Ladies and Gentlemen:
Please forgive my love offering to my beloved, our friends and family. Each time we look at your smiles, and your dancing, we cry tears of sheer joy and gratitude. For you and for your love and support of us.
Your presence will always be a blessing in our lives.
SOB sent the last of the pictures of POB’s and my honeymoon. (You remember, the one she and HOSOB took for us, because it was the least they could do to celebrate our wedding.)
Mais, revenons à notre voyage de noces en France.
1. Police demonstration about safety and what a crashed car looks like. This was in front of the Opera. SOB noted that MOB would have enjoyed it and been proud of the public service message. MOB would have taken a picture of it. So if MOB had been alive, SOB would have taken a picture of MOB’s taking a picture of this scene. And, thus, SOB needed to take this picture. Genes, they cannot be denied their expression. It is almost mathematical in that quod erat demonstrandum type of way. The origins of whatever “osis” I have (as in neurosis, psychosis, etc.) is becoming clearer. . . .
2. French people waiting in line at what has a remarkable resemblance to anyone of those gross food trucks roaming New York City, except that they are chic people waiting to eat their croissants. Chacun à son goût, mais: a roach coach is a roach coach is a roach coach (with apologies — maybe not — to Nazi collaborator Gertrude Stein)
What an awesome honeymoon. Thanks, SOB and HOSOB. We couldn’t have had it without you . . . .
The stories have been told and retold among us that they are canon. If someone misses a key detail, a Soeur who was not even there at the original event will chime in a correction. Yep, we all remember that we were all there (wherever “there” was) — all nine of us. We were all in the coat closet when, just after college, Mi Casa Es Su was scamming with he-who-shall-not-be-named?
Sidebar: Mi Casa Es Su also had a tag line in college, “so many men, so little time.” Just sayin’.
Our memories are that collective. CTFOB had pneumonia (nearly so) but had to go to a frat party to see a guy she liked. We told her to rest, but she insisted: “I’d have them wheel me into that place in an iron lung!”
I remember being turned back from the Canadian border on a ride to get Bradoors. NYCFOB, Mighty and two Soeurs who don’t yet have sub-category names [Sidebar: JT and HH, YOU HAVE TO COMMENT, GIRLS and then you can choose your “handle”] were REALLY on the expedition. But twenty-odd years later when we were re-uning in New York during the Winter Olympics, we all stood up in the hotel room and sang the Canadian national anthem, just as we (or they) did all those years ago for the border guards.
Mighty has these long tapered fingers and long nails. When she pointed her index finger at you in an up-and-down motion, you had to spill your guts to the group because she detected you were hiding serious good gossip. She used to have to say, “if you want to dance, you have to pay the fiddler,” but after a while, just the finger motion was enough.
Didn’t we all fall asleep in the snow outside ΑΔ fraternity only to be saved by mystery man? [Oh, hiiiiiiii, JT and NYCFOB.]
And which of us had crushes on Boring Tall Man and Tall Boring Man (different people)? I remember!!! JKGB (another Soeur who needs a subcategory name) had a crush on Tall Boring Man who was a grad student who hung out at the undergraduate library. She wore electric plaid pants (on a diagonal) in a sytlistic send-up to the uber-prep.
And then there was Tie Man who used to get drunk and ask people to talk into his tie. He had a thing for CTFOB.
JT was perpetually on the latest fad diet and I joined her on one and fainted a few times. (NYCFOB has my fat pictures, and if anything should happen to her, those pictures will go to Woodward and Bernstein). JT also had a thing for ΒΘΠ frat jocks. They wore boxers that were longer than their outer shorts. They also had a rare disease, U-trou-creep-up-ium, coined by NYCFOB and CTFOB.
CAFOB, who is rock solid and an old soul, did have that period during which she went from computer star to capturing essence of North Star. We are grateful that she found balance in between. And she has been our counselor and sage all these years.
