Me vs. Me (7 page)

My mother glares. “Yes, I know where it is, but there's not a chance in hell my daughter is getting married in a church.”

Uh-oh.

Alice looks bewildered. “But she wants to!”

“No she does
not,
” my mother snaps. I place my hand on my mother's plate to make sure it remains on the table.

“Yes, she does!” Alice insists.

Yes, this is going splendidly. “Actually—” I say.

My mom: “We're Jewish, Alice. Jews don't get married in churches. They just don't.”

Alice: “They can if they want to! And Gabrielle wants to!”

The both stare at me.

Alice: “Gabrielle?”

My mom: “Gabby?”

I don't know, I don't know. I hate making these kinds of decisions. I look at my mom and then at Alice and then back at my mom. Slowly, I shake my head. I know I promised Cam but…“I don't think I can get married in a church. I'm sorry, Alice. I know how much it means to you, but I don't believe it's appropriate.”

My mom smirks. “Ha.”

“Well,” Alice says with a humph. “Cam is certainly not getting married in one of those temple things.”

Oh, yes, she's very respectful of my religion.

“Look,” I say. “I'm willing to keep May sixth, as long as it's okay with you, Mom. And my dad, of course. But I think it's best if Cam and I get married somewhere nondenominational. We could even have the ceremony and reception at the same place. Save money.”

“I suppose we can have the ceremony here as well as the reception,” Alice says.

“What?” My mom looks around the overcrowded orange house. “You're planning a reception
here?
”

Alice looks surprised. “Of course I am! We landscaped the backyard specifically for Blair's reception. It was beautiful. Blair and I made the tent, and Cam built the pool covering so we could convert it into a dance floor. Since we still have the tent and the covering, we can save a lot of money this time around. Oh, this is perfect! They can get married here under the tent, and then we can have the party!”

I don't know how the five million people they invited all fit in the yard, but that's beside the point. I don't want to get married under some macramé-like tent.

My mother, thankfully, agrees with me. “I think we should rent out a hall at a hotel,” she says.

Alice scowls. “Why pay for a hotel when we have a perfectly good space here?”

My cheeks burn. And so it begins. The discussion of money. “We should talk about the budget,” I say slowly. A compartment that Alice has left out of the binder. How interesting.

My mom nods and whips out a calculator from her purse. Not sure why she carries one around with her, but it does seem like something she would do. Now that we're talking cash flow, she's in her element.

“I've looked over my finances and I can kick in fifteen thousand,” she says. “What about you, Alice?”

My mom has fifteen thousand just sitting around? I'm about to thank her for her insane generosity when Alice says, “Me? I'm not kicking in anything.”

My mom looks confused. “Your husband then. Whatever.”

Alice purses her lips. “Richard will not be kicking in anything, either.”

Huh? “He won't?” I ask.

“The groom's parents do not have to contribute to the wedding, dear,” she tells me.

“Why not?” my mom asks.

“Because that's the way it's done.”

“That's crazy,” my mother says. And then…throws her calculator. Shit. Luckily it lands on the floor, and not on Alice.

Without missing a beat, Alice picks up the calculator and places it back on the table. “It certainly is not. It's tradition.”

I can feel a real fight brewing. “It's all right, Mom. Thank you for your generous offer. Cam and I can pitch in a few thousand, and I'm sure Dad will give us something, too.”

“You and Cam will certainly not put in any of your own money,” Alice says.

“Why not? It's our wedding.”

“The bride's parents are supposed to pay for the wedding. Period. You can't go draining your real-estate nest egg.”

Huh? Are Cam and I buying a house? We've never even discussed buying a house. We moved in together only five days ago. “We'd be happy to put some money towards our own wed—”

“No,” Alice says. “You'll have to ask your father. Of course, if he can't afford to contribute, Richard and I will be happy to have the wedding here. That would certainly be easier to afford than some
hotel.
” Emphasis on
hotel
as if it's a dirty word.

