Time, Time, Time, See What's Become of Me

Like a Wedding Superhero, I have been proceeding with OWO at a rapid-fire pace. Wrapped in a DIY Gocco'd cape and armed with a fondant frosting pastry gun, I have been checking tasks off my interminably long "To Do" list more quickly than the dissolution of Kate Walsh's marriage. I selected readings, chose vows, and ordered yarmulkes at lightning speed.

Pleased and proud of my newfound abilities, I christened myself Blasphemous Fiancee, Superhero Extraordinaire.

Until I learned an interesting lesson.

Not only is no man is an island but apparently, no bride can be a solo caped crusader. And when you think about it, even the DC Comics superheroes had to form a Justice League. Because sometimes even Wonder Woman needs to ask the Invisible Man to borrow a stick of butter.

So in hindsight, I wish I had my own League of Women Doters. Because if I did, maybe I wouldn't have sent out Rehearsal Dinner invitations without a date or time.

Oh I'm sorry, do you think I typed that wrong?

No, I didn't. I sent out Rehearsal Dinner invitations without any of the basic information that guests would require, such as a date or a time to attend said event.

How or why did this happen? I don't know. All I know is that superheroes don't have to avenge their evil at midnight or one o' clock in the morning after a full day's work, going to the gym (because you gotta fit into that white superhero satin gown) and making dinner because superheroes do not have to hold down full time jobs. Instead, they're gallivanting around town doing their life-saving between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. and getting a nice good night's sleep at the end of it all. (And Bruce Wayne does not count because he has a trust fund and Superman does not count because his job barely had him sitting in the office like EVER.) Therefore, our crusaders do not make large mistakes because they are getting the required 8 hours of sleep. Not four.

So who's to blame? I could definitely blame my Mom since she was the person who insisted that we must send out invitations for the Rehearsal Dinner instead of emails because "not everyone uses email, just because you do." Or I could blame Mr F, for his lack of interest in the entire wedding generally or more specifically because when I asked him how the invite looked, he glanced at the computer screen for 3 seconds before turning back to the Steelers game on TV and muttering "fine."

But instead, I'll just blame myself. Because it's easier and it dovetails nicely with my new and improved superhero persona: Exhaustia, Tired Bride-To-Be.

Exhaustia sits on the couch downloading into her keen mind the subject of infinite sub-par Lifetime movies and dressed head to toe in her superhero armor of fleece. She captures her enemies in a carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, where she demolishes them with a golden spoon.

To celebrate the valor and bravery of Exhaustia, we hereby abort Operation Wedding Overdrive and commence Operation Tortoise-Hare, a mission focused on both quickly and steadily finishing nuptial details but not at the mercy of large and messy jackrabbit mistakes which may or may not leave guests unsure as to what date and time one's rehearsal dinner is to be held. However, for Exhaustia's dedication to OWO, we pin to her the purple heart, a concoction of one part Chambord and three parts champagne. I'm all for tying that on.

When The Moon Hits Your Eye Like A Big Pizza Pie, That's Amore

During the great Parental Migration of 2008, I suddenly realized I had to make what could best be termed A Migration Evaluation: I was face-to-face with a bona fide Dilemma.

To clarify, over the course of the weekend while my Future-in-Laws stayed with us I was actually faced with many dilemmas, including, but not limited to - will they realize the impetus behind my overly- casual suggestion to have Mimosas with breakfast (or Bloody Mary's...or Bellini's...or a giant glass of future-in-law erasing vodka)?, is it rude to tell them to stop using my laptop computer so I can take five minutes to erase the unsavory sites I have bookmarked?, and do I pretend I didn't just see my Future-Father-in-Law in his underwear or instead do I acknowledge I saw him, but act as though it's no big deal since we will soon be family?

However, this Dilemma was by far the most egregious: I had a wedding-related meeting scheduled for Saturday morning; should I invite my Future-Mother-in-Law? In the underbrush of tulle, manzanita branches, and splayed rose petals that is the jungle of wedding planning, involving my FMIL in the process was by far the most treacherous of decisions. Under each Out of Town Welcome Bag lay an undetonated mine. Involve her too much and my Mother was insulted, involve her too little and I was leaving her out. And one more teensy weensy pitfall: her taste in just about everything is vastly different than mine. (And by "vastly different" I mean to say that she has already offered to create for me a wedding cake made of towels ("you can keep it forever!") and a lockbox of Al Gore-like proportions to put on the sweetheart table for presents (cause nothing says "gifts are not necessary" like a giant slotted mailbox with a padlock on the bride and groom's table).)

All these things aside, I knew that FMIL was dying to be involved. And despite my acute awareness that I was six words away from a speedy zipline to a nuptial swamp of toothy alligators, I found myself saying to her on Friday night (moments after chugging a glass of Chardonnay), "Sure, why don't you join me?" (Count em, there's six.)

