To be, or not to be

bridezilla. noun. Definition: "A bride-to-be who focuses so much on the event that she becomes difficult and obnoxious." Etymology: 1995; blend of 'bride' + 'Godzilla'. Usage: slang.

I am not a difficult person. In fact, there have been instances in my life in which I wish I could put aside the ingrained sense of gentility with which I face and interact with the world. More and more these days it seems to me that it is the obnoxious, the brash, the cunning, the ruthless, and the spoilt who get want they want, or at least more of what they want, whether it be their own way, success, material goods, or just attention.

 

[I think this why/how the election of Barack Obama in the United States has been so inspirational and uplifting across the globe. We need to believe that the kind, the gentle, the graceful can come out on top.]

 

I will never forget the time I got in trouble in the 2^nd grade. Pupils in St. Joseph's Catholic School grades 1-3 were not allowed to venture down the hall past the water fountains. Period. One day, I came in from recess to go to the restroom. Three “upper School” girls were at the end of the hallway outside the sixth grade classroom. “Isn’t she cute!” one of them shrieked in my direction. “Come here!” they beckoned.

 

Intrigued, and absent-mindedly forgetting the rule, I crossed “the line” and ventured down the hall. I can only imagine how I must have looked to them, in my tiny, hobbit-sized version of their bigger girls uniform. “You’re adorable!” they said, showering me with praise, and going so far as lifting me from the ground into their arms.

 

The sound of Sister Mary Regine’s voice thundered down the hallway. She bellowed my name, and I froze where I stood. The three upper School girls disappeared swiftly and without a trace, not unlike the three witches in Macbeth, who vanish from Macbeth’s sight like “bubbles of the earth.”  

The long, lonely walk back down the hallway to the 2^nd grade classroom seemed an eternity. I knew what was at hand. Back in those days corporeal punishment of schoolchildren was the approved norm: “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

 

Before my punishment was enacted, Sister asked me if I had anything to say for myself. Which of course I did: I wasn’t my fault. Well, not entirely. Yes, I had broken a rule, but I had been urged, cajoled and encouraged. It was not fair that I was to be punished, while those who had incited the crime walked free.

 

With ruler in hand, Sister looked down at me with loving, but firm eyes, and said words I shall always remember: “My child, I fear that you have a rather unhealthy sense of fairness.”

 

This “unhealthy sense of fairness” has guided much of my life, and driven a hefty share of the angst I feel about a great numbers of things, from the ridiculous to the sublime. (Like the time I tried to “help the starving children” by posting a dozen oatmeal cookies in a large manila envelope marked: “Cambodia”. Without postage.)

 

Fairness. What does it mean, really? What is and isn’t “fair”. And when is it ones place to call breaches of fairness into question, and when to remain silent? I wonder.

 

Last night, The D.E.B., my W.I. chum, Diane, and I – calling ourselves “Shakespeare in Love” – attended the monthly quiz night at The Granville. Last month, we had a fabulous time, and we won! Last night? Not so much. Let me explain. (Or vent, rather.)

 

I’m a very competitive person, I like to win. In fact, I don’t think anyone enjoys losing. But, if I am defeated by a stronger, smarter opponent, so be it. No sour grapes, here. However, I cannot abide cheating! Last night there was a team at the quiz who were quite openly gleaning answers using their iPhones. I was furious with the Quizmaster who chose to turn a blind eye to their misdemeanors. The girls with the phones were a part of a large table of people who had come out together, sat together, but formed two teams. One of their teams won the Quiz Night.

 

All is not fair in love and war! Perhaps I would feel less indignant about this cheating incident if the perpetrators had at least been a little more cloaked or finessed in their foul play. But, to hear one of the girls drunkenly slur: “Oh, the answer’s just coming through now,” was just more than I could take!

 

I looked around the room, and saw several knowing and disappointed faces, but no one said anything. All of us, perhaps, fearing we’d “ruin the fun” by “making a fuss.” “It’s a just a game,” The D.E.B. said sweetly, trying to calm me, by smiling that smile of his. But it was too late. My patina of gentility had finally cracked.

