bombing her with Aqua Net. To her credit, Anita refused to allow anyone to touch her. After washing, towel-drying, and brushing her own hair, she used the remaining time to sniff my dryer hood for signs of singeing. And Mandy, who was supervising her beautician with an iron fist, finally lost her cool when the frustrated beautician resorted to subterfuge and tried to secretly slather Mandy’s up-do with a floral-scented mousse. I’m not sure who slapped whom first.

  Having officially destroyed my mother’s long-standing relationship with the Glamorous Lady salon, my bridal party and I raced home. Nicole looked like she was wearing a helmet, Mandy smelled like cheap hand soap, and I, fifty-six curlers later, could have done dinner theater as Shirley Temple. Anita just shook her head and said, “I told you so” as she desperately pulled a wet comb through my curls.

  According to Mandy’s schedule we had exactly fifty-five minutes to make me look like a bride, then an hour to get to the church. After a frantic search for an AWOL shoe, Nicole steamed my wedding dress, Anita pinned yellow roses in my hair, and Mandy did my makeup: “Daytime Elegant, for the subtle yet photogenic effect.” I then proceeded to rip three pairs of pantyhose without ever getting them above my knees.52 With one eye on the clock and the

  other on our last pair of hose, a frustrated Mandy sat me on her lap and put my pantyhose on for me.

  By one o’clock three stunning bridesmaids and one not-so-shabby rodeo bride were speeding toward the church in a borrowed Mercedes.

  By 1:05 I was physically ill.

  According to Anita, I looked washed out. According to Nicole, I looked like death. Nice. As Mandy casually cited nerves and stepped on the gas, beads of perspiration clustered in my cleavage and I began to shake. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten all day.

  Mandy was hysterical. “How could you not eat? I brought you breakfast! It was perfectly balanced for protein, carbohydrates, and fat!”

  Anita clutched her head. “Would you just shut up and find some food.”

  “She’s getting married in less than an hour. Where am I supposed to go? Arby’s?!”

  Just then Nicole’s Girl Scout survival skills kicked in. “Look! There’s a 7-Eleven on the next corner.” They don’t give proficiency badges to just anyone.

  Too panicked to argue, Mandy floored her father’s Mercedes into the 7-Eleven parking lot. As Anita bolted from the car Mandy yelled after her, “Only white food! There’s no way I’m letting her stain that horrible dress. Now hurry up!”

  Without looking back, Anita flipped Mandy the bird and raced into the store. Through the plate-glass window we watched customers stare with incredulity as the woman in stiletto heels and a sleeveless, ankle-length dress made of Asian nubby silk in an elegant cherub pink with a hint of silver sped past the porn aisle and rounded the Slurpee dispenser.

  Minutes later Anita returned to the car with a bag of popcorn, vanilla ice cream, and a loaf of Wonder bread. The Wonder bread was on the house—a wedding gift from the day manager, Raj it. Ravenously stuffing popcorn into my mouth, I began to feel my shakes disappeared and my color returned. Mandy flipped the key in the ignition. We had less than twenty minutes to make the thirty-minute trip to the church. There was only one problem. The car wouldn’t start. Mr. Alexander’s $90,000 S Class engine was dead.

  Mandy banged on the steering wheel. “I’m going to sue those bastards at Mercedes-Benz! Then I’m going to kill the guy who sold this piece of junk to my father. And I’m going to shoot his mechanic and…”

  As Mandy planned her hit list Anita ran to the pay phone to call a cab. Nicole looked at me, knowing full well that our town has three taxicabs, only one of which worked on Saturday. “Jeez, you’d think this wedding was cursed or something.”

  Nice. Real nice.

  The clock was ticking. My wedding was starting in less than twenty minutes, and I was stuck in a 7-Eleven parking lot with popcorn kernels wedged in my gums and vanilla ice cream melting on my dress. It was a disaster too large to comprehend. After an agonizing year spent planning my wedding, could it really end like this?

  Was this what the wedding-shoe search, the venue hunt, the Barry fights, the Kate debacle, the band crisis, the Louise scare, the dress disaster, the invitation rush, the pastor pursuit, and the near-collapse of my relationship with Stephen had all been for?

  And just as I began to lose my mind, HE appeared.

  Like a knight in shining armor, Rajit—7-Eleven Day Manager Supreme—stood at my window with a look of genuine concern on his face. “Are you having trouble with the car?”

