Let the River Run

It all seems like a dream now; installments of moments that appear as flashes in memory. Seventy-two hours of wedding prep and events swirl in my head as parts not a whole, as if the sum of all its parts is too vast to recall or comprehend still, at this moment.

My married friends all warned me, offered me their own wisdom borne from experience: “The day goes by so fast. Try to step back, soak it all in, take a moment and try to savor the night.” Even with their words of wisdom, it is nearly impossible to do just that.

It had been raining for days. Bleak gray skies covered the changing landscape as the trees finally started to catch up with the month. Thunder rumbled and the heavens poured as I hit refresh on the weather forecast on the computer praying to see an end in sight. “Rain on your wedding day is good luck.” Everyone tried to reassure me in the days leading up to the wedding. I knew in my heart, the weather wasn’t important, but still, the river of rain flooded the streets and dampened my mood.

I couldn’t stop crying tears of joy, tears of emotion that welled up inside my heart and made its way out my through my eyes in rivulets of happiness that ran down my pink stained checks. Not even when the make-up artist applied mascara, wiped the smudges from the corners of my eyes, did the tears stop flowing. “Look,” my mother said as she sat with a brush dangling from her hair, “the clouds have moved out. The rain has stopped.” The sun peaked through the gray sky which started to lighten, as the sun moved in and the winds took a breath, pausing to let the sun dry the wet ground. I cried.

They flowed as my parents lead me down the aisle, as M stood under the chuppah erupting with colorful blooms, proudly with his parents flanking his sides. The tears dripped from my cheeks as I read the vows I had written, ones from the heart, spoken with truth, conviction and love. “I will stand by you, challenge you and face life’s challenges together as one.” M grabbed my hand and it was just us up there, everything and everyone fading for a moment.

The river of emotion continued to swell, the banks of eyeliner unable to hold the floodwater back as our families spoke words from their hearts, sharing stories of our childhood – the past and present united as one moment. Our brothers recounted their versions of growing up with an older sibling, now able to pass the torch of torture from sibling to spouse. Two families now becoming one.

And still, I cried as my father lead me out onto the dance floor and the band played “Through the Years.” Pressing my wet check against my father’s, his hand holding mine, a new band encircling my finger, I still felt like a little girl in his arms – a safety net that has caught me countless times through the years even though I was now a married woman. “I will always be your little girl,” I whispered.

And the band continued to play. And the tears and wine continued to flow. And my friends and family danced. And M’s friends and family danced and celebrated. And my parents smiled - proudly as did his. And I smiled looking at my new family – at M and his family which were now my own.

“Don’t let go of me,” I said to M. I wanted him by side all night – I want him by my side for the rest of my life. He lifted me up in his arms, swinging me around in the air until I was dizzy when I came back to the ground, the earth continued to spin, my head in the clouds.

And still the earth is spinning for me today. The rain is gone. The cold front has moved in and fall is here. The river of emotion not yet calm, it continues to flow, rolling with rhythmic waves, surging with strength, coursing with intensity. It flows with joy and happiness, with love and admiration, with gratitude and gravity. But now it officially flows together as a life, side by side with the man I love who is now my husband.

Flower Power

A Bridezilla I am not. Despite accusation to the contrary from those who don’t know me, I can squarely say that while I may have specific desires and wants for my wedding, I am far from the worst of the bunch.

Sure, the wedding nightmares have started. The other night I dreamed that I was left out of the ceremony, forgotten on the sidewalk of a schoolyard where the wedding was being held only to hear the wedding march music begin and have to rush down the aisle without my veil. Before that, in the hours between the completion of one project and the beginning of another, when I am suppose to be blissfully resting, I was struck with a nightmare where I showed up on the wrong day to the wrong venue for the wedding. Dressed in my wedding gown, I fought with another bride who swore it was her wedding day. I have been told this is “normal,” that every bride, despite their meticulous planning and their confidence that all will go according to plan, battles the subconscious punches of wedding day angst.

“Read this,” Amy emailed me a link to an article that circulated around her office. Upper East bride, Elana Glatt, sues her Upper East Side florist, Posy Floral Designs, for $400,000 stating her wedding flowers were the wrong color. Ms. Glatt claims pain and suffering after her August 11, 2007 wedding was ruined when the florist used rust colored hydrangeas instead of the agreed upon pastel color. Claiming for their bill of $27,000 for centerpieces and flowers, the florist used “corner deli roses” which cheapened the entire event. Every media outlet has jumped on this story – most people outraged by the bride’s actions, but a part of me can understand her anger even if I cannot understand her actions.

As I enter the final stretch, as the days trickle down to hours and then to minutes, I remind myself of what really matters. It’s not the color of the calla lilies or the shape of the cake or the type of champagne – what really matters, is that I found the man who I love, who I have waited for my entire life and with whom I will spend the rest of my life.