The unpleasant conversation then jumps to bands, to colors, to themes, to floral arrangements, and finally to regular meeting times.

“We are not meeting once a week,” my mother says, responding to Alice's comment that we'll reconvene next Tuesday.

“I agree,” says Alice. “It's important for the three of us to be in constant contact. We should meet twice a week. How are Tuesdays and Fridays for you?”

My mom's jaw drops. “Every Tuesday
and
Friday?”

“At least. It's obvious you've never planned a wedding before.” Alice stuffs a third cookie in her mouth.

“I've planned several weddings,” my mom protests.

“I'm talking about
real
weddings. Not your weddings. Thousands of details need to be worked out.”

My mom snorts with laughter. “That's what a wedding planner is for. We're hiring a wedding planner. I hired one two weddings ago and it worked out perfectly. Well, not the marriages, but the weddings.”

Alice waves dismissively. “Don't be ridiculous. We're not going to waste money for someone else to plan the event when we can do it ourselves.”

“You've made it clear that it's my money being spent, so it's my money to spend as I want. You're the one being ridiculous. I wholeheartedly support hiring a professional when necessary. When you want your hair cut, you go see a stylist. When you want to plan a party, you hire a party planner.”

Right. I probably should have mentioned Alice's haircutting philosophy.

“I will not hire a wedding planner. Absolutely not.” She scribbles away in the Notes section of her binder. “That has to be all for today, ladies. I need to get back to work.”

“I didn't know you had a job,” my mother says in surprise. “What do you do?”

“My
job
is to create a warm and loving home. And at the moment, I need to prepare for tomorrow.”

My mother stands and stretches her arms above her head. “What's tomorrow?”

Alice looks at her as if she's clearly on crack. She pauses to see if my mom is joking. When my mother's oblivious expression doesn't change, she says, “It's Thanksgiving.”

“It is?” my mom says. “Already?”

“I don't know how you can forget Thanksgiving.”

My mom shrugs. “Holidays don't mean much to me.”

“Obviously. Does that mean you don't have a place to go? You're welcome to come here tomorrow night with Gabrielle.”

“Oh…um…uh…” My mother's expression tells me she would rather shoot herself in the head than come back here for Thanksgiving.

“She's going to be out of town,” I down-and-out lie.

Grateful smile from Mom.

Dubious look from Alice. “But you just got back. Today.”

“I'm a frequent flyer,” my mom says, looking guilty. “But I'll be back next week, and we'll catch up then.”

Alice looks back at her notes. “So your job, ladies, is to brainstorm the names of hotels. Then we can all go see them on Tuesday.”

Hurrah! Mother and daughter score on that point!

“Yes, we should go see them in the next few weeks,” my mom says.

“Not the next few weeks. Tuesday. The clock is ticking.”

The only thing ticking is my mother. Any second now she will explode.

We thank Alice for her hospitality, I cringe as I watch my mother and Alice exchange strained goodbyes, and then my mom and I take off faster than race cars. We crack up as soon as the front door is closed.

“That woman is insufferable,” says my mother, heaving with laughter. “Are you sure you want to marry into that gene pool?”

I'm beginning to wonder. “I warned you, didn't I?”

“Not really. Thanks for getting me out of Thanksgiving hell. I can't think of anything more awful.”

“Come on Mom, she's not
that
bad.”

“Yes, she is.”

“You're right. She is.”

She unlocks her car door with a beep. “You have to call your father tonight and ask him for money.”

“I know, I know.” He'll help us out, won't he? He'd better. I climb up into the truck and roll down the window so we can continue our chat.

“He's going to ask you what I'm giving, so tell him thirty.”

“I'm not lying to him, Mom.”

“Yes, you are. You know he's going to match whatever you tell him I'm giving you. And you also know that he's only going to actually give you half of what he promises. If you want fifteen from him, tell him I'm giving thirty. Trust me.”

Unfortunately, I know she's right. And I need to raise this money.

Otherwise…hello, macramé tent.