And so the next day I found myself sitting at an Italian restaurant in Little Italy to hammer out the final details of the contract for our rehearsal dinner. To a layperson (not versed in my wedding ridiculousness) this might seem like an ordinary meeting. However, this meeting was actually the most extraordinary of meetings. This was the Sylvia Weinstock of meetings, the Mindy Weiss of discussions, the Carolina Herrera of sit-downs. Why was this meeting so special? Because I spent the last four months begging restaurants to host my rehearsal dinner. Since my wedding was on Sunday, the rehearsal fell on a Saturday night. A busy night for restaurants indeed. But this was a special Saturday night. A Saturday night more special than a "7th Heaven" episode.

A Saturday night. In February. Called Valentine's Day.

Thus, I was in a precarious place indeed.

Therefore, this meeting was solely intended to get the restaurant to give us a contract to assure that we would finally have a rehearsal dinner venue. In all honesty I was also personally hopeful that an ancillary result might be my return to a two-Tums-a-day habit (down from the current four to five a day habit - providing me with oodles of calcium, but also a pervasive chalky mouth and a striking resemblance to Marcel Marseau). In essence, we just needed to get the frickin contract.

As we're waiting for the Owner to come to our table to figure out the details, Future Mother in Law starts asking questions. "What will everyone eat?"

"That's what we're here to figure out. I'm sure it will be great." (Simultaneously I found myself thinking that it could be ground pony on Wonder Bread and I still would book this place.)

"What's the owner's name?"

"Uhhh...Joey I think. Joey Goldenberg."

"Joey GOLDENBERG? What kind of name is that? He must be Jewish."

"I don't know if he's Jewish. I think he's Italian. He owns an Italian restaurant. Don't ask him."

"Where's he from? Maybe we know him."

"Don't ask him."

"But maybe we...."

I cut her off in my most patient-Mother-Teresa-slash-axe-murderer-voice: "Honestly, as I told you earlier, we are really lucky that they agreed to let us have the dinner here. I don't want to ask him about his name or anything else. I think our best course of action is to just talk about the food and sign the contract and have this done."

"Okay darling, whatever you want." (If you think Future-Mother-in-Law sounds suspiciously like Mom, that would be because they are cut from the same Jewish mother mold (you can get one yourself if you like - they are available on Avenue J in Brooklyn). And yes, if you are a math wizard, you have just discovered that I will now have not one, but two Jewish moms. Double the tsuris, double the fun.)

So we sit in silence and I think that FMIL has understood the mission. Get the contract.

Joey "I own an Italian restaurant but my last name is" Goldenberg comes over finally and we talk about the details. I don't even care. I just want the contract.

Finally, he pulls out an example of a contract. I give it a cursory glance (caring little whether it asks for payment in Faberge Eggs or gold bullion). He tells us he will go and print out one with our names on it when we're done chatting. Future Mother in Law is trying to peer across the table at it. "Can I see it?"

"NO, NO, NO, NOOOO!" Unfortunately, saying NO in my head did not have the intended effect of stopping her. I slid the paper across the table, giving it good bye kisses with my eyes.

I continued the conversation in my head. "Please do not say anything about the contract. Please." I was sure she could see the words kicking their way through my temples.

The air was heavy with overpriced cappuccino. It was silent. I took deep potentially-caffeinating breaths. Perhaps we would be ok after all. As I opened my mouth to tell Joey that he should go print out our version of the contract, FMIL opened hers first:

"Do we have some wiggle room here? Can you work with us on the price?"

Oy vey. I look wistfully at the bottle of Grappa sitting on the bar.

Joey looked at FMIL like she was crazy. "Nah, we can't do that. You know, it's Valentine's Day. In fact, we really weren't sure we could host this at all cause we're gonna lose so much money..."

As I listened to our rehearsal plans fall apart more quickly than a beginner's hand-rolled tortellini, I jumped in: "Joey, don't worry, about it. We're fine as is. Can we get that contract?"

He looked at me for a second. "How about I send it to you next week, ok? I gotta run now - we have a private event tonight I need to set up for. I'll email it to you - I have your address."

We walked out of the restaurant into the Indian summer sunlight which felt wonderful. Except that we were empty-handed. Which felt less-than-wonderful. Apparently FMIL did not understand the mission after all. I should have explained that when you're in the wedding foxhole, one should not stand up, shout and wave their hands vigorously or one is likely to lose their rehearsal dinner restaurant. Or get shot.

You're The Real Thing, Even Better Than The Real Thing

The Rehearsal Dinner. [Nervous rustling of papers. Twisting of hair. Large sigh.] It's been "challenging." It's "special." It has a "good personality." I think you see what I'm saying here, si?


Despite the craptabulousnes of the RedEye (that would be Re(hearsal)Di(nner), named such because this event has been more painful that a trans-continental flight with 5 hours of sleep in an upright chair disguised as a full 8 hours), I would be remiss if I didn't mention the fact that this one I saw coming. Well, a little bit. As I've mentioned before, my brother got married last October and his rehearsal dinner invite list almost caused a wedding riot by my dad's side of the family. I won't go in to details on his RedEye flight, er, plight, but I can assure you it was miserable, despite ultimately working itself out.