 

I broke the silence of the room by saying, in a firm voice: “You can’t use your phone." And again, "You’re not allowed to use your phone.” I felt very loud and very American.

 

There was a great deal of tutting, teeth sucking, sighing and eye-rolling from the culprit group. But there were also meek smiles, and one or two nods from some of the other players around the room.

 

Was I taking it all too seriously, or was I right to call their actions into question? In these uncertain times, I think a clear sense of the “right thing” in an instance such as this has become skewed. We have become so concerned—and I think sometimes superficially—about being offensive to others, and/or infringing upon others, that we lose sight of the larger picture.

 

In this sort of situation no one wants to say anything for fear of being labeled a “nark,” a “tattle-tale” or a “killjoy.” But, what is to be made of the fact that by their actions these fraudulent players were infringing upon my fun, and killing my joy? There’s no fun in to for me going toe-to-toe with Wikipedia. Wikipedia will always win! As far as I’m concerned, I might as well just save my money and stay home.

 

Ugh. Where is the formidable Sister Mary Regine when you need her? She would have made short shrift of those turkeys! God bless ‘er.

 

The thing that burned me the most about the Quiz Cheaters was their brazenness. Clearly, being obnoxious goes a long way in this world. Especially in a place where people are generally too kind and/or too polite to make a fuss.

 

I confess that I wish I could channel just a wee, tiny fraction of that in regard to some of my wedding planning. Well, chiefly, the music. Don’t get me wrong! Everyone at St. Peter’s has been lovely and helpful. And the music for our wedding is going to gorgeous. The Chief Musician is a gifted and talented man and is very open to what the D.E.B. and I want.

 

We had our first meeting with him a few weeks ago, he’d asked us to create a Music Wish List. Which we did with much, much glee. But here is the rub. I have longed adored Bach’s beautiful chorale “Sleepers Awake,” and have an incredibly beautiful version of it by the singer Sissel on my iPod.

 

After weeks of scouring Google and emailing around the globe, I was finally able to acquire the lyrics of Sissel’s version of this song, and emailed them yesterday to the Chief Musician -- with a plea that this be my Bridal Entrance music. For well over a year now, I have been fantasizing about walking down the aisle to this magical version of “Sleepers Awake.” My hopes were dashed this morning after Morning Prayer.

 

The Chief Musician was very sorry to inform me that it would be hopelessly impossible for me to use this as my entrance music. Lovely though it is, it is far too long. The piece is more than 3 minutes long, and although most congregations are indulgent of bridal excesses, asking people to stand on their feet for a 3-minute bridal entrance might even try the patience of a saint.

 

True to form, I offered polite compromise: Could I have a section, nay, even just a snippet of it? Apparently, not. With so famous a piece, according to our CM, it really must be all or nothing, and all is not an option. And, so, the matter was settled. Bride must go back to the drawing board, and find another, shorter, tune.

 

I was gutted, but smiled sweetly, and remained good-natured. Why did I not, as some other women/brides-to-be would have done: stamped my foot, grounded my resolve, burst into tears and shouted: “But I want it!!!”

 

Because I could never do such a thing, (and I am proud to say that I would not) but, that’s not to say that a small part of me doesn't wish I could be a little like that, just once. For all of three seconds.

 

Ultimately, it’s just one song, one moment of my life.  A very important song and moment no doubt, but still just one moment of many. I need to remind myself of the larger picture, and remember that getting what you want should never out weigh playing fair.

It takes a village

Throughout this early and very intense stage of wedding planning, I have learned one clear and valuable lesson: “No bride is an island.”

No matter how smart you are, or how smart think you are, you can always benefit from the knowledge, wisdom and experience of others.

Obviously, a lot of the advice that one is given when one is a “Bride-to-be” is often a load of old rubbish and nonsense. Such as the email I received from a friend (and I use the term loosely) of mine, who wrote recently with advice about Bridesmaids. To illustrate her point, she included the following, a picture she found on a bridal blog she’s a fan of:

Her advice: “Choose your bridesmaids carefully, make sure they are all shorter and fatter than you. And, everyone knows the drill. Pick a ridiculous color and a god-awful design that no one looks good in.” 