A Stomachache Is a Stomachache Is a Stomachache

W
hen I rehash the budget conversation with Cam, I'm surprised by his lack of surprise regarding who should pay for the wedding.

“Isn't it normal for the bride's family to pay?” he asks, all innocent eyed.

“I'm sure it happens. But it's a little old-fashioned.”

“My parents paid for the entire wedding when Blair got married.”

“So now my parents have to suffer because Matt's parents are cheapskates?”

He cocks his head to the left. “Are you calling my parents cheapskates?”

Yes. “No,” I answer. “I'm just concerned about what will happen if my father doesn't give us enough money.”

He wraps his arms around me. “Why don't you ask him first? If he says no, then we'll worry about it. And I'm sorry about my parents. They get so set in their ways sometimes. But I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. Hmm. What about our savings? I have about fifteen thousand in investments.”

He grimaces. “I'd rather not use too much of our own money on the wedding.”

“Why not?”

“Because we're going to need it for the down payment.”

“What down payment?”

“For our house.”

I wonder why everyone seems to know we're buying a house except me. “Oh. I didn't know we were looking.”

“Of course we're looking. I know how much you want to have a home Gabby. You told me how important it is to you that night in Mexico.” He squeezes my hands.

My heart rate speeds up as I realize what he's referring to. For our one-year anniversary we had gone down to Rocky Point for the weekend. Walking on the beach, I had told him about how tough the moves had been for me as a kid. How I always dreamed of the day when I would have my own home. “But…” My voice trails off.

“We have the money.”

I've never point-blank asked him what his accounts look like. “We do?”

“I have about seventy-five thousand dollars worth of investments.”

My jaw drops. “You do? Impressive.”

“Not I do,
we
do. We will, that is. As soon as we go to the bank and combine all our accounts.”

Wow. I had no idea. “So if we
have
to, we can contribute our own money for the wedding. Not that I want to chew away at our nest egg, but if we
have
to—”

“If we have to, yes. But every dollar spent is coming out of our future abode.”

I raise my hands to look like a scale. “Living-room curtains or wedding cake.”

“Exactly,” he says, smiling. “But let's worry about missing furniture and appliances after you ask your dad for money. I don't think he's going to say no. You're his favorite kid.”

Cam gets a kick out of my dad's use of hyperbole. Every place he goes to is the most incredible place he's ever been. Every restaurant is the absolute best.

“But she's your only kid,” Cam said, the first time he heard my dad call me his favorite.

My dad's response: “Even more reason why she's my favorite.”

Even so, asking my dad for wedding money is going to seem to come out of nowhere since he doesn't even know I'm engaged.

My dad is a Hollywood producer. He's no Steven Spielberg, but he does have a few credits to his name, though nothing that would get your fishnets in a twist. He's worked on a few movies for Fox and a couple for Universal, but it's not as if he's a bigwig. At the moment, he's an associate producer on a movie that's filming in Brisbane, Australia. Which means it's not so easy to get in touch with him.

I call his hotel, but get his voice mail. I'll have to put it off until tomorrow. Okay, not my New York tomorrow, but my Arizona tomorrow…Although it's already tomorrow in Australia….

My brain hurts.

 

“I've never denied that I support the removal of criminal penalties for the use of marijuana—responsible use by adults that is,” says Mayor-Elect Tom Fields on-screen.

It's Wednesday and I'm in the control room in New York manning my show. I switch the screen back to Ron.

“But you did mislead your town, didn't you?” Ron asks, reading from my script. “You campaigned on a premise of promising to reduce the smell and noise from cow herds. Without mentioning your ulterior motive.”

Tom, the four-hundred-pound, gray-bearded, soon-to-be mayor of Renkin, Colorado, shrugs. “I would have mentioned it if anyone asked. I don't see what the big fuss is about. Government shouldn't limit individuals' rights. It's our body. Our right.”

“For comment, let's go to Michael Simpson, the chairman of the National Anti-Marijuana League in Colorado.”

I patch him in.