But before I proceed with my own tale, I would, as usual, like to take a moment to digress. It's actually not really a digression since it's on the topic of rehearsal dinners, but it's also not directly related to my current story. So if you don't feel like reading, just skip down two paragraphs and read the direct progression of my narration. Otherwise, hear me out.


Am I missing something? Other than keeping in with the theme that weddings are not about the bride and groom, but about everyone else, can someone explain to me why people seem to get so offended if they are not invited to this event? Actually, I get it; I understand wanting to spend more time with the people you flew in from out of town to be with if you love and care about them and are excited for them. (And were it not for cost limitations, I would love to have all of our truly nearest and dearest spend more time with us.) So instead of talking in vague generalities, I'm going to lift the veil and be more direct: why is it that we need to tiptoe around the feelings of a bunch of people who neither I nor my groom are close with, are friends with, or quite frankly really even like? Why do they expect to be invited to an event simply because they have the same last name as one of us does? Shouldn't the event be about who you want to have there? Instead of creating a lovely memorable dinner for a couple on the eve of their wedding, it's about protecting the feelings of family members who you barely know, who don't call you on your birthday and who can't even be bothered to make small talk with you on Thanksgiving.


Curtain falls. Digression complete. Applause.

So in addition to my brother's experience, I knew that there would be another issue with the RedEye. First up, the date. I am getting married on Sunday, February 15th. That would make my rehearsal dinner on: YOU GOT IT. Zing. Valentine's Day. And not just any Valentine's Day - a Saturday night. You can imagine how eager a restaurant might be to give away a whole area of their restaurant to a group that will sit there for 5 hours instead of giving deuce tables to couples looking to spend massive amounts of money on bottles of wine and who will turn over a table in two hours. So I ignored Martha Stewart's suggestion that the rehearsal venue can wait for a while, and started calling restaurants the moment we booked that date. NO ONE WANTS TO HAVE US. No one. Actually, I take that back. One restaurant told us if we guaranteed $10,000 on food and beverage that they would let us use a private space. Thanks, asshat. (I know that the owner wasn't really being an asshat, but that's one of those words I love so much that I use it excessively and improperly.)



So instead of calling around I decided to walk from restaurant to restaurant basically begging (it's my experience that it's harder to turn down someone in person). I finally found a place that was willing to close part of their restaurant for us [hear that? angels singing!] in Little Italy. Perfect! What's cozier than a big Italian meal with some good red wine and a nice long table and your closest friends on a cold night in February? Nothing!


At which point I wanted to run everything by Mr. F. before signing a contract. We had previously decided that given financial constraints, our RedEye would be a small intimate affair for just the wedding party, our parents and our siblings. Total count: 30. Thus, my Italian Savior was a restaurant which had a small room that seated 28 comfortably, but could just squeeze in 30. So I ran all of this by Mr. F. while dancing around the room like a lunatic. "I've found a place! I found a place!!!" [Dance of joy.] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GfPg5LjGYz8


My excitement was not met with the response I anticipated. I looked at Mr. F's face and actually saw his lips moving and then watched his forehead crease and his eyes widen and then look sad.


He turned to me and said, "So you said only wedding party and parents and siblings, right?"


"Right."


"So you know that two of my groomsman are my first cousins, right?"


"Right."


"So you're saying we aren't going to invite their mom - my aunt - my mom's sister to the dinner?"


[Crap.]


And then I started thinking. And my forehead creased, my shoulders drooped, and the corners of my mouth turned down as it all came together. Obviously we have to invite the first cousin's groomsmen's mom (Mr. F's aunt/FMIL's sister). And ob-vi-ous-ly if we invite her, then we have to invite Mr F's other aunt...and uncles...and grandma...and other first cousins.


And if we invite all of Mr. F's aunts, uncles and cousins, then...yes, we have to invite all of mine. Dinner for 30 is now dinner for...sixty. Not to mention the fact that...[thinking how I can say the following thing nicely...realizing that is not possible]...I don't like my first cousins and don't want them at my rehearsal dinner. And "not like" is a euphemism for "think they're spoiled brats who both judge and are overtly snide to all those who they deem 'conformist'; this being done of course from the comfort of a NYC downtown apartment paid for by their parents, who not only cover the bottom line, but managed to get them accepted into the colleges that they dropped out of to join a band. Cause having mommy and daddy support your like totally alternative lifestyle is like sooo non-conformist." Yeah, that wasn't nice. But it's true. Now you see why this Blog is anonymous, yes?


Goodbye! Arrivederci! Did you see it? My sweet little Italian family-style dinner just flew off...into thin air...like the wafting aroma of homemade lasagna out through the window of a brownstone and down the street...goodbye.