I want my wedding day to run smoothly, but even if there are details which have been overlooked, items forgotten, and things not as I pictured – I will not wind up in a courtroom.

Four Left Feet

Four Left Feet

I was actually scared to ask M, frightened that he would say that I have gone too far, exceeded his level of patience. Until now, M h as been far removed from the day-to-day wedding planning activities. I have only involved him where it was crucial, but now I needed him to participate in one last, small detail before the big day. I waited to ask him at a moment when I new his resistance would be down, when I had the best shot at getting a "yes" out of him. Sauced with sake from dinner, M poured over the weekend Wall Street Journal, groaning a noise of contentment as he leaned back into his pillow. “I love Sundays,” he muttered from underneath the comforter, a stack of papers next to him, the dog looking equally at peace laying on the floor by his side.

“Honey,” I said, my voice dripping with sweetness. “I was thinking….” M stopped me. No good conversation ever begins with ‘I was thinking’. “Oh no,” he said, “What am I in for now?”

“Well, I was talking to my girlfriend today and she mentioned that she and her husband took a few dance lessons before their wedding. And my bother did too. And I was just thinking how great it would be if we took our four left feet and learned one simple dance.” I waited for him to tell me I was crazy, that he sooner would take a crocheting class or aqua aerobics than waste time learning the intricacies of ballroom dance. “One class?” he asked. “I will take one class. And I am not wearing one of those moronic costumes. No tights, no fedora, none of that shit.”

I didn’t want to learn the Thriller routine or earn the nickname Fred and Ginger. I just wanted a fast tutorial on not making a fool of ourselves on our first dance. I knew M would refuse to take a group lesson and I thought it was in both of our best interests to have a private, one-on-one session where we could get some extra help.

M and I arrived at the dance studio, CD of our wedding song in hand to meet Kensera, our dance instructor. Earlier that day she emailed us a list of items to bring – wedding music, comfortable clothing and shoes which covered our toes – the later, I was quick to discover, was extremely important.

“Ouch,” I yelped as we took our first, far-from-graceful steps on he wood plank dance floor, a full wall of mirrors so we could watch our vanity disappear with each horrible step. “My toe!” M grunted an apology as Kensera realigned our hands. “You need to keep your arm up as a shelf,” she instructed M. “Make sure your arm is extended and your hand is on her scapula drawing her into your body." She pushed play on the CD and off we went. Step left. Step right. Backwards. Ouch. Step forward. Ouch!!!! “You are off the beat. This song is a six-count. Let’s take it from the top.” M rolled his eyes as our wedding song played for the umpteenth time.

Off the beat? We were nowhere near the beat. He was going in one direction, me in another direction. His arm kept drooping; I forgot to clasp his hand the right way. “Are we the worst you have ever seen?” I asked Kensera trying to make conversation. Since she does this for a living, I assumed many other dance-challenged people have made their way to her studio. “You’re pretty bad,” she plainly said. So much for small talk.

With 5 minutes left to go in our hour, Kensera had all but given up on us. “Are we going to do a flip or a dip or a twirl,” M asked as he kept doing “jazz hands” to entertain me. Watching the Simpsons or Will and Grace, M picked up “jazz hands’ – the shimmering splay of frenetic fingers outstretched and pulsating in a quick excited movement. He found it hysterical and if it kept him entertained, all the better. “I think it’s best if you two keep things on the ground,” Kensera warned. “For safety reasons”

“We suck,” I said to M as we walked home. “My dreams of being a back up dancer for Britney are gone.” We would have needed a year of lessons 5 X a week to show off at the wedding, an undertaking neither M nor I would have been willing to accept. “Maybe we should take one more lesson?” I suggested.

“Nope. I am done. I put in my hour – I didn’t complain, I didn’t check my Blackberry once. I left work early and I smiled the entire time. I am the best groom ever.” M patted himself on the back. “Besides, I know one dance that we both can do. The Hora! All we have to do is sit in a chair and not fall off. I’ll even do jazz hands for you.”

For more information about where to get "your grove on" or learn those important dance moves for a wedding or special event - Click Here!

Indian Summer

This weather is creeping me out. It’s October, I shouldn’t be sticking to the pleather seats inside cabs and re-applying deodorant as often as lip gloss; this is unnatural.

Not only is the weather uncomfortable, it leaves me with a false sense of timing as if my internal calendar is stuck on August 19th. I cannot get my head around that it’s nearly mid-October. Air-conditioners continue to spit, drops of perspiration falling to the city streets floors below; diners who would be enjoying the last al fresco dining opportunities of the season are opting for indoor tables because it is just too hot to sit outside. Fall fashion purchases have yet to make their debut on Madison Avenue as flip-flops reign supreme over buttery soft chocolate brown leather boots. The other night, with the air conditioner on full blast, we returned sweaty and sticky from a late night workout at the gym. “Crank that up,” M said slugging back a glass of ice water and wiping sweat from his brow. No sooner did I turn the knob to the highest setting did a fuse blow in the apartment leaving us in pitch-black darkness. “This sucks,” I said fumbling to the kitchen to search out a flashlight. “I hate Indian Summer.”

