Bitter Is The New Black Part 13

"Then stop bothering me. I'll be done soon."

"Why is it taking you so long? What are you doing in there?"

"Euclidian geometry. GO AWAY."

I'm antsy but figure that marriage proposals are better when not yelled through bathroom doors, so I loiter in the hallway for what feels like an eternity. Actually, it's only another two minutes. He soon emerges in a cloud of crisp cotton air freshener, holding this week's Crain's Chicago Business magazine. I practically leap on him.

"What is wrong with you?" he asks in exasperation.

"I need to talk to you. Come over here and sit with me," I say, gesturing from the couch.

He blanches because no good conversation starts with those words. Never in recorded history has the dread I need to talk to you phrase been followed by something a man wants to hear like "I think we should have a threesome with my hot friend" or "I'm buying you a 1969 Camaro, and is black OK?" Fletch is understandably nervous.

I can practically see the cogs moving in his head as he scans his mental Rolodex for recent transgressions. Sometimes I worry I'm too hard on him. On the other hand, he says I'm worth the aggravation and he did consent to follow the Jen Commandments, so it's not like he wasn't warned.

The Jen Commandments One: I loathe cooking. Therefore anytime I am forced into meal preparation, expect it to be done as loudly, profanely, and grudgingly as possible. (Angry: It's what's for dinner.) Two: I hate holding anything heavier than my purse. If I have something in my hands, I will attempt to trick you into carrying it for me.

Three: I am not a great listener, although I might appear to be. Sure, I may be nodding and saying, "Mmm hmm," but usually I'm just trying to think of a way to steer the conversation back to being about me.

Four: It is always all about me.

Five: I complain. A lot. Be particularly cautious if I am hungry, hot, or tired. May G.o.d have mercy on your soul if I am all three.

Six: I am fas.h.i.+onably late for social obligations. The only exception is when I brunch with Melissa. You must chauffeur me to the restaurant and I will shriek at you the entire time for dawdling, also known as obeying traffic signals. If it means getting me there on time, you will be expected to drive on the sidewalk.

Seven: Speaking of friends, many of them are cuter or thinner than me. You are not allowed to notice this.

Eight: There will be occasions when you breathe too loudly for my liking. Ditto on chewing.

Nine: All men's socks look the same to me. If you care about wearing a matching set, please double-check them yourself before crossing your legs at a business meeting.

Ten: I enjoy rearranging furniture. You need to enjoy moving bookcases.

"Stop looking nervous. I promise this is good," I say. Warily, he sits down while I lay out my proposal. In the same calm, convincing voice that I used to sell $10 million worth of goods and services back in the day, I highlight the pros and dispel the cons of the plan.81 The more I talk, the more he nods and verbalizes his agreement. Turns out that he's amenable to everything from Cadillac to Calphalon.

Although he concurs with each point, I sense reluctance.

"Fletch, make sure this is something you absolutely, positively, one hundred percent want. Don't say yes because I'm a good salesperson. Say yes because you think it's the right thing for us to do," I plead.

"I do want to do this. You've nicely laid out all the business reasons that this is a good idea." His voice is full of reticence.

"Honey, I know when you're holding something back. Say whatever's on your mind. If you're not ready for this, you have to be honest."

"No, no, that's not it. Overall, I think a Vegas wedding is a great idea."

"Fletch, I can hear the hesitation in your voice. What is it? Are you disappointed we aren't going to get married here in the city? Or is it the timing? I thought with my not working and so few prospects, this summer is the perfect opportunity to do it. But if you aren't sure, then we'll forget about it for now." Fletch doesn't say anything. "Or is it because of how I look? Dear G.o.d, tell me it's not because I've put on a few pounds." A few pounds? Try almost twenty. I can't fit into half of my wardrobe anymore.

"Jen, you look fine. The thing is, I'm excited and I wish we'd have gotten married years ago."

"So you don't think I'm too fat to be a bride?"

"Now you are being ridiculous."

"Then what's the problem?"

"In terms of romance, this stinks on ice. It feels like a business deal, not a proposal. Like I should shake your hand instead of kissing you."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking about how I'd propose for a long time. In all the scenarios I'd imagined, none of then included being ambushed in the bathroom after a bout with bad Mexican food."

"Oh. Did I steal your thunder?"

"No. Not really. Well, yes. Seems like I should have been the one to propose."

Dammit, I forgot that he might have a stake in this whole marriage thing. It didn't occur to me that he may have had expectations, too. I've got to return his thunder because I hate seeing him disappointed. I suggest, "Why don't you officially propose once you get a setting for Nanny's diamond?"

He brightens immediately. "That's a good idea! I'll do that. But I won't tell you when, because I want it to be a surprise. How about I take the day off tomorrow to go to Jewelers' Row and look at settings?"

"Sounds like a plan." We smile at each other. As he leans in for a kiss, Maisy jumps up between us and gives him a once-over with her tongue. She's small but determined, so the easiest thing is to simply let her finish. Fortunately, she tires quickly, and he returns his attention to me, drying his face with the tail of his s.h.i.+rt.

"We're really going to do this, huh?"

"As long as my parents are cool with the finances, and we can get a nice s.p.a.ce booked some time over Labor Day weekend, then, yeah, I think so."

We seal the deal with a dog-free peck. Just as I'm about to get up from the couch, he stops me.

"Can I ask you something?"

He wants to ask me something? OHMIG.o.d! He's going to propose right now! I bet he was planning to do this all along! It all makes sense.... We are having people over tonight, and we never have guests on a Sunday.... I think our barbecue is really supposed to be a surprise engagement party. Woo-hoo! He's going to ask me to marry him!

Yes, I know we've technically just agreed to marry, but I wasn't expecting my big, romantic proposal today. No wonder he got squirrelly for a minute there. HE was going to propose, and I beat him to the punch! What an unbelievable coincidence that we both decided to do it today! Are we in unison or what? We are SO meant to be together.

With my heart in my throat and hands shaking, I look adoringly into his eyes and say, "Fletcher, you can ask me anything."

He stops to catch his breath. Aww, he's trying to work up his confidence for what is the biggest moment in his life. We both pause. OK, here we go!!

"What's wrong with Maisy's foot?"

Courtney, Brett, Kim, and Biola are here for our Cinco de Mayo gathering, and the wedding announcement has put everyone in a particularly festive mood. We're all drinking margaritas and woofing down guacamole while Fletch tends to the rib eyes sizzling away on the grill.

"Fletch, when did you know Jen was the one?" asks Biola.

Fletch closes the lid to the grill and sits down with us. Cracking open a Miller High Life, he says, "I knew years ago." He takes a sip and reflects for a minute. "Specifically, it was our first Valentine's Day, and we'd been together about three months. We went to the nicest restaurant in our college town and had the best dinner of my life. Jen picked out everything-the wine, the appetizers, our entrees, etc. I was so impressed by her confidence and the way she handled herself I began to think she was out of my league."

I laugh. "Didn't last long, did it?"

"We finished dinner and went to her apartment. When we got there, her cats were acting strange. They normally sleep twenty-three hours a day, so to find them awake and alert was really unusual. They were fixated on this black spot on the wall. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a small bat."

"How did you get a bat in your apartment?" Brett asks me, but his eyes never leave Courtney's direction. Hmm, I may have to try my hand at matchmaking. I bet they'd make a nice couple, especially since Court's finally rid of the Chadifornicator.

"I lived in an incredibly scary building but it was almost the only place on campus that would allow pets. The creaky old fireplace flue had come open and the bat let itself in." I'm not kidding-that place was a dump. Once I even persuaded a local news crew to do a broadcast from my apartment because it was so cold. My landlord practically had a heart attack when he saw his building on TV, but you know what? When you don't respond to twenty-five consecutive calls about a heat problem, I take matters into my own hands.

"Yeah, and Jen lost it," Fletch says. "LOST IT. She began running around, screaming about cats getting rabies. I helped her examine them, we determined they were untouched, and we put them in their carriers. But Jen was still pus.h.i.+ng the panic b.u.t.ton because of a Far Side cartoon. A disheveled bat with a briefcase walks into his house and tells his bat wife, 'I musta been tangled up in that bimbo's hair all day.' She had really long hair at the time and was sure the bat was going to nose-dive into it. She kept yelling about bimbos, and then she put a wicker basket on her head and closed off the opening at the bottom by wrapping a sheet around her neck. Suddenly, I understood the sophisticated girl in the restaurant was just an act, and the real Jen was standing in front of me, wearing a garbage can on her head. And I knew at that moment if I married her, life would never be boring."

"How did you get the bat out of your place?" Kim inquires.

"I called my fraternity brother Tim. He brought over my lacrosse sticks and umpire mask. Between the two of us, we caught the bat and let him free outside," Fletch finishes.

Disappointed, Courtney says, "That's possibly the least romantic thing I've ever heard."

"Think so? Then wait till you hear how Jen proposed."

I told my parents about getting married, careful not to mention anyone else knew before they did.82 Surprisingly, my mother was totally rational and didn't cry or carry on like I expected. I figured she'd be all clingy and emotional. Perhaps the idea of writing all those checks was a sobering thought. My parents decided if Dad agreed to give us the car, he'd be off the hook for financing the wedding. (Of course, if he had his way, the wedding would be in the backyard, hot dogs on this side of the pool, hamburgers on that side, and try not to step in Nixon's towers o' dog p.o.o.p.) In only two weeks, I've managed to plan and book almost everything. Armed with my mother's MasterCard and a promise to "not go completely crazy," I started researching Las Vegas wedding venues. I thought it would be a riot to be married by Elvis but Fletch flatly refused, so I looked into hotel wedding chapels. I picked Mandalay Bay because it's cla.s.sy and private. The Venetian had a lovely wedding spot on the Ponte al di Piazza bridge, but I didn't want a bunch of strangers gawping at me while I exchanged vows. You want to watch a show? Buy a ticket.

As Mandalay Bay's chapel is located in a building outside of the hotel, I figured there'd be less danger of people wandering in during the ceremony, looking for the buffet. And thus, I'll neatly eliminate the danger of my head whirling around like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, yelling, "Excuse me, but I am making a solemn promise in front of G.o.d and everyone, so could you kindly get the f.u.c.k out?" at an innocent stranger.83 We decided we wanted a nontraditional event. You see, a while back, my friends Michael and Amy had the most spectacular wedding. First, the decor was amazing. Everything took place in the Chicago Cultural Center. It used to be the Chicago Public Library, and the main room had a vaulted ceiling much like a church. Every surface was mosaicked, but instead of religious iconography, all the designs were literature-based. The rooms had sweeping three-story windows and breathtaking views up and down Michigan Avenue, and without one piece of ornamentation, it was among the most beautiful places I'd ever seen. Add thousands of dollars' worth of flowers, crystal, and linen in a roomful of folks in black tie, and the whole scene was something out of a Martha Stewart book. Then include a forty-foot dessert table with at least a hundred different treats,84 gracious hosts, a top-shelf open bar, and you have my fantasy wedding. During the bride's speech, Amy told a touching story of being in her late thirties and having given up on love. But one wrong number later, she and Michael found each other and the rest was history. And at that moment, Navy Pier's fireworks began exploding in the giant window right behind them with nary a dry eye in the house.

I figured I'd never be able to compete with what I considered the most perfect wedding in existence, so I concentrated on making mine superfun. I booked our reception in Rum Jungle, a Brazilian-themed nightclub at Mandalay Bay, complete with walls of fire and water, rum bottles stacked fifty feet high, and cages full of go-go dancers.85 Since the music in Rum Jungle is all Latin techno, I don't have to bother booking a DJ and, subsequently, threaten his life for playing "YMCA" and the chicken dance song. We're encouraging people to dress resort-casual, and I bought my dad an adorable Hawaiian print s.h.i.+rt for the occasion. We're skipping silly old practices, such as feeding each other cake. Also, I refuse to toss the bouquet because rounding up and pointing out all the single women is cruel and unusual punishment.

Since I'm sure I'd turn into a Bridezilla, I decided not to have wedding attendants. It recently occurred to me it's all well and good to be a bridesmaid in your twenties, but by the time you hit your thirties, it's less of an honor and more of a ch.o.r.e. Besides, Carol has three kids, Shayla is finis.h.i.+ng grad school, and Melissa just started a new job after being unemployed for a few months. I like them all too much to stick them with the financial and emotional burdens involved. And this way, I won't have to attend any bridal showers. I'd rather receive fewer gifts than be forced to craft a gown out of toilet paper.

I admit I cheated a bit while making wedding arrangements. When planning, I knew I wouldn't have the two to three hours it takes to keep Maisy and Loki entertained and happy, so I s.h.i.+pped them off to a doggie day care from eight a.m. to five p.m. Although we can barely afford it, having that much uninterrupted time made all the difference. Plus they get so much exercise while at Doggie Day, they come home happy and exhausted. And everyone knows, a tired dog is not a dog that will dig around in your closet, find your precious Chanel slingbacks, and EAT BOTH OF THEM WHOLE.86 Now I'm sending them a couple of days a week since the bulk of the planning is done.

My only remaining task is to find a dress, and really, as much as I like to shop, how hard can it be?

Hate stupid dresses.

Hate stupid bridal shops.

Hate stupid bridal shop employees.

Hate stupid bridal shop owners.

Hate stupid entire bridal industry.

Hate stupid Modern Bride, Bride's Magazine, and Chicago Bride.

Hate stupid salesgirls at Escada, Saks, and Neiman's, who eyed my waist and clucked their tongues, saying, "Nope, sorry, nothing over a size twelve. But good luck to you."

Hate stupid fat self who can't fit into any pretty designer gowns.

Hate stupid weddings.

Apparently it pays to have a nervous breakdown in the middle of Bloomingdale's.

While my favorite clerk got me a gla.s.s of water, an exceptionally stylish plus-sized society woman dug around in her bag until she found a card for Dress Doctor. So now I'm getting my gown made by an exclusive seamstress, and all those anorexic wh.o.r.es on Michigan Avenue and Oak Street who made me feel like I was the Goodyear blimp can kiss the very fattest part of my a.s.s.

I have my first appointment with Soheila at Dress Doctor this afternoon. Her a.s.sistant answers the door and leads me into the showroom. Her shop is more like an office, and it's quiet, private, and orderly. While I wait, I scrutinize the intricate st.i.tching on one of her design displays and find her work to be flawless.

Soheila enters from the back of the shop and greets me warmly. I suspect I'm in capable hands. I show her pictures of dresses I like, and we discuss what features I want. Immediately we rule out strapless because with the recent addition of fat on my broad shoulders, I look like more of a linebacker and less of a fairy princess.87 I prefer cla.s.sic design and eschew anything with ruffles or sequins. Also, my ankles are surprisingly shapely and I want them to show because I plan to get great shoes.

While flipping through a design book, Soheila asks me a series of "do you prefer this or this" questions and it reminds me of visiting the eye doctor. But within minutes, she shows me a dress in a vintage Vogue pattern book, and it encompa.s.ses everything I love. It's retro and glamorous without being weighed down with extraneous lace or beading. Its perfection is its simplicity. I gaze adoringly at a glorious A-line, tea-length gown with a short tulle bustle and a portrait collar and I fall in love. And yet...

"This is it, Soheila," I say, tapping the page.

"Yes. Are you quite sure? I have many books and we can look at them until you are positive you have found the perfect dress," replies Soheila kindly.

"No, this is it. I'm sure. It's just..." I trail off.

"Just what? Jennifer, is this truly your choice? Please do not rush your decision. I will have plenty of time to make whatever you want."

"It is, I do, I love the dress. I'm just not sure of the color."

"If you do not care for the snowy white, we can use ivory or eggsh.e.l.l."

"No, those colors don't really do it for me, either," I respond. Soheila retrieves a book of fabrics and lays it across my knees.

"What do you envision? Here is a beautiful ecru dupioni silk. The heavy texture would work well with the lines of the dress. Or perhaps you would prefer something softer with an undertone of blush?" she asks, holding out a baby pink taffeta swatch.

"Yeah, these are nice, but..."

"Jennifer, this is a once-in-a-lifetime event. Tell me what you see when you picture your wedding in your dreams."

I close my eyes and try to envision the day. Fletch, happy and handsome in his white dinner jacket, gracefully twirls me around the parquet floor.88 With his short hair and funky horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, Fletch reminds me of an old-school astronaut. My whole look is Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy of the Camelot era, and I'm sporting an adorably bubble-shaped up 'do with gardenias in my hair. On my face, I'm wearing thick black eyeliner, doelike false lashes, and frosty pink lipstick. No, scratch that. Light lipstick makes me look like I've been eating powdered donuts.89 We resemble Barbie and Ken, circa 1962. I float in his arms, swirling around in a fitted-I'VE GOT IT!

"Black! That's it! I see myself in a black dress." I pause, waiting for her reaction. I have never heard of anyone wearing black to her wedding, particularly in the case of a first marriage.

Soheila stares into the distance for a moment before starting to nod her head. "A black wedding dress. Yes. Yes, I think this is a good idea. It will be striking, but nontraditional."

"Exactly!"

"Then we shall take your measurements now," she says.

My mother launches straight into negotiation mode. "But you'd look so beautiful in a white dress. I've always pictured you getting married in a pristine white strapless dress with a long train and intricate beading on the bodice." I'm home to address wedding invitations and to pick up the Cadillac. Every time we spoke on the phone for the past month, I changed the subject when she asked about the dress. I purposefully didn't tell her specifics about it until today, since it's now too late to make changes. She is less than enthused with my choice.

"Not one bit of what you just said is appealing or would look good on me," I reply. I use my feet to push off the side of the pool and I paddle my raft toward the sunny part of the deep end. With less than two months to go, I'm coated in SPF 0 oil, fully committing myself to tanorexia. I might not be skinny on my wedding day, so I'll compensate by being dark.

"What if you had the dress made in white for the ceremony and wore the black one for the reception?" she suggests, swimming right along behind me.

"How many times do we have to go over this? I already told you I'm wearing the black dress. I want nontraditional," I argue. Except for wardrobe, my mother has been delightfully hands-off in regard to wedding choices. Her only suggestion involved the invitations. I thought something Vegasy would be appropriate, but both Mom and the stationer convinced me otherwise. I ended up selecting a thick cream William Arthur card with flaps that fold open like doors to expose embossed vellum over a painting of a topiary. The invitation ties together with a green tulle ribbon and comes with a green parchment-lined envelope. They are truly stunning.90 "But I'll pay for both dresses."

"Which is exceptionally generous of you," I reply. "Although it's a waste of a thousand dollars. With that money, I'd rather keep the bar open for an extra hour or give each of the guests a gift basket. Remember, you're the one who says a wedding is as much about the guests as it is about the couple."

"Jennifer, don't worry about the money. We can extend the reception time and get the second dress if you want."

I peer at her over the edge of my raft. "Who are you and what have you done with my mother?" I ask. Having grown up struggling, Mom's always kept a tight grip on her cash. This woman would rather die than pay retail.

"All I want is for you to have a wonderful wedding," she huffs. "Is that so wrong?"