Diary of a Mad Bride: A Novel - Couverture souple

PREFACE

june 26th

My best friend, Mandy, is getting married, and no one is suffering more than my secretary, Kate.

Kate

“I‘m an administrative assistant. Not a security guard.”

Me

“And I appreciate everything you do for me. Didn‘t I get you that gift certificate from Saks last Christmas?”

Kate

“Macy‘s.”

Don’t be fooled. The Macy’s in Manhattan is really nice. It’s their FLAGSHIP store. She was just angling for sympathy.

Me

“Whatever you say. But I can‘t talk to Mandy right now. Just take a message.”

Kate

“I already did that. Six times.”

Me

“What‘d she say?”

Kate

“Urgent Call me.”

Me

“It’s a bluff. Tell her I’m in a meeting.”
Kate

“That’s what I said the first time she called.”

Me

“I’m in the ladies’ room.”

Kate

“Used it twice. Once more and we’ll be saying urinary tract infection.”

Me

“Hey, that’s a..”

Kate

“Forget it. I have my pride.”

Me

“All right. Put her through. But if I’m not off the phone in three minutes call my other line.”

Kate

“You know, this wasn‘t in my job description.”

Technically an argument could be made against this comment. One of the nice things about working for a big corporation like Hind Publications is the way the employment contracts use broad, undefined terms such as “general support, , thus leading the way for grand abuses of power like the one you’re seeing here.

Kate struts out of my office. I wish I could go with her. Instead I pick up the phone.

Me

“Hi, Mandy. What’s going on?”

Mandy

“Just the usual bridal nightmares.”

Me

“What nightmares? You found the guy. He found you. In just three months it’ll be eternal bliss”

Mandy

“Three months and two days.”

Me

“Like I said . . . Now relax and enjoy yourself.”

Mandy

“Oh, you couldn’t possibly understand, Amy. You’ve never been married.”

Me

“Then why’d you call me?”

Mandy

“What?”

Me

“Never mind. Just tell your spinster friend what’s ailing you.”

Mandy

“You’re mocking me. Don’t mock me.”

Me

“I’m not mocking you.”

I was totally mocking her.

Suddenly there’s loud sniffling on the other end of the phone.

Me

“Don’t cry, Mandy. Everything’s going to be okay.”

That’s right. Throw me a huge party, buy me an expensive dress, make me the center of attention, and to top it all off, shower me with gifts of my choosing, and I’ll cry too.

Mandy

“I’m just so tired. Today the florist called to say that her original quote on Holland tulips was under by fifteen-point-seven-eight percent.”

Me

“Wow! Fifteen-point-seven-eight percent? How’d you even figure out how much that was?”

The sniffles become sobs. Did I say the wrong thing? My other phone begins to ring. Kate’s just earned a pay raise.

Me

“Oops, there’s my other line. I’ve gotta go. Just remember this is about you and Jon getting married. That’s all that matters.”

Mandy

“But the tulips are an integral part of our floral concept.”

Me

“We’ll talk soon!”

I hang up. I know I should feel guilty, but all I feel is relief. Moments later Kate returns to my office with a scowl.

Kate

“We both know she’s calling back in an hour.”

Kate So young. So wise.

Me

“You’re probably right. Now tell me why getting married turns normal people into total freaks?”

Kate

“Don’t ask me, Ms. Thomas. I’m not married.”

Me

“That’s why I like you, Kate.”

That, and the fact that I love being called “Ms. Thomas", even if it is by a twenty-one-year-old who has a Backstreet Boys screen saver on her computer.


It’s true and you know it. People who are about to be married magically transform into raging narcissists. They’re like those robot dolls we had as kids. The ones that transformed from a human to a car to a prehistoric animal. Well, put a veil and a string of pearls on one of those T-Rexes and you’ve got yourself a bride-to-be whose personal evolution is powerful enough to sweep every living man, woman, and child into its turmoil. And that’s not malicious. Just fact.

Trust me. I know.

Mandy’s asked me to be a bridesmaid at her wedding this September. On a certain level it’s flattering. She’s been one of my closest friends since sophomore year in college. Stunning, determined and extremely high maintenance she’s the only person I’ve ever known who arranged her clothes by season. It’s an odd mix of awe and incredulity that seals our friendship.

But now the terms of that friendship dictate that I appear at her nuptial soiree in a yellow satin dress with an empire waistline. Mandy has convinced herself that the “buttercup” color and the empire waistline are a subtle yet elegant interpretation of Camelot-era gowns.

That’s Camelot as in Sir Arthur, not Jackie O.

Yeah, right.