  It was all Mandy needed. “Those bastards at Mercedes stuck us with a lemon and—”

  Rajit calmly raised his hand. “I understand. If you want, I will leave the stock boy in charge and give you a ride to your church. My car is parked in back.”

  We were never so happy to see a 1987 Mazda Miata in our lives. As my three stunning bridesmaids wedged themselves into the nonexistent backseat, I sat alongside Rajit as he broke speed limits through four towns to arrive at United Presbyterian Church in record time. We were eight minutes late for the ceremony.

  While my mother frantically accosted me, and my bridesmaids dragged our bags into the church, I begged Rajit to come in for the ceremony. But he refused. Someone had to mind the frankfurter wheel. And before you could say “Big Gulp to go,” he was gone.

  Seconds later I was hustled into the church foyer, bombarded with mood-altering substances—a Valium from Mandy and a shot of Jagermeister from Anita. Already anesthetized by euphoria and fear, I refused both. So Nicole took them. Then off I went with something old (my mother’s dress), something new (my shoes), something borrowed (Mandy’s ruby earrings), and something blue (Lucy’s barrette). I felt like I was dreaming. Even my horrible dress didn’t seem so horrible anymore.53 And the yellow roses that Anita pinned in my hair looked beautiful. Probably better than that comb would have, since truth be told, it really was a toddler’s tiara. But I’ll never admit that to Anita. Or Mrs. Cho. How embarrassing.

  As I moved down the aisle, flanked on either side by my parents,54 the members of Diggity Dog treated us to a moving interpretation of “Greensleeves.”

  And from there on it’s a blur.

  I remember that instead of a tuxedo Tom was wearing a blue sharkskin suit,55 that my parents were crying,56 that Gram had positioned herself at the center of the front pew, and that some skinny guy was running around taking photos of me. It was our infamous photographer whom we’d never met.

  Before you knew it I was telling Reverend MacKenzie that “I do” and Stephen was flashing his beautiful tilted smile while slipping a wedding band onto my sticky vanilla ice-cream finger.

  At the reception Diggity Dog played everything from classical music to funk. And upon the bride’s request they played a kick-ass version of “Brick House.”

  While our guests enjoyed themselves Stephen and I spent most of the afternoon shaking our guests’ hands and thanking people for coming. Yes, it was overwhelming, but it did give us a chance to meet Pablo, who was surprisingly nice—and nothing like Chet. He’s witty, gregarious, and four years younger than Nicole. He’s also generous. We’re getting free HBO as our wedding gift.

  We also got to meet our photographer, finally. Thankfully he was festively attired, professional, and sober. Although he did take his photos with an abundance of urgency, as if he were dodging a sniper’s bullets.

  As for the food, our chicken buffet was delicious and the cake was divine. Or so I’m told. Stoned out of his mind, Jeb had three slices.

  I think Mitch and Larry were also stoned, or maybe just drunk, because after striking out with all the single women in their twenties they hit on April, who despite her Goth attitude and quasifeminist beliefs found them fascinating. Ah, to be nineteen ag
ain. Maybe she was the one who was drunk. Needless to say, Larry and Mitch are prominently featured throughout our wedding video, as is the classic moment of Anita hip-checking Stephen’s sister, Kim, across the dance floor.

  Apparently there were several classic moments I wasn’t aware of. Gram discovering Reverend MacKenzie peeing behind my parents’ garage, someone slipping a glass of New York chardonnay into Chuffy’s water bowl, and my former boss, Suzy Parker, the “mad weeper,” meeting Hans Lindstrom. According to Mrs. Stewart, they’ve been dating ever since.

  And Mrs. Stewart didn’t do too poorly herself. She danced for hours, exchanged family anecdotes with my parents, and by the end of the reception had agreed to go on a singles’ cruise with my cousin Lydia. Love was in the air.

  But when the time came for my bouquet toss, it was the Repeat Offender herself, the current Mrs. Bianca Carson, who caught it. You should have seen the look of horror on Mr. Carson’s face. That’s when I knew it was time to call it a night.

  Stephen and I piled into Pablo’s car with Nicole and headed for our bridal room at a local bed-and-breakfast. Imagine our surprise when Pablo drove past the B & B and got on the highway. It turned out that Mr. Stewart had booked us a suite at a luxury mountain resort located twenty miles away. It was an incredibly magnanimous gesture—and it was all Misty’s idea. Who knew?

  The next afternoon we were on a plane to South Carolina for much-needed rest. Days on the beach. And nights under a cloudless sky that extended forever.

  We also took a moment to write a few postcards: