many people you’re inviting.
september 9th—2 A.M.
I can’t sleep. It’s just occurred to me that marriage is emblematic for lodging.
The Jewish wedding canopy is symbolic of the roof onthe couple’s new home. The Catholic church is the
house
of the Lord. And then there’s the “institution” of marriage, like the Institution of American Dentistry, which you “enter into,” like a home, a supermarket, or a car wash. But do you ever come out? Will I fade into my friends’ memories as that brunette with the great smile?
And what if the lodging is substandard, like a hut? Or a log cabin? Or a studio apartment with roaches and no hot water? Who do I complain to?
september 10th
I went to Frutto di Sole with the girls tonight. Anita, Jenny, Kathy, and Paula. We just laughed and bitched and ate really great bad food. I felt like I was back in college. Except Mandy wasn’t there to complain about my use of profanity. She was too busy putting the fear of God into her wedding caterer.
Several times during the evening I thought to ask my girlfriends about wedding venues, dress suggestions, and creative party details…but I decided against it. I’m not going to be one of those brides who won’t shut up about her wedding. As much as I love her, I’m no Mandy.
Furthermore, I’m going to make a point of doing this at least twice a month when I’m married. Going out with the girls. Kicking back and talking, maybe Rollerblading in the park…I just hope Stephen won’t feel threatened. Forgotten. Left out. Neglected. Abandoned. Hurt. Ignored.
For Christ’s sake! This is why I don’t own a pet!
september 13th
B arry held the door open for me on the way into the conference room.
Something is very wrong.
september 14th
I went over to Stephen’s apartment for dinner. We needed to buckle down and come up with a rough estimate on our guest list. And though I purposely sat on and tried to bond with his plaid couch, visions of Goodwill just danced in my head.
Since I always want sushi and he always wants Mexican, we generally compromise and order out for Chinese. But tonight Stephen surprised me with a homemade dinner. Seafood paella served by candlelight. And on our table was an ice sculpture the size of a milk carton, which Stephen himself had made.
The man can cook but he can’t sculpt. He claimed it was a rose, and though I praised his artistry, I couldn’t help but think how much it looked like a human brain. Shrinking and dripping before our very eyes onto a saucer. All through dinner—drip, drip, drip. And when I suggested that we move it away from the candles, Stephen insisted on keeping it where it was. Drip, drip, drip went the human brain.
Then, just as we were finishing dessert, and the human brain had shrunk to the size of a small tumor, I noticed something sparkling within it. Minutes later Stephen’s hand-carved rose revealed a dazzling jewel. He plucked it out and slipping it onto my finger asked how I liked my engagement ring.
It was the most romantic, creative, thoughtful gesture. And the ring was sparkling and stunning and NOT A DIAMOND.
It’s a glorious emerald set in a gold band. Lovely and elegant but NOT A DIAMOND.
ME
Oh. Wow. It’s an emerald. I don’t know what to say.
STEPHEN
I’m so relieved you like it. I thought you might prefer a diamond, but my grandmother convinced me to give this to you. It belonged to her mother and she’s been keeping it all these years, waiting for one of us to get married. I even had it sized to fit your finger.
ME
Oh yeah, it fits great.
What could I say? It was his great-grandmother’s ring. To refuse would be insulting four generations of his family. So what if his wedding proposal was cut-rate? The ring is stunning and he cooked me dinner and he hand-carved a human brain from a block of ice, but it’s NOT A DIAMOND.
I know this shouldn’t bother me. After all, I’m the one who keeps insisting that we avoid the shackles of tradition,
september 9th—2 A.M.
I can’t sleep. It’s just occurred to me that marriage is emblematic for lodging.
The Jewish wedding canopy is symbolic of the roof onthe couple’s new home. The Catholic church is the
house
of the Lord. And then there’s the “institution” of marriage, like the Institution of American Dentistry, which you “enter into,” like a home, a supermarket, or a car wash. But do you ever come out? Will I fade into my friends’ memories as that brunette with the great smile?
And what if the lodging is substandard, like a hut? Or a log cabin? Or a studio apartment with roaches and no hot water? Who do I complain to?
september 10th
I went to Frutto di Sole with the girls tonight. Anita, Jenny, Kathy, and Paula. We just laughed and bitched and ate really great bad food. I felt like I was back in college. Except Mandy wasn’t there to complain about my use of profanity. She was too busy putting the fear of God into her wedding caterer.
Several times during the evening I thought to ask my girlfriends about wedding venues, dress suggestions, and creative party details…but I decided against it. I’m not going to be one of those brides who won’t shut up about her wedding. As much as I love her, I’m no Mandy.
Furthermore, I’m going to make a point of doing this at least twice a month when I’m married. Going out with the girls. Kicking back and talking, maybe Rollerblading in the park…I just hope Stephen won’t feel threatened. Forgotten. Left out. Neglected. Abandoned. Hurt. Ignored.
For Christ’s sake! This is why I don’t own a pet!
september 13th
B arry held the door open for me on the way into the conference room.
Something is very wrong.
september 14th
I went over to Stephen’s apartment for dinner. We needed to buckle down and come up with a rough estimate on our guest list. And though I purposely sat on and tried to bond with his plaid couch, visions of Goodwill just danced in my head.
Since I always want sushi and he always wants Mexican, we generally compromise and order out for Chinese. But tonight Stephen surprised me with a homemade dinner. Seafood paella served by candlelight. And on our table was an ice sculpture the size of a milk carton, which Stephen himself had made.
The man can cook but he can’t sculpt. He claimed it was a rose, and though I praised his artistry, I couldn’t help but think how much it looked like a human brain. Shrinking and dripping before our very eyes onto a saucer. All through dinner—drip, drip, drip. And when I suggested that we move it away from the candles, Stephen insisted on keeping it where it was. Drip, drip, drip went the human brain.
Then, just as we were finishing dessert, and the human brain had shrunk to the size of a small tumor, I noticed something sparkling within it. Minutes later Stephen’s hand-carved rose revealed a dazzling jewel. He plucked it out and slipping it onto my finger asked how I liked my engagement ring.
It was the most romantic, creative, thoughtful gesture. And the ring was sparkling and stunning and NOT A DIAMOND.
It’s a glorious emerald set in a gold band. Lovely and elegant but NOT A DIAMOND.
ME
Oh. Wow. It’s an emerald. I don’t know what to say.
STEPHEN
I’m so relieved you like it. I thought you might prefer a diamond, but my grandmother convinced me to give this to you. It belonged to her mother and she’s been keeping it all these years, waiting for one of us to get married. I even had it sized to fit your finger.
ME
Oh yeah, it fits great.
What could I say? It was his great-grandmother’s ring. To refuse would be insulting four generations of his family. So what if his wedding proposal was cut-rate? The ring is stunning and he cooked me dinner and he hand-carved a human brain from a block of ice, but it’s NOT A DIAMOND.
I know this shouldn’t bother me. After all, I’m the one who keeps insisting that we avoid the shackles of tradition,
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