A Big Fat Wedding Post January 28, 2008

There will be no more references to the post below. Part of me feels like I made a mistake even putting it on the blog. But another part of me is all it’s my blog, I can post whatever the hell I want, I can abstain from posting whatever the hell I want, I don’t owe anybody anything.

I especially don’t owe a damn thing to someone who wrote nasty things about me and that includes a link to her blog.

Quite frankly, she doesn’t deserve the traffic.

So, um, moving on.

I drove out to New Jersey on Saturday to be a productive bride.

Tangent: M should really take away my keys to his car. While in the parking lot at Starbucks, I accidentally hit a barrier and now M’s front license plate is mangled. While backing out of a parking spot at the bridal salon, I hit the pole of a stop sign. I apparently have reverted back to driving like I did when I was seventeen and would try and make secret deals with the town mechanic to fix my car and not tell my dad.

Anyway, the bridesmaids dresses have been chosen. At one point, there were fifteen of us in a dressing room, debating the merits of a champagne sash versus a sand sash to go with a chocolate brown dress and everyone was kind of looking at me to make a decision and if I haven’t told you already, decisions are not my strong point.

So I did what any responsible, mature bride would do: I kicked everyone except for my mother out of the room and I started to tear up.

My mother, being my mother, rolled her eyes and said something along the lines of “Clinky, just pick a damn color.”

And I did. Chocolate brown dress with a champagne sash it is. (The reverse of what is in this photo, though my sister will be wearing this exact combination since she’s the maid of honor.)

I also had a consultation with my florist, during which a very bizarre exchange occurred.

I was speaking with the assistant at the shop, giving her the relevant information (date of the wedding, how many people in the bridal party, etc). She told me about her own wedding, which was a small backyard affair.

“Sometimes I think that’s the way to go,” I admitted.

“Yeah, well, with your last name you can’t really do that. I mean, the wedding is kind of a glamorous business meeting for your dad, you know? A chance for him to show off.”

I was pretty taken aback. One of my bridesmaids was with me and she piped up. “Actually, I don’t think that’s it at all, thanks.”

I wanted to tell Little Miss Florist Shop Assistant that, while my parents are paying for some of the wedding, M and I are taking on a lot of the expenses on our own (including the fucking flowers). That she clearly doesn’t know my father if that’s what she thinks of him. That she really shouldn’t judge people that she only thinks she knows (cough, cough, COUGH).

Ahem.

As Molly, Peter and M have all said - people are going to judge no matter what. Their perceptions may be off, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I just have to let it roll off my back; paying attention to it just feeds the beast.

It’s a good life lesson for me, actually. I can’t spend my life fighting back against the snarky bloggers and Florist Assistants of the world. They don’t matter. However, being who I am - no matter what - does.

So, I found my dress. December 9, 2007

I don’t know what I was so afraid of.

I was literally shaking as we parked my mother’s car (far, far away from every other car in the lot; I spent half of my childhood walking across parking lots because my mother has a fear of rogue shopping carts or flighty drivers denting her vehicle) and headed towards our first appointment.

I could give you about a million reasons why, none of which are particularly logical.

Mostly, though, I guess I was just fearful that I wouldn’t find something that spoke to me. Something that made my mother, my sister, my grandmother and I all cry. Something that made me feel like a bride. Something that made me look like a bride. Something that was worthy of this step I’m going to take in July, the hugeness of which tends to get lost in the details sometimes.

I chose to go dress shopping in New Jersey because people are nicer there. I love you New York, but you are sometimes full of snots. Especially in your bridal salons. (Hey “TrueNYer”: Commence rant about how I am so not a real citizen of this city because I dared to get my gown in another state. A state without sales tax on clothing.)

The good people of New Jersey proved me right - the women at the bridal salon were warm and welcoming. They were open to my ideas but also offered suggestions based on my body type and the overall style of my wedding. They made me feel comfortable. Comfortable enough to, oh, prance around in nothing but my boy shorts, which may have been a bit too comfortable but hey. Apparently I’m comfortable almost naked in a room that is half full of strangers.

The first two dresses were…okay. Seriously, just okay. In the way that a slightly worn cable-knit sweater and jeans and your boots and those earrings you always wear are just okay to wear on a Wednesday when you’re not doing anything after work. You know?

And then my mother - of course, because her style is second to none and she knows me better than anyone - pulled a dress off the rack and said “try this.”

And, lo. Every single one of us cried, including the salesgirl, who either got caught up in the moment or will clearly go above and beyond for a commission.

The dress is gorgeous. Elegant, sophisticated and, um, it gives me a waist the size of Victoria Beckham’s. I’m not sure how and I’m not sure if I want to find out how but let’s just pretend it’s magic and move on.

I want to post a picture. I want to post a picture so bad and if I were reading this post on someone else’s blog and I got this far and the bitch started talking about how she didn’t want to post a picture because it would not do her dress justice I’d probably want to smack her. At the very least.

It’s just that THE INTERNET DOES NOT DO MY DRESS JUSTICE. Sure, it looks pretty on the designer’s website but it does not look exquisite and I don’t want you to be all “wow, that Clink has no taste.”

I tried on a bunch of dresses after The One - just to make sure, you know - but I couldn’t stop staring at my dress on its hanger as I tried on others. Kind of like when you’re at a bar with a nice enough, cute enough guy but every time Mr. Nice and Cute goes to the bathroom or turns away, you make eyes at the gorgeous guy in the corner and you both know that you’d rather be with him.

People, I even tried on a Monique Lhuillier. I have worshipped at the Temple of Lhuillier for a very long time and, don’t get me wrong, the dress was beyond beautiful.

And yet…still not as beautiful as mine.

So, we have a dress. A dress that is so worthy.

And now, of course, I want that dress to be taken in when it arrives in a few months, so let the dieting begin.

Um, I guess sharing that pint of dulce de leche with M on the couch while listening to Christmas music in our newly holiday-ized apartment wasn’t exactly the best start, but hey. We had something to celebrate.

I found a dress.

Update: Ok, so if I post a picture, you all have to promise me that you’ll remember that the dress looks about a thousand times more stunning in person/on my body. Also, ignore the hideous veil and jewelry but feel free to envision my arms just as toned as the model’s. Deal? Deal.

I love the lace. I love the fact that it’s not too much lace. I love the sweetheart neckline (so do my boobs). I love that I can add little organza cap sleeves if I want. I love the back (mine has a bow right at the ass, so cute.) I love everything about it - especially how it makes me look and feel.

Things that keep me up at night. October 23, 2007

Did I tell you that the wedding planning is back in full force? Well, the wedding planning is back in full force.

On a typical evening in apartment 17G, you can find me sitting indian style in sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun, laptop in front of me, surrounded by wedding magazines and wedding planning checklists and a few cans of Diet Coke (ok, FINE, and also a container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream) and things I’ve jotted down on napkins because a thought came to me in the middle of dinner at a restaurant and “CANNOT FORGET, SCHEDULE TASTING.”

In the words of my boss, to use a phrase borrowed from the industry in which we work, I’m “producing the hell out of this wedding.”

Which is true, I am. But there are also some roadblocks that keep me up at night. Yes, KEEP ME UP AT NIGHT because hi, I’m crazy and you should know that already if you’ve, like, ever read my blog before.

Here’s what has been on my mind:

The Plus-One Dilemma: In an ideal world, M and I would be filthy rich. And part of what would come with being filthy rich (in addition to, you know, manservants at our disposal and a built-in jacuzzi tub right next to our bed because why not?) would be that we’d be able to invite every one of our guests of the ’single’ variety with a date.

Except, reality is quite different and therefore the Plus-One Dilemma is very real. I guess the general rule of thumb is that if they’re in a serious relationship, or if they’re coming from out of town, or if they won’t know anyone at the wedding, they should be invited with a guest. This is probably the general guideline we’re going to follow, but I still feel a bit guilty.

But then again, do I really want to pay $250 for Mr. Random One Night Stand, guest of my very single girlfriend, to eat, drink and be merry at my wedding, never to be seen again? No. Don’t want that either.

The Pictures Before Dilemma: If you had asked me, say, a year ago whether or not I’d allow M to see me before I actually walked down the aisle, I probably would’ve given you a quizzical look and said “of course he’s not going to see me before we walk down the aisle! I may not be the most traditional girl in the world, but dude, come on.”

Oh, how times have changed. M and I have reached a tentative decision to take pictures together before the ceremony. The truth is, we want a lot of New York-y type shots: Central Park, the roof of our apartment building, maybe even something cheeky at a subway entrance. However, we’re getting married in Chelsea and the reception is in Tribeca and there’s just no way we can get up to Central Park and get all the shots that we want before the cocktail hour is over.

Plus, um, we sort of want to be at the cocktail hour! Me because I want to mingle with my guests and M because “the best food is going to be at the cocktail hour!” (By “best food,” he means the cheeseburger sliders and pigs-in-a-blanket and mini-grilled cheese that I have allowed him to add to the cocktail hour menu.)

I’m not thrilled about M seeing me before I walk down the aisle but I figure that either way we’ll have “that moment” - the me-in-white-dress-with-tears-in-my-eyes, him-with-a-look-of-shock-and-awe-on-his-face moment. It may just be in Central Park, not in the church.

The Bridesmaids Gifts Dilemma: I want to do something nice. Something original. Something not “jewelry to wear with their dresses, that they may-or-may-not like.”

When I was a bridesmaid, I actually would’ve preferred if the bride had just paid for our hair/nails instead of giving us a gift that I don’t even remember today, 2 years later.

Believe it or not, I spend a ton of my time researching gifts for my bridesmaids when I really should be, oh, RESEARCHING DRESSES (still don’t have one; still haven’t even gone to look; am pathetic).

The Platinum Wedding October 21, 2007

I woke up this morning much less hungover than I thought I’d be; a welcome surprise.

I tried poking M, like I usually do, because if I’m up then shouldn’t he be up? Isn’t that how this love thing works?

Poke, poke, kiss on the ear, another poke. Nothing. He didn’t even budge - clearly depleted from his Best Man duties - so I grabbed my cell phone, curled up on the couch in the living room and called my mom.

Because, fuck, I needed to talk to someone about the Platinum Wedding.

By the time my father and I exchanged some witty banter, conducted a brief analysis of the Giants vs. the 49ers and the phone was passed to my mom, the tears came.

Not full-on sobs; just a few rogue droplets running down my cheek.

“How was the wedding?”

“Mom. I don’t want my wedding to be anything like that.“

“Uh oh.”

“There was no…,” for lack of better words, “heart. There was no soul. I mean, they did everything right, there was definitely a ‘wow’ factor, but it just felt…empty.”

“Was it really that bad?”

“Mom, I didn’t cry. Me. At a wedding. No crying.”

Which is true. I didn’t shed a tear and hi, I’m Clink, and I cried at the ROCK OF LOVE SEASON FINALE.

I just wasn’t…moved. It was all very pretty, it was all clearly very well-planned, down to the very last detail, it was all very well-coordinated. But it was all very…lacking in intimacy.

The best wedding I’ve ever been to was also the smallest - 100 guests, lots of impromptu toasts, plenty of tears, a packed dance floor. I remember not wanting the evening to end, I remember excitedly rehashing it with my family and M the next morning at breakfast. It was a wedding that brought people together, ushered all of the guests into the inner sanctum of love between the bride and the groom. We were all glowing, we were all thrilled to be there, no one even noticed or cared about the food or the time or who was wearing what.

The Platinum Wedding was the opposite - 500 guests, exactly two toasts (one given by M), no tears (despite the presumptuous packets of tissues handed out at the ceremony), a half-empty dance floor.

Sure, there were the “platinum touches” - though, to be honest, I’m hesitant to give details because who knows if one of my readers was there? I’m so paranoid, but the truth is the bride and groom would undoubtedly be hurt and angry if they found out that I found their wedding to be empty.

Because it wasn’t empty for them, clearly. It’s what they wanted - they meticulously planned everything.

I don’t know. I feel guilty. I wish this was a fun, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED post but, truly, M and I were a bit morose as we drove back into Manhattan last night, just like all of M’s friends were a bit morose at the end of the evening, when we were all sitting at the table, wondering whether it was appropriate for us to leave.

We just didn’t have a great time. There wasn’t that invisible force that compels you to dance, to mingle, to bask in the joy of of the couple. Maybe we were all just in food comas.

When you’re in the middle of planning a wedding, it’s hard to attend a wedding and not compare. I tried - I really did - just to enjoy myself and not pass judgment, but it was near-impossible.

All I can take away from the event is what I told my mother - “I’m sure it was fine for them, but I want mine to be so, so different.”

***

On a related note, what is with people not showing up at the ceremony? Is this something that’s acceptable nowadays? Did I miss the memo?

Because there were only about 100 people at the ceremony - the church was damn near half empty. But there were 500 people at the reception.

That, to me, reeks of “we didn’t feel like sitting through the boring ‘in sickness and in health’ part, but yeah, we’ll show up for the free booze and food.”

It really bothered me.

***

Also: don’t ever get in a car with me. Seriously, if we ever meet in real life and I offer to drive (Molly, are you paying attention?) please just say no.

I had to drive by myself to the church yesterday afternoon because M was in the limo and I almost got in about five accidents, mainly because I kept forgetting that driving takes so much concentration. Also, I ran a red light. Just blatantly RAN A RED LIGHT. Apparently, traffic signals are nothing but mere suggestions in the Clink School of Driving.

Thank god I live in Manhattan.

So lucky. October 18, 2007

 

I know that this probably isn’t going to help my unofficial “I’m not materialistic! No, I swear!” campaign but coming home to the above tonight was a pretty damn awesome surprise. Especially after a very long, very stressful day.

It’s less about how those boxes are filled with fine china and more about the fact that my extended family never ceases to amaze me with their love and generosity.

***

Moving on. Things You Will Never Hear Me Say: Wedding Edition

“Actually, I think I really want a winter wedding. Like, in January. When it’s freezing outside. Hopefully it will snow.”

“You want to wear a pink tux, M? Fine with me.”

“I hope I don’t lose a POUND before the wedding!”

“I really wish my mom had more opinions. God, she is no help at all.“

“Our wedding website isn’t really all that great. I didn’t put much thought into it.”

“No candid photos. I want everything to be posed.”

“Oh, I’ll be totally fine if it rains. Rain is good luck!”

“Cry? When my dad walks me down the aisle? Why would I do that?”

“I want an updo.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty cool that we’re going to Hawaii for two weeks. I mean, whatever. I’m not really all that excited.”

“I think that the wedding is going to be pretty tame. I mean, my family isn’t really fun-loving at all.”

“The tasting is going to suck. I hope we can get it over with very quickly.”

“I’m not really sure if I should be marrying M.”

And one non-wedding thing you will never hear me say: “I’m not going to miss Joe Torre at all. It’s not like he was my third grandfather or anything.”