“Hi, Ron. Hello, Tom,” Michael, a fortysomething tiny man says.

“What do you think about all this?” Ron asks.

“I think Tom is living in a dreamworld. We don't have the right to do anything we want with our body. You can't walk around naked, can you? If you're strolling around downtown in your birthday suit, you're going to get arrested.”

I type furiously into the script. “But you can walk around naked in your own home. Tom, aren't you advocating marijuana for private use only?”

“But you can walk around naked in your own home. Tom, aren't you advocating marijuana for private use only?” Ron asks.

By the time the show finishes, I'm left on a high. A natural one, of course.

 

When I show up at the Pilates studio after work, I find that it disturbingly reminds me of an S and M shop. Not that I've ever been to one, but I have a pretty active imagination. The studio is filled with wooden machines you lie on and strap your legs into. It's practically medieval.

“The accent has to be on your spine,” my instructor tells me while I am in a rather compromising position. “Everything must come from your core.” I have no idea what she's talking about. I'm too busy wondering if it's pointless to work out in one dimension when it won't pay off in the other. It's like giving one sick identical twin a placebo and the other a miracle drug. The further weird thing about working out while existing in two dimensions is that you don't feel the pain for two days. Talk about a delayed reaction.

On Wednesday, I wake up in Arizona muscle-ache-free. Although not headache-free, since I still have to phone my dad and beg him for money.

I call him from the living room while Cam watches
Law and Order
from bed.

Static and then, “Hello?”

“Dad!”

“Gabs!” My dad is always cheerful. Always. This is partly because he's a happy guy, and partly because he smokes a lot of pot. Maybe he should move to Renkin. I didn't know about the pot when I was a kid, of course. I found out when my mom made an offhand comment about the fact that he used to grow marijuana in our backyard in Malibu. She believes that maybe he could be the next Steven Spielberg if he stopped the puffing. I don't disagree.

“Dad, I have some news!” I try to make myself comfy on Cam's black leather couch. I hate this couch. It's so stiff. I feel like I'm in the waiting room of a doctor's office.

“You're coming to visit?” he booms.

“Actually, I'm engaged.”

“Hey! Congratulations! Way to go, you two! Where's Cam? Put my man on the phone.” My dad is a typical Hollywood guy. Best friends with the world. Tells everyone how fantastic they are. Always has a huge project on the go.

You know the expression
believe half of what you hear?
It was made for my father.

“Cam, pick up the extension!” I holler.

I hear a low grumble and then Cam's voice. “Hi, David.”

“Cam, my man!” My dad always calls Cam
my man.
I can hear Cam smiling through the phone. He thinks it's hysterical. “That's some news you two have!” my dad says.

“Thanks. We're pretty excited about it.”

“You're going to treat my favorite kid like a princess, you hear?”

“I wouldn't dream of treating her any other way.”

Now I'm smiling.

“When's the big day going to be?” my dad asks. “Not too soon, right? I'm not back till March.”

“We're planning it for May, Dad. That good for you?”

“Yup. Phenomenal. You two should honeymoon out here. It's amazing. The most incredible place I've ever been.”

“Movie's going well?” Cam asks.

“It's amazing. Honestly, it's going to be huge. I'm talking Oscars here.”

“Sounds terrific,” Cam says wryly. “Great speaking to you, David. I'll let you guys catch up. Enjoy the koalas.”

“So, Dad,” I begin, once Cam has clicked off the phone. I realize that my hands are suddenly sweaty. I hate asking for money. I haven't asked my dad for money since I was eighteen.

“Yes, hon.”

“Since I'm getting married, well, I need to make a budget. I'm wondering…” I hate this. What if he says no? Will I really have no choice but to get married on Cam's pool? Or will we be forced to live in a trailer park?

“Yes, hon?”

“I'm wondering if you've set aside any money for my wedding. Or if you want to contribute. Anything. Please.”

He laughs. “Of course! You're my favorite kid! What do you need?”