It was only after reading this message that I began to contemplate just how and why the sender counts me amongst her friends…because I’m shorter and fatter than she is, perhaps?  Hmmm….

Well, I discarded that advice from my mind, as swiftly as I deleted her message from my inbox. From the ridiculous to the sublime, wedding advice runs the gamut.  As does, I’m proud to say, wedding support. Barford in a very small English village, in a small English county. Not much happens here, but there is always a lot going on. And a village wedding is big news.

As if I weren’t “novelty factor” enough, I now carry the mantle of “upcoming Bride-to-be.” This quite happily translates into one receiving sweet, little missives regularly through the door. Short, handwritten notes of advice with names and phone numbers of people I should contact, speak to, get to know, and etc. And, more importantly being a Barford bride-to-be means I am routinely invited round to bright, warm living rooms or cosy kitchens for countless cups of tea and girlie conversations about wedding invitations, music, flowers dresses and honeymoon plans.

There is something about weddings, isn’t there? We women love them. No, I mean we really love them! I remember, (was it last year?) when Elizabeth Hurley got married and had three different wedding ceremonies, with at least 5 different dresses! The press scowled and poo-pooed her, but not me. “Lucky cow!” I thought. I mean, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to wear each one of the wedding dresses you like, and every pair of wedding shoes you want, but no, the rest us have to settle for one dress, one day. Well, phooey!

And, as it happens, I’ve lived part of my life as a professional Theatre director, so “putting on a show” is in my blood. It makes difference whether the “production” is Off-Off Broadway or a small village wedding, the principle is the same: It’s all about the details.

I’m very thankful I’ve got a team of people (dare I call them my Village People?) pushing me on the details.

Graham, Ron and Phil.  No, they are not a Beatles tribute band. These three chaps are my best mates at the gym. Between them, their average age is 70; and on one of my first days at the gym Ron beamed at me proudly, and said: “Bet you can’t tell which ones of us have had hip replacements.”

These fellas keep me motivated, and honest.  When I feel weary and fed-up, they cheer me on. When I’m late coming into the gym in the morning, a merry rebuke or two comes my way from the treadmills. I admire their chutzpah and their skills. These guys are no joke. They are there before I get there, and they are still working out long after I’ve thrown in the towel, and headed off for a cup of tea and wedding talk.

The “tea & talk” support team are super, too. Diane, my sassy Scots friend, is spear-heading the “wedding favor” crusade. I have decided to give jars of marmalade or jam as our wedding favor. As we are leaning toward lavender as the wedding theme colour, I thought, naïve, novice jam-maker that I am, that it might be clever to produce a lavender jam/marmalade as a gift to give our guests.

Di loves a challenge, and she was all over this project in no time. She’s planning to experiment next week with a “Lemon Lavender” recipe we found online last week.  Over coffee and chocolate biscuits – I resisted as best I could—we discussed wedding music. Di is a huge Lesley Garret fan, so we talked arias. It’s so nice to have people in my life with whom I can really discuss classical music.

(I’ve had some rather zany ideas about music lately. I’m toying with the idea of walking down the aisle to “O Mio Babbino Caro” better, and for me, more importantly, known as: “The Theme from the film ‘A Room with a View.’”)

On Tuesday, after the gym, I went round to Sally’s for tea. Sally’s another amazing woman. (We need to get her into Barford W.I.) Sally is an actor, who has performed and lived previously in the U.S. and Canada. There is something about theatre people, isn’t there? I mean the world over, we’re just part of one big global tribe.  She’s one of those people that you meet, and you swear you’ve known them before. And she makes a fantastic tea-cake. I could not resist. We spent the afternoon bouncing around wedding ideas, mainly about flowers. 

Thinking I may copy Liz Hurley and carry a lilies of the valley bouquet. Lily of the Valley is such a beautiful flower, and it has such an incredible smell. I like the idea of having flowers that carry a strong scent – okay, a no-no for allergy sufferers, like myself—but, at least theoretically, I like the idea of making this a very sensuous—as in feast for the senses—event.

Oh, it’s just fun, isn’t it? I hope in the midst of the chaos, and the inevitable onslaught of “To Do” lists and deadlines that all of this continues to be fun. 

Back down to earth, slowly but surely

The New Year has begun, and my life is off and running. The D.E.B. and I have decided on an early summer wedding, here in England. A “destination wedding” for my friends and family travelling from abroad. And finally, an excuse for a number of my relatives to bite the bullet, and actually obtain and use a passport! (Oy vey!)

I am recovering gradually from my eBay hangover, and am slowly getting my life in order. I’ve been invited to write a feature/article for an English regional magazine, and I really, really need to get my head out of the clouds and get on that. Truth be told, I’m petrified, and it’s much easier to sit and swoon over wedding dresses and flowers on www.theknot.com

The early stages of wedding planning have yielding more than just a chronic on-lie habit, it has underscored some surprising US-UK cultural differences – differences that I will have to resolve on my own and strive mightily not to drag into the relationship. I think the mantra I need to develop is this: “Wedding is just one day, wedding is just one day…” just to keep sense of perspective and balance.

Here are a few points I have noticed so far:

1.)         Americans have a much more lavish of a sense of weddings and a more “theatrical” approach to the proceedings – in the sense of a wedding being a production, an event – then Brits do.

Example: Bridesmaids.  I read recently on one of the countless Bridal websites, that on average the typical American bride has six (6) bridesmaids. The typical British bride only has one (1).

2.)         When an American is told something “isn’t done” or “can’t be done,” her internal (and possibly external) response is: “Try me.”

3.)        The British are typically much more concerned with “decorum,” and there seems to be an innate desire amongst the British to avoid “raising eyebrows,” and “what the neighbours might think.” Americans differ significantly on this point (see: #2 above)

There are also some very interesting logistical differences, too.  I was amazed to discover recently that during the wedding procession, an English bride would enter first, followed by her bridesmaid(s), whereas in America, the bride enters last, proceeded by her flower girls, bridesmaids and any other attendants.  Interesting.

The cakes different! British wedding cake is Fruit Cake! Fruit cake?!? Are they nuts?! American wedding cake is, well…heavenly. 

My latest obsession...

And they're called "Ophelia"...*SIGH*

(on eBay for $50.00, but the wrong size...)

Lunatics, lovers and mad women

“May one so easily catch the plague?” – The Countess Olivia, Twelfth Night

The “plague” that the Countess Olivia refers to is not the legendary disease that wiped out much of Europe in the Middle Ages; she is, of course, speaking of the “plague” of Amour: the infectious, ridiculous, delicious malady we call Love.

And one of the resulting, and long-lasting conditions of this ‘ailment’ is lunacy. And I feel myself falling steadily into its grip. In other words: Give a girl a ring, and she’ll lose her mind!

“Bridal Lunacy.”  The frenzied, slightly breathless feeling that leaves you dreaming of ivory tulle, tossing and turning in the night, murmuring: “Vera Wang, Vera Wang must have dress by Vera Wang…”

What have I become??

Since we returned home from our wonderful New Year holiday in the Lake District, I have become a Bridal Zombie! Life has become very simple: eat, sleep, eBay!

I shouldn’t complain really, I am very happy indeed. And what a joy to finally, finally, finally to be doing this! The this of dreaming, planning, hoping, making a wedding with my darling D.E.B.! (Thank you, dear God for second chances! For giving a mad woman like me another go at love!)

Here is an honest, public apology to all of my married friends, particularly those for whom I’ve served as a bridesmaid, usher, flower girl, wrangler or witness:  God, how I have envied you all! More than I even realized. 

Important clarification: I don’t mean “envy” in a dark, snarky, nasty, bitter or spiteful way. My smiles, hugs and tears for you were very real and sincerely heart-felt. What I mean, if it is possible, and perhaps I should just find another world, I mean “envy” in a silent, deeply solitary and utterly unknowing way.

I had no idea I wanted such things, I had no idea I was so “girlie” after all. (Maybe the tiara I wanted and wore for New Year’s Eve should have been a clue…)

Here’s the thing. I like to think of myself as quite a practical, sensible person. I did confess recently that I have never bought a pair of $700 shoes. Although I admire my friends who have, and who keep such shoes as pets, I do honestly find it hard to get my head completely round such a purchase.  So, I have no serious doubts that this coming year of wedding planning and purchasing will become a saga of: “When a Sensible Girl Goes Wrong.” I am strong enough--and broke enough--to keep my wits and credit cards about me. 

However, I am fascinated by the way this whole “Bride” thing works, and the dizzying culture (and countless sub-cultures) that have been created and developed around it. And, I am all the more fascinated as I watch myself slip into this bridal vortex. The temptations are great, let me tell you!

I believe/hope the challenge lies in balance. Developing a balanced sense of “romance” and “realism”. These are uncertain and difficult economic times, yet, we are told, lead to believe that this (ones wedding day) is the highlight of your life. A woman’s “Oscar moment.” Yes, those are ideas that are promoted by a very commercial world, yet, I feel that there is some grain truth in it.

It is a very important day. Marriage is not something that should be entered into lightly. We should bring to it the best that we have, the best that we are. And as such, the wedding day should be marked precisely as the couple jointly see fit. An excuse for excess? Or, an event that is a couple’s crowning glory?

I think these factors are heightened and have even more meaning the second time around. Added to the standard frenzy, there is also a heart-felt sense of “I’m going to get it right this time.” (The wedding and the relationship.)

When I married previously, I was younger, greener, more headstrong and rebellious. There was no church, no family, no sense of occasion or celebration. That wedding lacked all the things that are—I see now—truly fundamental and important to me. Everything about it was matter of fact, happenstance, on a whim, thrown together, piecemeal, living on the edge. And, if I’m honest, it spoke volumes about a relationship that was very much the same. I own and regret my share of the blame.

So, this time. Older, wiser, better.  In every possible way. With or without Vera Wang.

Always something there to remind me...

I tried to open a British bank account online the other day. Faced with a choice between opening an account with Barclay’s or Lloyd’s TSB, I did what any sensible Manhattan girl would do. I made my decision based purely on aesthetics. Having a preference for lime green, I found the Lloyd’s TSB logo the more appealing of the two, so I went with them. Once I landed on the Lloyd’s website, I made short work of the virtual application. That is until I got to question number 3: "What is your relationship status?"

First of all, why is my “relationship status” any of their business? Is a person’s money greener if they are married, or widowed? The list of choices before me were: “Single, Married, Civil Partnership, Divorced, Dissolved Civil Partnership, Widowed, Legally Separated, Common Law, Engaged, or Separated.”  Truth be told, this a very fine, extremely p.c. and inclusive list, with every possible intimate arrangement therein. All except for mine. For, I am none of these. What does it mean to look at a list of relational options, and not see ones self there at all? Clearly, "More than single, less than married," is not a viable option.

The frustration I feel stems from the fact that for some reason, I have found it hard to accept my current status as “The Girlfriend.” I find myself breaking into a mild sweat, and choking on my words whenever I am forced to introduce the D.E.B. as my “Boyfriend.” The thought has only just occurred to me that all this time I could have been introducing him, as I have done here, as my “Darling English Boy.” That would be more exotic, and certainly sexier than “Boyfriend.”

Girlfriend? Ugh. I am too old to be someone’s “Girlfriend.” No self-respecting dame over the age of 35, and under the age of 60, wants to be relegated to the realm of Girlfriend. Surely, I am not alone in feeling that the terms “girlfriend” and “boyfriend” belong to the relationship categories of the very young (as in: “Oh, yes, Tommy, our 3 year old, has a new girlfriend,”) or the very old (“Have you met Grandma’s new boyfriend?”).