First off, the fabric may be called “buttercup,” but it’s really “pucker-mouth lemon ,” like cheap mustard at picnics and ballparks. Or New York City taxicabs. And only young girls with eating disorders look elegant in empire
waistlines. The rest of us look pregnant and dumpy. So you can forget Camelot.

But I’ll wear it and smile. Because Mandy loves it and I love her.

Besides, I’m secure enough to appear in public as a livery vehicle. I’m an attractive twenty-nine-year-old brunette. I’ve even been told that I look like Julia Roberts. The Size 10 version. But shorter. With smaller boobs. So for one day I can endure the shame and humiliation of joining seven other women in pucker-mouth lemon dresses as we cruise down Mandy’s wedding aisle to the tune of three hundred bucks a pop.

Oh, did I forget to mention that part?

And the spewing wallet doesn’t stop there. There’s still the engagement gift, the shower gift, the wedding gift it all adds up. Then there are the eight groomsmen who have to buy suits or top hats or full-body armor (I’ve been too afraid to ask). Not to mention the 250 guests she’s invited to share in this intimate event, which she’s been painstakingly planning for twelve long and laborious months . . .

People always say you don’t have to bring a gift to the engagement party. They’re lying. They never forget who brought what and who showed up empty-handed. The first person who told me engagement gifts weren’t expected is still waiting by the mailbox for my present to arrive. That was four years ago. She stopped speaking to me after two. But I don’t care. I’m not sending it on principle: liars really tick me off.

I sound callous. I hate that, because I’m not. In fact, I try to be as patient and understanding as possible. I try to remember, as Mandy constantly reminds me, that I’ve never been through this. I really don’t know what it feels like to endure the tumultuous storms that mysteriously accompany weddings. I try to remember that all those insane brides used to be my thoughtful, intelligent, truly enjoyable friends. Women I loved being with. The whole “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” doo-doo.

But it’s difficult. It’s like they’ve been stricken with some Mad Bride Disease. And it’s not their fault”it’s the diet powder they’ve turned to in a desperate attempt to shed those extra ten pounds that they’ve failed to lose for the last thirty years.

Yet not for a second do I begrudge them their happiness or their hysteria. I’m thrilled they’ve found soul mates, partners, whipping boys, playthings . . . Heck, life’s hard. A spouse is an invaluable bonus. No one prepares us for the lonely weekends watching mediocre TV, wishing we had something better to do. Sure, I’ve got a great boyfriend and terrific friends. But boyfriends come and go and friends make other plans. A spouse is always on-call. You can stay at home and do nothing, because you’re doing it together.

But enough is enough. These days every time the phone rings it’s another person calling to say she’s getting married. They’re bursting with excitement, spewing from the mouth, as their joy overfloweth for hours and hours and hours . . . Wedding dates, seating charts, flowers, registries, hors d’oeuvres, and gifts. Next they’ll be calling about babies and twins and in-vitro fertilization. Hours of birthing details. Placentas, epidurals, and tearing. Do they have to talk about the tearing? Then it’ll be Little League and Cub Scouts and car pools and extramarital affairs and couples therapy and divorce court . . . Soon I’ll have to get a second phone just to order Chinese food!

Breathe. I must remember to breathe.

The thing that I really don’t understand is the whole desperation to marry. I wasn’t one of those little girls who sat around and fantasized about my wedding dress. I didn’t know how I’d wear my hair or what type of flowers I’d hold. And I certainly didn’t have visions of myself floating down the aisle as hundreds of guests quietly weep into handkerchiefs while whispering in hushed tones about my exquisite beauty. My remarkable poise. My stellar choice of veil.

In fact, I pretty much assumed I’d never get married. I mean, why bother? I’m not religious. My family doesn’t really care. And I have a sister who made it clear from infancy that she intended to lead the most June Cleaver existence possible, thereby assuring my family of at least one joyful nuptial.

I still remember the first week of college, when a girl in my literature class told me in all seriousness that college was our last chance to find a husband. According to her it was the last time we’d be in an environment with an abundance of men of the appropriate age, educational background, and financial strata. I was horrified. Here was an intelligent, good-looking, very young woman declaring that her main goal in college was to meet a mate. The degree she was getting in macrobiology? Merely a footnote. College was simply an episode of The Dating Game honed to its sharpest point.

By junior year she was engaged to a guy with chronic dandruff and a history of kleptomania. She liked his sense of humor and thought his love of tennis would make him a good dad. She stopped talking to her friends and socialized exclusively with his. They were married two years later. I’m no devil-worshiping Satanist, but I just don’t get it. Wasn’t the whole point about birth control to liberate us from these shackles of dependency? Isn’t that why we had the 1970s? Wasn’t that why halter tops were invented?

