 |
There is a camel-colored notebook in my parent’s house, unused except for the first college-ruled page, on which there is a list written in my mother’s handwriting. It is entitled, “Things That Went Wrong.” The first items listed are as follows.
1. Ross breaks into the church with a crowbar.
2. Ross is wearing one black sock, one navy sock.
I had unearthed the notebook as a child, coming across it in the downstairs closet while looking for pads of drawing paper. I treated it as a great anthropological find, being that the list was dated 1977, three years before my birth, and that it solidified the fact that I knew in my head but not my heart—that my parents had existed before I was born.
I carried the notebook up to my mother, holding it as though it might at any moment crumble to dust. It was from 1977 and I considered anything from before my birth to be very, very old—as if perhaps we had saved this notebook from the library at Alexandria or found it alongside the Dead Sea scrolls, storing it (for safety) in the closet next to the typewriter equipment.
“Where did you find this?” my mother asked.
“Downstairs.”
“This is a list of the things that went wrong at our wedding,” she said, running her finger down the page. She is smiling, and highlights the first item with her nail. “Your father and Reverend Matos showed up at the church and the doors were iced shut because it was January. They had to pry the door open with a crowbar.” She continued down the list with her finger, occasionally rolling her eyes. “Never get married in January,” she said.
In the photographs from their wedding my parents look very happy but my mother frowns when she looks at the pictures because her face is shiny in some of them.
“If you ever get married,” she said, “hire a professional photographer who knows what he’s doing. If people’s faces are shiny, the photographer is supposed to tell them so that it doesn’t ruin the pictures.
“I think your pictures are nice,” I told her.
“Yes, but look at my face,” she would say, frowning, and I would look at it and think that her face looked very beautiful.
My mother got married in January of 1977 after meeting my father in March of 1976. They had met on a blind date, set up by her friend Chickie, who was one of the Spanish Language interpreters in the courthouse where my father worked. My mother was 29 and my father was 30 and they got married at the Fort Hamilton Officer’s Club on a January day cold enough for the doors of their Brooklyn church to freeze closed. And my father, who loved my mother and wanted to marry her very much, chipped away at the ice with a crowbar he kept in his car for emergencies, wearing one black sock and one navy sock with his tuxedo.
* * *
I am sitting across from a woman who organizes weddings on what I will call the Blippity Bloop estate. She is wearing a charcoal suit and a pastel shirt with an eggshell-colored ruffle around the collar and I am wearing nice jeans and a top I ironed without being asked. I am holding hands under the table with Jonathan, who a year ago I had not yet met—had not even known existed, and the wedding organizer is going, “Here at Blippity Bloop, you have the option of the big room only, or the small room for cocktails and the big room for the reception. And if you’re using both rooms, we offer the Bleepity Blart package, which includes an entire waterfall of appetizers, and a roast duck for everyone, and live, dancing lobsters, and scallops wrapped in five-dollar bills, and magic and happiness and clouds. That’s the first option. And if you don’t want that,” she continues, “we have the Bloppity Bleek package, which includes everything from the Bleepity Blart package, except no magic and no clouds, and only a few of the lobsters are dancing,” she says, “but not that well.”
Jonathan and I look at her, saying nothing.
“And we also offer a very basic Blankety Blink package,” she finishes, “which is only one butler-passed appetizer. One pig in one blanket on one tray and immediately after someone eats it, the wedding is over and everybody goes home sad.”
“How much is that one?” I ask.
“Which?” she asks.
“The Blankety Blink.”
She opens a folder and pulls out several sheets of paper, pushing them across the table toward me and placing the tip of her pen alongside prices.
“The Blankety Blink,” she says, “is a million billion per person.” She pauses momentarily as we process the information, sliding her pen down the page. “That’s for an evening wedding. If you’re doing an afternoon wedding it’s from 11AM to 4PM and it’s only nine hundred thousand per person, but an additional $40 a head if you’d like the bar to serve anything other than rubbing alcohol.”
We had mentioned to the woman that we would like to have our ceremony on-site and she had shown us to a room with a fireplace at the hearth and had said that my bridal party and I could enter from one of two ways—either through what appeared to be the door of a small linen closet, or descending from a staircase eerily reminiscent of the Carol Burnett “Gone With the Wind” Parody, which I would have considered only if my wedding dress had a curtain rod thrust through the shoulders.
“Thank you very much,” I say to the woman, and she rises from her seat, placing one of her hands on the dark mahogany table to steady herself, leaning over to shake both my and Jonathan’s hands.