HH, did you really, really think you would avoid mention? HH is a Soeur who has opened her home and heart to those of us who have had a long journey to adulthood. Gentle HH, a Soeur who judged, if at all, out of earshot. And whose husband diagnosed the Chuppah problems at the wedding. The challenges, losses and happiness of her life made this gentle spirit more gentle and more accepting. And forgiving of me and accepting the true friendship that I can offer all these years later.
So here we are: CAFOB, CTFOB, NYCFOB, Mighty, Mi Casa Es Su, JKGB, HH, JT and Blogger. For 31 years.
At the wedding, we had to have a picture, just us. No one else, so no need to worry about someone being in the photo-croppable position should a relationship not work out. We are bound by love, by time, by a secret handshake and by crazy stories.
Sidebar: I mean STORIES, like driving on a dark road when a dog that bit a deer, staying at the Norman Bates Motel and the rodeo hotel (because the neighbors next door), the time JT had a terrible “flu” or so we told her younger sister who was visiting when she asked why I was holding a trash can near JT’s head and propping her forward or my “fat” pictures which the Soeurs will admit to only under oath (or if NYCFOB goes missing).
When I thanked Mi Casa Es Su for schlepping across the country after chaperoning her child’s class trip to Yosemite until Friday, only to turn around and pack and fly to New York on Saturday, she said, “I wouldn’t miss this, are you kidding?”
Sidebar: POB made sure the band played this for us because I have told her about Mighty’s happy keds many times.
We are nine. We are an amoeba. We are separate yet we are one. Discuss.
Mighty (a Soeur of Blogger) gave me a hankerchief to hold during the wedding ceremony.
I really needed it when the rabbi mentioned our mothers being with us in spirit, and most especially during the reading of the Ketubah. For the wedding contract, it is customary to refer to the betrothed in relation to her parents, as in:
“[Blogger], daughter of [MOB] of blessed memory and [DOB]”.
Of blessed memory. Only here in spirit. Only cosmic tears of joys from MOB on her daughter’s wedding day because she is of blessed memory.
POB didn’t want to have a picture of her mom out during the reception, so I didn’t have one of MOB. But SOB promised to bring the portable shrine to our mother, in case we needed to reflect and weep.
I thought about MOB all day and just knowing that the portable shrine was in the room made me fine without needing to look, touch and feel the pictures of MOB.
Of blessed memory. Gone but never forgotten.
There were many people giving orders and not enough people listening when it came to the chuppah rehearsal:
SOPOB didn’t arrive early enough for the rehearsal and BOB almost came to blows with Y of N&Y over proper pole holding technique.
And then the chuppah sagged during the ceremony.
Now, HOSOB and BOB are thinking about a class action suit for shoulder-related injuries arising from SOPOB’s failure to hold up her pole properly. They may have an expert witness. A Soeur husband (who is also a college classmate) is an engineer and evaluated the chuppah issues from that perspective. His verdict: SOPOB did not hold up her pole properly, causing BOB and HOSOB to pull further back to mitigate the sagging, and ultimately crash into the shrubbery behind them. Yet, actually, the only one who was doing a good job was SOB, the other chuppah holder. She was essentially holding up the whole show, all 100 pounds of her.
So, while HOSOB and BOB may have a beef with SOPOB (all in gest, of course), they (and POB and I) really owe the prevention of entire chuppah implosion all to skinny but tough SOB. In fact, I think I need to give SOB a medal. Or a gift certificate for a massage.
Still, CSS (Chuppah Shoulder Syndrome) is likely to be the source of all maladies from now on in the Blogger family.
On the subject of implosions, below is a picture of the replacement for the cratered wedding cake. As you can see, it cratered, too. Apparently this was a particularly fascinating spectacle because I have many pictures both of the cratered cake(s) and of people taking pictures of the cratered cake(s).
Since I like chocolate, I didn’t really care.
POB and I are married.
Sidebar: I don’t think POB needs a new acronym, and the possible ones don’t exactly convey my love, honor and respect. For example, wife of blogger would be WOB. I don’t think anyone wants to a WOB. It sounds like an insult. Really. Say it out loud. Spouse of blogger runs smack into the acronym for my sister, SOB (sister of blogger). And using the first two or three letters of “spouse” (SP or SPO) followed by the “OB” is not going to win enduring admiration from my beloved. In fact one sounds like a condition resulting in the sagging of a particular body part. NOT pretty. So, POB she is and POB she shall remain. Well until she demands a new acronym.
The day started with the family in jeans, schlepping our stuff to the event space at 8:30am. They were still cleaning from the prior evening’s festivities. Oy, I thought. But at least they were cleaning the windows and mopping the floors. We had to ask them to clean up the bridal room so we could dress before our make-up and hair persons arrived at 9am. We both had dresses that we had to pull over our heads, which meant that we had to wear our undergarment body armor for longer than most brides. Make-up and hair went fine.
Jeno, the event space wedding person, asked me to step out of the room for a conversation. “The cake arrived and it fell into itself. The place is sending a replacement cake. Don’t tell [POB] because I don’t want to ruin her day.”
Gee, thanks, Jeno. Last I looked I was in a bridal gown with half my face plastered with make-up. But with his eyes, he was seeing Cynthia Nixon’s butch spouse.
N&YDFOBF (N&Y, dear friends of blogger family, or just N&Y) arrived early to be the mothers of the brides. What a Godsend they are. Of course, BOB and Y of N&Y almost came to blows over how the chuppah should be held, the processional, etc. Y of N&Y is a force of nature, so ignore her advice at your peril. N of N&Y can elaborate if asked.
Sidebar: By the end of the event, BOB was dancing with N&Y. Now, I consider BOB and Y of N&Y more like frenemies.
Time for signing the Ketubah. Y of N&Y showed off by signing her name in Hebrew. She probably did all of her homework in Hebrew School, just like POB. I think POB had pity on me and decided she would just write her name in English along with our other witness and me. The rabbi, not to be upstaged, also signed her name in Hebrew saying, “wouldn’t you want to know your rabbi could write her name in Hebrew?”
Sidebar: This is why I love our rabbi. She embraces the Yiddish prohibition: whatever you do, don’t embarrass yourself in front of your neighbors. As in, “it would be a shondah for the neighbors”.
Then we had the civil ceremony. THE CIVIL CEREMONY. OMG OMG OMG. I was shaking. We are legal!!!!! N of N&Y and Mighty (a Soeur) signed as our witnesses. Both lawyers. Legal document. Legitimacy. Equal rights under law. It was totally emotional.
Then came the service. (The replacement wedding cake arrived. More anon.)
I usually keep a veneer of anonymity, but what the hell. Here are POB, SOS and me, walking down the aisle (SOS insisted that he would walk his moms down the aisle):
So, SOPOB, BOB, WOBOB, SOB and HOSOB held the chuppah. At various points, I had to hit the Chuppah so that the holders would wake up and make sure that cloth part wasn’t hitting any of us in the heads.
Sidebar: Depending on which chuppah holder is telling the story, the story teller was the hero(ine) and is suing for chuppah-related shoulder injuries. Note to self: toooooo many lawyers/self-proclaimed can really mess up a chuppah. There is a joke in here somewhere.
If you listen to our guests, people were really amazed that the chuppah holders could make the chuppah do the wave. In other words, the chuppah holders were having too much fun while injuring their shoulders. Actually, my having to hit the chuppah to get them to lift it up was one of the lighter moments in a serious life cycle rite.
POB and I have been together for more than a decade and we have a mortgage and child together. Somehow, it wouldn’t do just to have the traditional wedding. We were inspired by our Goddaughters, GDJOB and GDKOB, who had alternative vows of what they could and could not promise each other. They are young and, yet, old souls.