And it’s not like I’m “out of touch. As the Associate Features Editor of Round-Up magazine, it’s my job to know what people in New York are thinking and doing. And not just the Donald Trumps and models of the moment. But real people who worry about public school violence and look forward to eating hot zeppoli at the next street fair. In fact, I’m so “in touch” that I’ve been appointed editor of next year’s “Faces in the City” issue. So I know weddings are important and meaningful events. I just don’t understand why they diminish my girlfriends’ capacity for rational thought, increase their ability to cry tenfold, and entirely vanquish their fashion IQ. I mean, for God’s sake, I look like a taxicab with dyed-to-match shoes.

I think my sister, Nicole, innately understands my genetic inability to deal with marriage. Nicole, my vaguely younger sister, got married five years ago to her college sweetheart, Chet. A sincerely great guy. So storybook-touching it almost made me puke. But she was smart enough to plan the whole thing while I was backpacking through Europe. I returned just in time to slip into a pale pink spaghetti-strap dress and march down the aisle along with four of Nicole’s nearest and dearest girlfriends.

The photos from that day are beautiful. People are joyful and excited, and then there’s me. My eyeliner smeared into raccoon eyes and my pale pink dress so close to my skin tone that it looks like flesh.

Yeah, that’s me. I’m the haggard naked chick on the left.

Nicole knew what I’ve suspected for a very long time.

Weddings just aren’t my bag.

july 10th

We’re in Frutto di Sole, a little Italian restaurant in the West Village that we’ve been coming to since the day we graduated college. Small and cozy, it’s filled with checked tablecloths, cheap wine, and woven baskets of flour-dusted bread. Its owner, Rocco Marconi, a stocky old man with a Neapolitan accent, despite the fact that he’s from Bayside, Queens, calls our favorite table the one in the back near the fireplace the “Sirens” , table. He claims it’s because my girlfriends and I are so pretty. But I know it’s because we’re louder than most emergency vehicles. Which makes sense, because Frutto di Sole is where we toast promotions and curse unfaithful boyfriends. Where we celebrate birthdays and mourn birthdays. Depending on the year.

But tonight Mandy, Jon, Stephen, and I have come just to relax and spend time together. Something that’s been difficult to do since Mandy and Jon got engaged. Except it’s already 8:30 p.m. and Stephen’s late.

Mandy

“So we’ve decided that you and Stephen should get married.”

Here it comes. The international conspiracy of married people just itching to have you join their cult.

Me

“Like I’ve told you before, Stephen and I are happy with the way things are. Besides, I’m in no rush to get married. Maybe I’ll never get married.”

You should see them shudder when I use that one.

Jon

“Single women always say that.”

Did I mention that Jon’s a real ass? And that Mandy could have done a lot better if she hadn’t freaked out when she saw thirty approaching?

Me

“Well, some of us mean it.”

Mandy

“Of course you do. It’s just that you and Stephen have been going out for almost a year now. You guys are great together. He adores you and he’s gainfully employed. Why wouldn’t you get married?”

Me

“I’ve known the cashier at my dry cleaner for over a year now and he’s gainfully employed. Why don’t I marry him?”

Mandy

“Because Stephen’s in software development. It’s the plastics of the 21st century.”

Me

“You sound like your mother.”

Mandy

“Yes. And my mother’s a very smart woman. You’d be wise to follow her example.”

Mandy’s mother like her mother before her is a stickler for detail, a tyrant for tradition, and a devotee of Emily Post. Oh yeah, and she married the senior legal counsel for a huge conglomerate. Thankfully Mandy has broadened the example to include a career in real estate.

Me

“Well, you’re right about one thing. Stephen and I are happy. Things are perfect. So why screw it up by getting married?”

Jon

“It sounds like you’re in denial. No offense.”

Me

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would your telling me I’m in denial offend me, Jon? On the contrary, it strengthens my belief that married people push single people to wed because they’re uncomfortable with their own decision to devote themselves exclusively to one person for the rest of their lives.”

That’s right, Jon. Smell the coffee. No more Winona Ryder fantasies for you, ...

Once I was a sane, levelheaded professional woman. Then I said “yes.” Now I am the lunatic bride I always made fun of!

What is it about getting married that turns normal people into total freaks?

A savvy, riotously funny novel, Diary of a Mad Bride is for anyone who has ever been a bride, is about to become a bride, yearned to be a bride, or suffered the sheer indignity of appearing in public in the world’s ugliest bridesmaid dress....

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? The voices chronicling a year of wedding hysteria swirled in my head....

— My grandmother upon viewing my engagement ring:

“What do you mean he gave you an emerald! Diamonds are eternal, emeralds say, maybe five years.”

— My future father-in-law on the night of my engagement party:

“To a happy marriage and, if necessary, a painless divorce!”

— My best friend, 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.”

Would I survive this day after all....?