Like little girls often do, I always pictured my wedding as a fairytale event, replete with pink roses, sparkly lights, garden butterflies and the intimate, homegrown touch of having planned and executed every tiny, beautiful detail myself.
Then I met my mother-in-law, and that dream was shattered. Hijacked is a better word. Kidnapped and smuggled onto a train heading for a collapsed mine shaft, perhaps. The sixth months of my engagement were made of a series of rude awakenings, sleepless nights and astonished silences as I watched what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life become a pageant of ostentatious crap – to which my opinions meant nothing.
It’s seven months later, and I’m still sore. Here, as threatened, and in sections, is The Wedding.
Two weeks into the engagement:
My mother-in-law is obsessed with my ring. I am too, of course, as it is huge, it is beautiful and most of all, it is MINE. One evening, we arrive to play a little Mexican Train. The woman cannot take her eyes off the diamond, and numerous times puts down her dice to lick her fingers, grab my hand and wipe from the ring a speck of dust. Charming. I suppose she thinks that since we are going to be family, I should be comfortable with her saliva.
Later that evening she decided that the diamond sat too high on its perch. She demanded to take it to the jeweler from whence it came, to have it snuggled deeper into its prongs. I strenously objected to the folly. What kind of mother-in-law-to-be takes a woman’s ring and has it reset to her own liking? I mean, really.
My mother-in-law-to-be, that’s who. I cried, yelled and pleaded with this woman to leave my ring alone, but she scoffed at my wishes. What could I, a humble Gentile who actually worked for a living, possibly know about diamonds? This is when I became intimately familiar with the phrase, “You trust me, don’t you?” Exhausted, I said yes, unwittingly opening the Pandora’s Box of her manipulative glee.
Two months into the engagement:
I decide that it’s time to hunt for dresses. Nicole Miller designs some fabulously simple and beautiful wedding dresses, and my mother-in-law volunteers to pack our overnight bags into her miniscule trunk and zip us down to Sunset to do some shopping. I try on a parade of gorgeous frocks, each one critiqued with disfavor. Eventually, my mother-in-law grows tired of criticizing the dresses and decides to instead criticize me. Falling from her loving lips that day:
You have the body of a little boy.
and its second cousin,
I happen to like the flat look.
Near tears, I throw in the towel and we decide to go for dinner before checking into the hotel for the night. Dinner is even more pleasant, if you find stupidity at all interesting. By the end of the evening, I know far more than necessary about useless things, like my fiancee’s ex-girlfriends. I also know how my mother-in-law enjoys calling her other daughter-in-law by the name of Fat Pig, and also that she told her son to not get involved with me.
She must have mistaken me for an idiot’s confessional. The full dysfunctional reality of Jewish Motherhood reveals itself, and for a second I consider running. But I don’t run. I am so looking forward to a lifetime with this woman.
Three months into the engagement:
Ah, the bridal shower. Such fond memories. Read Hello, My Name Is… below for all the dirt.
Stay tuned for the next installment: angry emails, color schemes and… the photographer!
The Bewildered Housewife 