I feel like I'm at a job interview. They want to know what my salary expectations are and I want to be paid as much as possible without pricing myself out of the market. Who knows? Maybe he'll happen to mention that he has fifty thousand dollars from that movie he did with Johnny Depp, fifty big ones he's been saving for just such a rainy day. And that he wants to spend it all on one day, all on me. Yeah, right. Johnny Depp. As if.

I've decided not to take my mom's double-it advice. I'd rather leave the question open-ended and let him come to me with an answer. Pressuring someone for money just makes me squeamish. “I'm trying to get a ballpark of what I have to work with. So if you could tell me what you're thinking of giving—if anything—I'd really appreciate it.”

“What's your mother giving?”

Sigh. “Thirty thousand.” Okay, my mom has a point. I have to listen to half of what he promises.

In a way it makes sense, since only half of me is getting married.

He whistles. “That's a lot of moola, Gabs. But if that's what your mother is giving, then that's what I'll give, too.”

I smile. “Really?”

“Of course. You're going to have a beautiful wedding, honey.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Then he laughs. “Your mother isn't planning the wedding, is she?”

“She's helping. Cam's mother loves this kind of stuff, so she'll probably do most of it.”

“I figured your mother would want nothing to do with it. She barely had anything to do with our wedding. Her mother planned the whole thing. And didn't she elope for the other four?”

“Other two. And she only eloped the last time.”

“Right.” He laughs again.

“Anyway, thanks so much. So—” back to the money part “—are you going to send me a check? Is that the easiest way?”

“Oh, already?”

“We'll have to start booking stuff soon, and there will be deposits….” I hate this. I hate having to ask for money. It is so out of my comfort zone.

“Oh, sure. No problem. But you don't need the whole thing right away. How about I start you off with five gs? And then you'll tell me when you need more.”

Something is better than nothing, I suppose. I sigh. It looks like I won't be back in my comfort zone any time soon. At least not in Arizona.

 

On Thursday, I wake up in New York with a stomachache. It feels like that new flu strain that my BlackBerry just buzzed me about.

“What's wrong with you?” Heather asks as I gasp my way to the bathroom.

“Core. Hurts. I hate Pilates.”

“It's worth it,” she tells me. “Wanna go for a speed walk in the park?” She's already dressed to go, in skintight Lycra pants, brand-new Nikes and a fitted parka.

I clutch my stomach. “I can barely move.”

“Trust me, it'll be worth it. You have to take advantage of the weather while it's still good.”

Good? It's forty-eight degrees out there! How bad does it get? “Fine,” I answer. Maybe if I'm too busy thinking about how cold it is, I'll forget about my stomach. And I wouldn't mind getting to know Heather better.

“You should come with me to my parents for dinner tonight,” she says forty-five minutes later, as we swing our arms and legs past the Great Lawn. With every step we make, we hear the crunch of yellowed leaves. It looks as if we're walking down the yellow brick road. Even though I've been to the park on an earlier visit to New York, I still can't get over the place. The honey-colored autumn trees that look straight out of an Impressionist painting, the skyscrapers perched in the background. Honestly, it's cooler than the Grand Canyon. Okay, maybe not cooler, but almost.

As sweet (and shocking) as I think Heather's invite is, I politely decline. I mean, come on, I have to go to Alice's tomorrow. Two Thanksgiving dinners in a row? I'm no glutton for punishment.

Crap, I'm going to have to do everything twice. Double the dentist appointments. Double the gyno. Double the bikini wax. Not that I have any reason to get a bikini wax in this reality. So only one bikini wax then.

I lift my hand to take a bite out of my pinkie nail, when Heather slaps my hand away. “What are you doing? You have nice nails. Don't ruin them. And anyway, you cannot bite your nails in New York. Absolutely not. This city is way too dirty. Unless you want to pick up hepatitis or that flesh-eating disease.”

Gross. I drop my hands back down beside me. I don't want my renewed nail-biting habit from Arizona to spill over here. “Okay, I won't bite.”