Sidebar: They aren’t exactly our goddaughters. They are family (the history is long) and we think of them as our (slightly) emancipated children and we are very protective of them. So, in short-cutting the explanation of our relationship to these two extraordinary young women, we opted for some recognizable, yet inaccurate, nomenclature.
So, these are our vows:
Blogger: I can’t promise that I let the truth get in the way of a good story. POB: I can’t promise I won’t roll my eyes at the egregious parts. Blogger: If you don’t laugh at my silly jokes, I will always repeat them because I am sure that you just didn’t hear them the first time. POB: I will always let you pretend that I didn’t hear them the first time and the older I get, the truer that becomes. POB: I will always assume that things will just work themselves out. Blogger: I will always have a Plan B for each of the disaster scenarios whirling in my head. Blogger: I will never do the laundry but I LOVE cleaning the lint out of the dryer. POB: I, however, will always do the laundry, but I can’t guarantee that some of your favorite clothes that are worn-out and stained or just plain ratty won’t accidentally vanish. POB: I will always tell the story of how we met MY way. Blogger: I will always correct you. Blogger: I will never cook a meal (ok, macaroni and cheese from a box for SOS) but I will always clean up. POB: I will always cook for you, but I can’t promise that you’ll always like it or that that will even be my primary concern. Blogger: I will never ask if you are angry with me, I will just know by the number of pots and pans strewn around the kitchen. POB: I will always provide ample soap and sponges for the task. POB: I will never be able to have an in-depth conversation after 11pm, but I will always bring you coffee in the morning. Blogger: And I would never be able to get out of bed without it or verbalize how much I appreciate it. Blogger: I know that everything goes with my black penny loafers despite your sartorial advice to the contrary. POB: I love your no-nonsense approach to non-fashion, but every once in a while I will gently encourage you to leave those old ratty shoes at home. POB: I can’t promise that I will always enjoy reading about our lives in your blog. Blogger: I can’t promise that I will ever stop, but I can give you another acronym. Blogger: I will never stop asking on a weekly basis, “do I look older to you?” POB: My eyes are aging, too, so the answer will always be, “no”. Blogger: I will never recognize famous people on the street or even know why they are famous, but my heart will always beat faster when I see you walking toward me. POB: I promise I won’t have a crush on anyone famous, other than Edna St. Vincent Millay, and anyway, she’s dead. POB: I can’t promise that when I ask a question, I want the WHOLE answer in all its contexts and nuances. Sometimes, I just want to know when and where we are meeting. Blogger: I can’t promise that I will figure out the difference. Blogger: I cannot go to the market with a shopping list; it inhibits my impulse buying. POB: Some days we need milk more than we need the newest crazy hybrid fruit. Blogger: I won’t give up my weekend naps except in a crisis. POB: I can’t promise I don’t sometimes wonder how I ended up with TWO children. Blogger: I don’t think travel accommodations should have less than four stars. POB: So you must really love me to come on the synagogue retreat every year in profoundly star-less quarters. [Sidebar: POB won’t travel terribly far in coach] Blogger: I can’t promise that I won’t be righteously indignant about something, or outrageously judgmental without having all of the facts. POB: Your passion is one of the many reasons I fell in love with you. POB: I will always stock the cupboards, but I can’t promise ice cream, candy or chocolate. Blogger: I will never stock the cupboards, but I will keep our computers and wireless humming. Blogger: I will always say what needs to be said, but I won’t ever be tactful and it won’t ever be the right moment. POB: I will always love you for this honesty, but I won’t always be able to articulate that in the moment. Blogger: I won’t contravene [POB]’s rule: [POB] rules. POB: I promise that I will strive always to be a benevolent dictator. Blogger: I won’t let you fall. I won’t let you go. I won’t ever wonder why I love you; I will just be grateful for this gift. POB: Yeats said it best: Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.
SOS affirmed the truth of our vows, when, in response to POB’s being a benevolent dictator, he yelled out, “She’s right!!”
Afterward, there was just celebration. I was giddy and high all day, without more than a sip or two of alcohol. But there was a moment of decidedly ungiddiness.
SOB gave the toast and SOS standing near here holding a glass that looked like it had champagne in it. AND HE WAS DRINKING A LOT. I kept motioning to him to come to me and I was giving him the Mommy Death Stare as I tried to talk to my work colleagues who had come in for the event.
It was Ginger Ale.
Phew.
Jeno called us in for a confab to tell us that the second cake cratered. The family needed to document this glitch (as only Blogger’s family would):
Jeno was able to save the top layer of the caved-in cake and he had some lovely red velvet cake from the night before. We told him to serve mushed cake (way better than day-old red dye no.2 chocolate cake). So when the cake came out, we told everyone what happened and assured everyone that even if the cake wasn’t pretty on the plate, it wasn’t day-old red velvet cake and it wasn’t run over by a bus.
But I have jumped ahead.
Some things that stick out in my mind (more will come in other blogs):
our gay friends thought our straight college friends were just like them, only straight. And then our straight college friends said the same thing about our gay friends, only that they were gay. Seeing lesbians dance with straight husbands and straight women dance with lesbians made POB and me smile. How wonderful it can be just to look for commonality.
N&Y have been admitted to the Soeurs’ sorority. All they need now are Greek names and the secret handshake.
The Soeurs are just wonderful. A force of life. A source of strength. An outrageous and outrageously funny group of exceptional women.
my colleagues schlepped from Florida and Ohio (and NJ) to be there. I get teary-eyed when I think of that.
people throughout my work life seemed so happy to be there. I was so honored. And SNOBFOB, I really should have introduced you to families of blogger and POB. I realized at the end that I wanted to introduce you to my Dad and my siblings. And, it was too hard to get to FOBs while they were on the dance floor. Off line, I will use the pictures from the wedding to identify everyone but only to those who are “OB”s.
the “OB” family — a large contingent — did not disappoint. Even Cousin Gentle was on the dance floor. CB (cousin birder) looked so dapper. The First Cousins are a clan and it is not a family gathering without the full complement. So, I thank you.
AG (Aunt Glue, aka Aunt Betty) was able to make it and dance at my wedding. (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=4305) AG and SOB and I danced together — it was fabulous. I felt Mom’s presence. AG and DOB represent the older generation — our greatest generation. And her presence at my wedding is a blessing.
Chuck came from the Canadian tundra (not really, just Toronto). And her name isn’t really Chuck, and I don’t remember why we called her that. Chuck and I go back to the days immediately post-college. Together, we worked hard, drank too much and adapted to life post-college. I haven’t seen her in years, but we reconnected through Facebook. She is one of the most solid people I know. And she came and folded right into the flow.
And, of course, there is Janet2OB and PhyllisOB. There are two generations of connections. Two generations of undying friendships, the first out of the ashes of the Second World War and the second in the sisterhood of Camp Wingate for Girls. Ties that bind regardless of the years between visits. The ties that bind. They just do. They are the people that you need at a simcha to make it a simcha. Since there are no further words to describe the relationship, I won’t diminish it by trying.
So, in all, our wedding was was traditional, radical, sweet, deep, frivolous, warm, stressful, scripted, unscripted, orderly and yet a total anything-goes event.
And it wasn’t perfect. Perfect isn’t funny. Perfect has no charm. Perfect is a little sterile.
Oh my Goodness!!! We are getting married!!!!! I am sooooo excited. This is an awesome feeling.
SOS and I are watching Saturday morning TV, as usual. Today, we are watching Animal Planet, Dogs 101, because SOS wants a dog and wants just the right breed for our lives as urbanites. I am too happy and giddy to dread the future negotiation about getting a dog. But that conversation won’t happen today or tomorrow, so I won’t worry forward.
POB is at the gym. I am going, too, when she gets back. But first we need to pick out the boutonnières for the male members of the family. Their color needs to match the orchids and the kipot (skull caps). I don’t yet know what that color is, but POB does.
For the next two days, I only take orders. I don’t take initiative.
We are going to spend the afternoon together — POB, SOS and I. Then in the late afternoon through early evening, we are going to SOB’s and HOSOB’s house for a reception for out-of-town family.
Sidebar: I use the acronym HOSOB for SOB’s husband. I had thought of brother-in-law of blogger but that acronym would be BLOB. That would be unfortunate and untrue. Also that would make my sister-in-law, a SLOB. And that would cause a breach in the family.
Today we had to go down to our wedding venue and take the chuppah (wedding canopy), which is a big table cloth instead of a prayer shawl, four chuppah poles (eight feet or so in length) to hold the chuppah, the ketubah (marriage contract) which we glued to a large board, place cards and wedding booklets, kiddush cups and glasses (for breaking). A lot of stuff.
POB and I decided that it was a good muscle-strengthening exercise to schlep all of this to the corner of our block in order to hail a cab.
Now, we live on the upper west side of Manhattan, which I believe is recognized by both Israeli and Palestinian authorities as a permitted Jewish settlement.
Still, of all the neighbors in all the Jewish settlements in the world, carrying all our schleppage, we bumped into our non-Jewish neighbors (who are nicest people in our building) and, after our exchange of pleasantries, the husband said, “have fun at the beach!!”
He saw the chuppah poles and the table cloth and thought we were building our cabana at the beach. Or maybe we were re-enacting the Israelites’ living in the desert after liberation from Egypt. Or maybe we were building those temporary structures for the harvest again. Really? We are West Side Jews and our concept of “settlement” is a full service, doorman building with a live-in super. We are not building harvest tents.
Then, I thought, we could build a cabana with what we have. I use the “we” royally, because I would need to hire a contractor. But I digress.
Back to our day.
In order to transport Chuppah poles, you need a big cab. And still the cab driver has to open the safety glass between the front seats and the passenger section, so that the chuppah poles can extend into the driver’s area and rest on the top of the front seats. Any short stops and the windshield is toast.
We arrived at the event space and nearly took out a light in the lobby with those chuppah poles. I was relaxed because I try to see to it that we are over-insured — walking, driving, breathing, whatever. The lobby attendant was not as relaxed.
We got to the event space and unloaded all of our stuff.
Next on the agenda were oxygenation facial treatments at Bliss. Someone told POB that these treatments will give us glows that we simply MUST have for the wedding. It reminded me of those Hi-Pro Glow dog food commercials but I kept quiet.
My “facial expert”, Tess, asked me why I opted for the oxygenation treatment. “My partner and I are getting married on Sunday and she was told that we should have these treatments.”
“How wonderful that you are getting married!! This is an ‘okay’ treatment. You have dry skin. I will give you a dermabrasion and masque.”
“I had that treatment about two weeks ago. You vacuum my face with sandpaper, right?”
“Your skin needs it, especially here (she touched my laugh lines) and here (she touches around my eyes). It is too dry.”
Ok, please don’t touch my wrinkles because then I will buy anything you peddle. “Ok, Tess, let’s do it your way.”
So, the sandpaper vacuuming commenced. It sounds just like having your teeth cleaned. Then she gave me a seaweed masque that was pink (I saw it when she pulled it off). MY FACE FELT GREAT.
“The seaweed masque is my wedding gift to you.”
“I am so glad I listened to you, Tess. And thank you.” (Don’t worry, the tip was BIG.)
Afterwards, we picked up SOS from school and settled in for some quiet time. Then we went to synagogue for our auf ruf (community blessing ahead of nuptials). SOB, HOSOB, DOB, SOPOB, FOPOB and our nephew (SOPOB’s son) came. POB, SOS and I were blessed before the community. Our family and some of our dearest friends from synagogue were there to cheer us on. It was such a wonderful moment.