When one has reached a certain age, that terrain between youth and old age, one feels that only terms with a patina of mature respectability will do, particularly: fiancée or wife. (Heck, even “mistress” and “lover” are better, or at least more robust, than the saccharine and anemic term: “Girlfriend”.)

This may be the one US-UK cultural difference I struggle to surmount. “Girlfriend” is a very common designation here in Britain. It is not at all uncommon to meet unmarried couples that have been together for “donkey’s years,” as they say, who have a house, three kids, and a summer home in Tuscany, who still refer to each other as “Girlfriend” and “Boyfriend.” My American mind boggles.

My wonderful "Superstar Writer Friend" has done her British best to clarify this perplexing social conundrum for me. Marriage, she explained, is actually viewed pretty differently in the UK. In Britain, getting married is not the requisite relationship “deal-breaker” it is and/or seems to be in the US. For many British couples, “the big step” or the most significant acknowledgement of their long-term commitment is taking the plunge of living together and building a home. Superstar Writer Friend, and several other ex-pat Brits I know who now reside in the US, have each said it was not until they moved to the US, that they realized how much more important (symbolically and culturally) marriage as an institution is to American women, and how American women/girls are so much more in invested in it than their British counter-parts.

Marriage. What does it really mean? Of course, I often ask myself: Do I really need a piece of paper to validate my relationship? (Angelina Jolie clearly does not.) And then, an even better question: Is it marriage that I'm after, or just a wedding? 

It doesn’t help that I hail from the “United States of Bridezilla,” where as little girls we are inundated from the womb with “the white dress directive.”  The dress, the flowers, the cake, on and on. And, yes, I will confess, like many a true-blue, Southern-born girl, I already have “the dress” – bought “on faith” when I spotted two and a half years ago – and the bridesmaids’ dresses, too. (Okay, look, Anthropologie had a sale…and I bought easily mendable sizes.) All of this acquired, held on reserve, in storage, for the right time and the right man to come along. I have no doubt that the D.E.B. is the right man, but when will be the right time?

My Darling English Boy has assured me, has given me his promise for our future together. On New Year’s Day morning last year, he gave me a beautiful platinum and diamond band, and a pledge that we will one day wed. Because we often see ourselves as characters from a Jane Austen novel, his gift of a ‘promise ring’ was so touching, so romantic, so perfect, so us. I felt anchored and assured in his love, until a friend—who is no longer a friend—laughed, and said to me: “Yeah, well, my 8 year old son just gave his girlfriend a promise ring, too!” Or, when a waiter off-handedly commented into a conversation he was not a part of: “Promises can always be broken.” And the next person who asks me: “Has he proposed yet?” is going to get an earful!!!!

The D.E.B. has not proposed, and it will probably be quite sometime before he does. To this, I have resigned myself. I have resigned myself to be patient and understanding. Appreciating that in addition to our different cultural perspectives on this issue, there is the added complication of the “Once Bitten, Twice Shy” syndrome. We have both been married before; and I think women are far, far more resilient than men following a divorce and the demise of a marriage. The lure of the dress, the flowers, yummy wedding cake, being the center of attention, and the Pottery Barn Gift Registry gets us gals back in the saddle in no time!  Yee-ha! I mean, just look at Elizabeth Taylor! To be fair, and not just because this is about my Darling English Boy, I do seriously think it is more difficult for men to grieve, re-group, and ‘move on to the next one’ after a long-term relationship has sadly bitten the dust.

So, I shall just bide my time until he is ready. I would be lying to say that I have accepted this situation without more than few moments of frustration (or random outbursts, during which I haven’t revealed the real source of my vexation), or that I have not, on more than one occasion, seriously contemplated the advice that I should consider drugging his food.

"When in Rome, do as the Romans."

For now, I shall wear the mantle of  “Girlfriend” as best I can, and strive to do so more gracefully. The D.E.B and I both know what is between us, and what is in our hearts. We know where we stand, and what we mean to one another. The “ambiguity” of my “status,” and our relationship exists solely in the minds of others, and what they do not see. Which is, as Shakespeare wrote, just “the outward show” and merely a question of aesthetics.