Chapter 8 The Cab Ride
Chapter8 The Cab Ride
The Mother of the Groom
“What were you thinking?” Abigail snapped as soon as they settled in the cab headed south on Park to Grand Central.
“I didn’t encourage him to run for Congress!” George countered.
“Oh, I can’t even speak about that now. I’m going to need some time to process, as young people say. I thought I knew what
might be coming, but it was so much worse. Why on earth would anyone want to be a congressman? I don’t understand his need
for attention.”
“I think our son actually wants to do good in the world,” George responded with a bit of awe in his voice, because doing good
beyond tossing a few bucks to a charity had never really occurred to him.
“Again, we’re not talking about that situation right now. I’m talking about your offer to pay for the rehearsal dinner and
the tent! The accepted wedding rules say the dinner the night before is on us. But why did you throw in the tent! Do you have
any idea what tents cost?”
“Honey, please,” George said, nodding toward the cabdriver, who was both speeding and playing with his phone.
“He has those ear birds in. Or earbuds. Whatever they’re called. George, we can barely afford to go to a wedding in Montecito, never mind host a wedding in Montecito!”
“I made a small gesture. Dinner and a tent, that’s it,” said the king of small gestures.
“You pay no attention to our finances, but somehow you feel you’ve earned the right to be extravagant,” Abigail hissed. She
had held her tongue for most of the last five years, quietly mopping up the messes George made, overly enthusiastic when his
bridge-playing pivot earned dividends. She really didn’t want to be a shrew about money. She didn’t deserve to be forced into
that role, she thought. “We haven’t been to a fundraiser in three years, but yes, let’s lavish a wedding tent on a family
we barely know.”
“Here we go again,” George mocked, as if every day they had conversations about weddings. “You’re the one hosting an engagement
party. Can we afford that?”
“Not really. That’s why it’s ninety minutes long, with limited drink options and roasted nuts. No beef tenderloin, no French
cheeses. Roasted nuts, George! That I bought in bulk at Costco and will heat up before serving so they seem special. Just
nuts!”
“Just relax.”
There would be no relaxing for Abigail Blakeman. The entire plan laid out tonight was counter to everything she believed in:
politics, California, ethnic food at a wedding. She was in a full-blown panic. How had her dull, predictable, easy life spun
so out of control? “George, take a guess at the cost of that tent at the Silliman School fundraiser years ago. The beautiful
white one with the lights, the dance floor, the sides in case of rain or cold?”
“Five grand. Tops.”
“Sure, for the scaffolding to hold the tent up. Try twenty-five grand with labor, lighting, the sides, the heaters, the dance
floor. And that wasn’t even the best tent they offered. One with the florals and the twinkle light entrance. Slap the modifier
‘wedding’ in front of anything and the cost goes up another ten percent.”
“We won’t need to pay for the dance floor,” George scoffed as if he’d suddenly become an expert in special event etiquette. Then he considered the fact that Alexa was a single mother and maybe it would be the polite thing to do, throw in a dance floor. The last wedding he’d attended was a country club affair a decade ago in Ridgewood, New Jersey, for the daughter of a client. He had a vague memory of jumping up and down on the dance floor to “Born to Run.” Honestly, he really had no idea how weddings worked anymore. He hated when Abigail was right. “Let’s hope they have an indoor wedding and there won’t be any tent. Besides, it’s always warm in California, right?”
“I think they have some sort of winter in Montecito. Our friends, if we’re allowed to invite any, won’t travel to Southern
California over the holidays. They go skiing in Vermont. Congratulations, a small gesture for a bunch of strangers. We won’t
have access to that kind of cash until we sell the house. You better start winning some of these bridge tournaments so we
can pay for your small gesture.” She hated speaking like this, hated being this person. But, honestly, what life did he think
they were living? Not the one she had married into, that’s for sure.
George was silent as they pulled up to Grand Central. Abigail turned to him as she slid out. “Don’t forget to give the cabbie
a huge tip, Diamond George! Or should I say Diamandis George?”
Now the cabbie was fully focused on his passenger. George handed him a twenty and said, “Keep the change.”
From the Desktop of Dearly Beloveds and Betrotheds
Dear B the taste is mine.
Let’s get the most common question out of the way up front. Do I need more than one dress for my wedding? No.
Thanks to social media, many brides believe they need A Ceremony Dress, A Reception Dress, A First Dance Dress, and An After-Party
Dress. (My goodness, will these brides and grooms NEVER leave their own weddings? Don’t they have something better to do?
I hope so or the marriage itself will be a long row to hoe.) If you have enough money for four dresses and want to spend the
better part of your wedding in a cramped anteroom with your stylist and her team rather than with your new spouse, your family,
and your friends, then there’s nothing I can write here to sway you. But a gentle reminder that you have the rest of your
life to wear special-occasion dresses, even white ones, which is really all Dresses Two through Four are.
If, as part of your heritage, you wear multiple dresses to your multiday celebration, that is wonderful. Ask your own aunties
for advice. I’m sure they have it.
If you are getting enormous pressure to wear your mother’s 1986 Priscilla of Boston dress complete with capelet, or your grandmother’s
yellowed lace and satin number from the bottom of the dress-up closet, or your future mother-in-law’s puffed-shouldered relic
with the hideous fringed headpiece, hear me now: You do not have to wear someone else’s dress unless you truly want to wear
it. If you need to show someone in your life this paragraph, please do. You’re a grown woman and you can choose your own dress.
You’re welcome.
But if you, like me, believe in one and only one wedding dress, then this advice is for you.
Choose a dress in your budget. There are lovely, beautiful, elegant, perfect dresses at every price point. Don’t get talked
into something you can’t afford.
Choose a dress you love, not one that your entourage loves. Long, short, mermaid, ball gown, sweetheart neckline. Bohemian,
Grace Kelly, princess, minimalist, renaissance faire. Lace, satin, velvet, beaded, sequins, feathers. Make sure that when
you look in the mirror, you love your dress.
Choose a dress that suits your body the way it is, not the body you wish you had. Buying a dress three sizes too small and
putting all the pressure on yourself to drop the weight before the wedding will result in a miserable Bride-to-Be. Look your
best, of course. But not at the expense of every joyful aspect of getting married. Counter with good fit. Good fit makes simple
design spectacular. Good fit and good sense make for a beautiful Bride.
Choose a dress you can wear for ten hours. If you don’t regularly wear structured couture gowns, then don’t wear one on your
wedding day. You will be miserable in the corseted bodice and the fitted mermaid bottom.
Choose a dress that leaves something to the imagination. Sexy dresses make guests uncomfortable, like your Aunt B. Save the
skin for your wedding night. (If you ever leave the after-party.)
Choose a dress that is timeless. You’ll thank me on your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary when you look at your wedding photos and think “Beautiful.” Instead of “Was I under the influence of an influencer?”
Big Kiss & Wedding Bliss,
Your Aunt B
Next Week: Should I force my bridesmaids to learn complicated choreography to a nineties hip-hop anthem in hopes that it will
go viral?