“Thank you,” she says, and I am reminded of many of the dates I went on before meeting Jonathan, where you part from the date civilly but are secretly thrilled to be ending the encounter, knowing that you will never see the person again and will think of them (from this point on) with an involuntary shudder of relief.
It is the third wedding hall I have seen this week.
* * *
Jonathan proposed before we had known each other a year. He was tall and smiled a lot and was a Spanish Interpreter for the court system and spoke four languages but did not mind that I spoke only one. He had climbed Mt. Fuji and been to clown school. He wrote poetry and could dance and when I found spiders in my apartment he would trap them under a glass and set them free outside instead of killing them. Jonathan had wanted to propose in Venice during our three-week trip to Italy but was unable to wait that long and proposed in Rome, on the Ides of March, two days into the trip. I had never wanted an engagement ring and so he had knelt and presented me with a Valentine’s Day card of the sort you distribute to your third grade class, on which was written,
“Will you marry me?”
Love,
Jonathan
And it was very shy and sweet and reminded me of the notes passed in study hall asking,
“Do you like me? Check yes or no.”
and I wanted to pull a black pen from my shoulder bag and check off, “Yes, off course I will marry you. I would be honored to marry you. You are the greatest, most wonderful person I have ever met.”
* * *
This time the wedding coordinator has long, brown hair with side swept bangs and reminds me of a corporate version of a girl from my high school English class. She uses long, extended-arm gestures to show me the property, grinning, as if I am constantly winning a new car on a game show.
“This is going to be your ceremony site,” she says, “So you’d walk down the aisle toward the river—do you want to do a practice walk?” she asks, and I can tell from her voice that there is an incredibly large percentage of women and girls who say yes, they do want to do a practice walk. During my sister’s wedding, her fiancé had suggested that she sprint down the aisle, followed by an Indiana Jones-sized boulder, and that he would swing in on a rope and rescue her and my mother had said, “No—you’re supposed to walk down the aisle very slowly,” as if the sprinting had been the part of his suggestion that had been the most ridiculous, and on which she should offer clarification.
“Slowly,” my mother said. “Imagine there are people in front of you,” she offered, “and you’re waiting for them to move,” and I instantly imagined myself standing in the aisle for 40 minutes, hand on the hip of my wedding dress as I tapped my foot and glanced at my watch. In my right hand I would hold my bouquet and in my left, the crumpled forms needed to renew my driver’s license.
“So you walk down here,” the coordinator says, still gesturing with her arms, walking me through the ceremony as if she is choreographing a musical, “you walk down through this area, which can easily accommodate up to three hundred and twenty chairs—we’ve done it before. Ok? So three hundred and twenty chairs, and if you’re doing an evening wedding you’ll be saying your vows around sunset, so the sun will be going down, which is beautiful for the photographer. And you kiss, and then you’re going to walk back toward here,” she says, as I follow her, “entering through this door,” she swings open a glass door and waits for me to walk through before she herself enters, “and then you’re here and its your cocktail reception, Ok?”
I nod vaguely, wondering what happens in act two.
* * *
The curtain opens and it is clearly a flashback—you can tell from the lighting, which is sort of yellowish—and there is a woman in a royal blue jogging suit and pigtails. The woman is wearing aviator sunglasses and stretching and I realize that it is my mother. She has incredibly white teeth and is smiling at someone. Beside her, a younger, skinnier version of my father is wearing a polo shirt and athletic shorts with blue piping—the shorts cover only the top third of his blindingly white thighs, as was the style during what I can only assume was the horrific fabric shortage of the 1970’s. My father is not stretching, but is standing, leaning against the bare white, undecorated wall. He is smiling.
There are no children, only the young couple enjoying each other’s company, though the woman peers into the baby carriages of strangers more frequently than she did when she was single. Their apartment is well furnished. It has evolved past the transitory haphazardness of a single person’s apartment and is devoid of posters tacked to walls and random, unmatched dishes inherited from family members. It is the apartment of a couple who own a matching sheet set and a food processor and who lie in bed early Sunday morning, looking out the window at their tree-lined street.
The couple looks happy, despite the fact that there is nothing interesting happening. There are no people dancing in the background and no hors d’oeuvres being passed and no one is cutting an enormous cake topped by a small, plastic likeness of themselves. There are no kick lines and no one holding a microphone and no one in a fantastically long dress hurling flowers into the air. There is just the woman, stretching in her jogging suit and aviators and the man, standing casually against the wall, next to a lightswitch plate surrounded by smudged fingerprints.
“This is right after we got married,” my mother says, gesturing to the photo. “Why I’m wearing those glasses I have no idea.”
“I’ve seen you wear worse glasses than those,” I offer.
“Thank you,” she says. She turns to the next photo, another shot of my father, and my mother smiles.
* * *
I am looking at a place with a tent that sits alongside the river. It is a large white tent that seats 300 and, weather permitting, the cocktail reception is outside, in chairs that look out onto the Hudson, and there is a partially obscured view of Indian Point, the nuclear power plant, which is only a mile or so away. Its immediate visage is comforting, assuring me that, should there be any malfunction, the entire wedding will be instantaneously vaporized, rather than my guests suffering the slow painful death of radiation poisoning.
“So this is what you want?” my mother asks, reviewing the folder for the site. “This is the one you really like?”
“This one is nice,” I say. I avoid answering the question, ‘Is this what you want?’ because what I wanted, I remember, was a backyard barbeque for 250 people, with coolers full of Negra Modelo and Stella Artois and a man whose only purpose is to keep running back to the supermarket to buy more chips. I mentioned this to my mother once, early on, and I recognized her expression as the face of someone who wants something vastly different, but is also determined that I be happy. It is the quintessential facial expression of a good mother.
“Our house isn’t big enough to do something like that,” she said quietly. “But if you really want we can try paring down the lists. We can just go through them person by person.”
“I don’t really want to pare down the list,” I admitted.
“Not your friends,” she said. “Your friends can all come—it’s your wedding. But maybe some of the people dad and I know…”
“I don’t want you to have to pare down your people either,” I told her.
“We know a lot of people,” she said. “A lot of friends and a lot of family.”
“Good,” I said.
“So you’re sure this is what you want?” my mother asked.
“I want the people coming to have a good time.”
“They will.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s what I want.”
I would get married here or I would get married somewhere else. I would walk anywhere they wanted me to walk. Down to the ceremony, up to the altar, back down the aisle, shake hands with people—some of whom you know, some of whom you don’t—walk down toward the river for photographs, including several (despite my mother’s protests) with the nuclear power plant in the background, back up to the cocktail hour, and over to the other side of the property for the reception. Sit through toasts and speeches. Listen, as my grandfather gives a toast that is very sentimental and sweet and that will somehow segue into an oral family history that makes four separate mentions of World War II. Dance through the reception, intermittently saying hello to people my parents know and my next door neighbors and someone my mother used to teach with and a friend of mine from nursery school, occasionally eating something, shaking hands, dancing, thanking people for coming, telling them I had a wonderful time, and I exit stage left, taking off my costume and telling people, “Good show! Great show tonight!” and high-fiving the tech workers, asking if they are meeting us later for a drink.
And the clock will strike twelve and my dress (which will already be in a closet hanging up somewhere) will turn into a pair of jeans with a bleach stain on them and my glass slippers will turn into size 11 Saucony running shoes that my mother wishes I would throw away. My contact lenses turn back into debilitating myopia and the waiters at the reception site will turn back into mice or actors or freelance graphic designers who are looking for work and my bridal suite will disappear, turning into a sofa in a living room where I accidentally fell asleep without meaning to. And it will all be over and we will all return to our lives.
* * *
I am sitting on Jonathan’s futon in my black sweatpants and a T-shirt whose seams have ripped in both armpits but which I keep meaning to fix. I am wearing my glasses, reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, which I had always meant to read but am just now getting around to. Jonathan walks in from the other room where he was sending out submissions to literary magazines and eating peanut butter cups.
He is wearing a T-shirt from his high school graduation, which was 15 years ago and kisses me on the forehead and I put down my book and he sits down beside me on the futon. He has a slight ingrown hair on his arm and I ask if I can try and get it out and he says no, please no…he will get it out later, and last time I asked to pull out one of his hairs it hurt a lot. And I apologize and he says don’t worry, it wasn’t my fault, he just wants to take care of his own hairs.
And so far this may not seem that exciting, but right then—right at that point he does something spontaneous, like saying, “Do we have enough recycling to fill up a full bag tonight or should I wait until Thursday to take it out?”
And I, taken aback at how much my life resembles the plot of The Bourne Identity or Mission Impossible, say something edgy and dangerous, like, “Did you get my message that your mom called and the 29th is fine? Everyone’s good with the 29th.”
And Jonathan, completely overwhelmed by the thought (the thought!) that his mother has left him a message and that the 29th is fine with everyone, does something electrifying, like looking at the wall next to the bathroom and commenting that we might have water damage and that he should probably call the landlady.
My head thumps with adrenaline and I find myself frantic, excited, doing something outlandish and passionate like saying, “Yeah—give her a call,” while brushing biscotti crumbs off the lap of my sweatpants.
And we look at each other—madly, unbelievably in love—he pointing to the phone, indicating that he is leaving the landlady a message.
* * *
If you are hoping to have a lasting relationship, you can choose from one of these three packages.
The A #1 Super Best Relationship package, which includes a completely free daily yacht ride from the French Riviera to Cape Town, South Africa, an oil well that smells like fresh rainwater, a baby snow leopard with no claws and no teeth, and a Yves Saint Laurent sleeping bag lined with the feathers of extinct Moa birds. The A #1 Super Best includes unlimited access to Sigourney Weaver’s e-mail account (you can read all her mail!), and four oxen and two wagon axles and the ability to fly at altitudes of up to 15,000 ft. (to breathe underwater is an additional $21.50 per person). You receive a lifetime subscription to Marie Claire and Smithsonian Magazine and unlimited good hair days and you will be included in this year’s edition of The Guinness Book of world records without even doing anything noteworthy, with your picture alongside the picture of the world’s fattest twins, both of whom are posing on motorcycles.
If that doesn’t work for you we have the #2 Still Great But Not As Great Relationship Wonder Package, which is similar to the above package, except that your sleeping bag will be lined with the feathers of a bird that has not yet gone extinct and you get only 2 oxen and 1 wagon axle and your oil well smells like oil. Also, you will still be in the Guinness Book of World Records, but your picture is nowhere near the fat motorcycle twins and is somewhere in the back where probably no one will find it.
And last off we have the #3 Totally Regular Relationship Non-Wonder Package, which involves nothing from either the above packages. You do not have the ability to fly and you do not get a baby snow leopard with no claws and no teeth and you do not appear in the Guinness Book of World Records at all—many of the world’s citizens will live their entire lives, never knowing of your existence.
You get a small apartment in Jersey City with a toilet that works some of the time and a non-ergonomic desk chair that you will probably have to replace. You get recycling, but not quite enough to have a full bag, where you would need to take it out tonight, and you get voicemail messages from your parents and if you do not wipe things up in the kitchen as soon as you spill them, you get ants.
And you get someone who, if you ask them to get rid of the ants, will help you get rid of the ants— trapping them between a glass and a piece of cardboard and setting them free outside, next to the porch. You get someone who does not think less of you for being the type of person who squashes ants with her shoe, rather than releasing them back into the wild like she would if she were a better person.
With the #3 Totally Regular Relationship Non-Wonder Package, you get someone who does not expect you to be perfect—someone who will not mind that you sometimes walk around the apartment with your shirt on backwards or your socks inside out and who will wake up next to you every morning smiling at you, their face on the white sheets illuminated by sunlight because neither of you can remember to buy curtains. The person will look at you and tell you you look beautiful and really think it is true, even though you know for a fact you fell asleep wearing eyeliner and look like a child has been drawing on your face with a piece of charcoal.
And it is not that you will be deluded into thinking this particular relationship package is perfect. You will be well aware that it isn’t. But after the imperfect wedding that begins your imperfect life together, you will sit down at a table with your small, camel-colored notebook, and make a list entitled, “Things That Went Wrong.”
Your pen will write things like:
1.) Wore one black sock and one navy sock
2.) Gave best man wrong boutonniere
3.) Went to new barber and received unflattering haircut before wedding
4.) Neglected to powder face between photographs
You will list all of the things that went wrong. You will write them out, one after the other, before closing the tan cover and putting the notebook aside somewhere, tucked into a closet for your unborn daughter to find when she is looking for scrap paper. You will change into your royal blue tracksuit and stretch on the floor of your bedroom, and if you hear keys jingling in the lock of the front door it will mean the person you have just married has gotten back from his Saturday morning errands and has come home to spend time with you. You smile, pulling yourself off the floor and fumbling for the aviator-style glasses on your night table.
He unlocks the door with his house key and calls your name and your heart jumps a little. It is not nearly as dramatic as breaking into a church with a crowbar, but is much more practical in the long run.
|
|
Previous 
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/syndicated.gif){kind=small}
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
%7Cutmcsr%3Dhttp%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Estraightdope%2Ecom%2F%7Cutmcmd%3Drss%3B%2B){kind=small}
giddy
%7Cutmcsr%3Dhttp%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Estraightdope%2Ecom%2F%7Cutmcmd%3Drss%3B%2B){kind=small}