As with all moments, they must end. Mine ended with FOPOB’s asking, “Is this thing over yet?”
Today, POB and I went to the marriage bureau in New York City, 141 Worth Street. We asked for guidance at the information desk and a City employee who did not speak English very well kept repeating the instructions, growing louder and slower with each repetition.
Sidebar: I learned something new: it is not merely an unfortunate American custom to try to communicate with someone who speaks no English by repeating the same words, each time incrementally louder and slower. We may have spread this linguistic disease like cholera, but now we don’t own it anymore.
We ultimately understood that we had to take the ticket
and go wait by the second TV monitor, where it said, “now serving C 678 at Station 6”.
We passed the wedding space with a painted backdrop of the New York City skyline and thought fleetingly of eloping. But we weren’t dressed for the occasion. And POB wanted to be a June bride and as the saying goes, we were a day short.
I felt like we were at a family-style restaurant in a strip mall. Someone calls out the name 3 times, each time putting the emphasis on a different word: “BLOGGER, party of two. Blogger, PARTY of two. Blogger, party of TWO.” Then you go to the station as indicated on the big screen. And you best get there by the third call or — or — or you go to the back of the line (maybe).
Except there was no pleasant Musak (ok, oxymoronic) or harried “lounge” server asking for your drink order. Nope, just the din of waiting room.
I was fascinated by all of the people there:
Then, we heard: ” A zero 96, A zero 96, A zero 96. Station 2.” We ran to the station.
The clerk was so lovely. He said he was proud that same-sex marriage is legal. He asked if we were changing our surnames. I said no, but I would happily answer to “Mrs. [POB]”. POB blushed. He wished us well in a heartfelt way that I extend my hand to shake his. He smiled and squeezed my hand a little.
I am no longer angry at having to be grateful for a right that the state had no right to withhold. (See, IFOB, I have come around.) Now, I am just so happy that the big day is upon us. I never, ever, in my life (after coming out) thought this day would come. I am getting married in my hometown to my hometown sweetheart. And our son is walking us down the aisle (at his request). It doesn’t get better.
Well, maybe it could get better if I didn’t have to drink the detoxifying elixirs POB gives me as a condition to her making me coffee in the morning.
Right after the wedding, I am going on strike. But until then, hmmmm good. And I will have a shot of espresso in that coffee, please.
Last week, a new friend told me that every woman has a bridezilla moment, whether you’re 22 or 48. I did not believe her, because, after all, I have been pretty low-key.
POB has looking for a wrap to wear with my wedding dress because I tend to get cold in air-conditioned rooms. Yesterday, POB texted me, “Got you a grey pashmina shawl for $5 from the toothless lady at 71st and Broadway.” Did I need to know that I am wearing a $5 shawl that I am sure I could have gotten for $4.50? Nooooooooooo.
No matter. I saw the shawl when I got home. It will look LOVELY with my dress. All was right. I kissed POB and thanked her profusely.
“Sweetie?” POB said tentatively.
“Yes?” I wondered whether a shoe was going to drop. (Where DOES that phrase come from?)
“It’s about your dress.”
“What about my dress?” Apprehension is rising.
“Well, I was walking by Pottery Barn and it is doing a promotion with Nicole Miller — you know the designer of your wedding dress — and . . . . we’ll, I took this picture to show you.” Silence as she fiddled with her iPhone.
Right next to the pillows and woven baskets is my wedding dress. Ok, so I might as well wear a wicker clothes hamper and my off-the-street pashmina shawl.
“Well, I guess you are getting married without me. Because I am not going to walk down the aisle in some Pottery Barn wedding gown!!!”
“Sweeeee-tieeeeee. Don’t. It’ll be fine.”
Then I thought about what it would be like to look for another dress.