My thoughts have been echoed by all of my friends. “I can’t take this,” Stacy said. “I want to go for a run outside. I mean, it’s October, I haven’t even worn jeans yet. My Con-Ed bill is going to be higher than the purchase price of my new cashmere sweater.” Beyond the fashion-despair, the weather has a psychological effect on people as well. “Forget the Halloween decorations at Duane Reade, I just saw an ad for Christmas gifts in my magazine. I’m sitting here in a tank top, dripping sweat from the subway and I’m looking at red and green ho-ho jolly shit. This must be what it’s like to live in Florida and see Santa in shorts driving a convertible,” Jen said.

My wedding is now a few short weeks away and I am at the stage where everyday is packed with a 1000 small details, yet with the soaring temperatures outside I am having a hard time ‘feeling it’. I pictured it differently, the final stretch before my walk down the aisle, strangely I was excited for the stress which came along with the last few weeks of running around with my mother, stuffing gift bags and making lists for my lists for other lists. This type of stress is a high for me; the kind where you can see progress, where checklists get smaller and projects are completed giving you a sense of real accomplishment. However this summer-like weather is throwing me and I keep hoping the mercury will drop, fall will arrive and so with it, the feeling I crave.

Yesterday, as I dashed around the city furiously trying to make a dent in my to-do list, my tank-top putrid and wet, I went to pick up all of shoes which were being re-heeled, summer shoes which I mistakenly believed I wouldn’t need until our honeymoon. I handed the woman behind the counter my claim check. “It will be a moment, he has to get them from downstairs,” she said. The store was hot, the air-conditioner most likely shutoff automatically for the season, two fans twisted furiously in an attempt to cool down the store. The woman behind the counter looked unfazed about the acrid temperature in the store, her hair pulled back gently and swept into an impromptu bun, her make-up as flawless as when she left her house that morning. She fanned herself with a stack of papers she was filing under the counter. “Don’t you hate this weather,” I asked her, believing my question to be rhetorical. “No,” she said, a look of surprise on her face. “It’s marvelous. It’s October and in the 80s. Come December when it is freezing and there is snow on the ground that is when I am miserable. This is a treat, we get a whole other month of summer.” She handed me the bag with my shoes inside, smiled and gave me my change. “It’s all about the alternative. Indian Summer is a gift, a second chance to do all those things which you didn’t get to do over the summer. It’s another day at the beach, another iced coffee. Trust me, in December, you will miss these days.”

She may be right.

First Dates

I can’t say that I miss dating; not at all. Sitting with my single friend the other day, he asked me about wedding plans and I asked him about his dating life. He ran through a litany of first date horror stories – “She looked nothing like her picture”; “I almost left before the first course was served”; “I have more in common with my dog than her”. I could feel his pain. But as he told each tale of dating woe, each set against the backdrop of a new restaurant or amazing first date locale, I realized the one upside to single-life: Being in the Know.

Singles are up on all of the new hotspots, all of the adorable quiet bistros that are hidden on the side streets of the Upper East Side. They are the Zagat’s guide of where to go, a directory of under-the-radar restaurants and cozy wine bars. “I remember when I used to ask you for the update on all the new openings,” my friend mused as he scribbled down the names of a few places that M and I should try. Now I might as well be wearing Guess jeans, EG feet and rubber band bracelets by how out of touch I am with where the “kids” are going these days.

So, in trying to help out all the single Upper East Siders, I have compiled a list based on my single friends’ input of all of the great ‘First Date’ venues on the Upper East Side:

Firenze – (83rd and 2nd) – The most romantic authentic Italian restaurant on the Upper East. Exposed stone and brick walls, candelabras on each table with dripping wax, this small intimate restaurant has some of the best cuisine at moderate prices around. With outdoor seating and a dessert cart that can cause sugar-shock just by looking, this is the number one spot. “I felt like our first date was in Florence, right by the Duomo,” Stephanie said. “ I wanted to learn Italian after that meal.”

Cavatappo – (90th and 2nd) – Size does matter in dating. The smaller the wine bar, the better. “Usually I find going to small places annoying, but when it comes to a first date I equate small to intimate. You don’t want some huge bar with high ceilings when you are focused on the person you are with,” said Ayla. Don’t let Cavatappo’s 25-seat venue fool you, their wine list is easy to understand and as full and robust as a good red.

Cassa La Femme (59th and 1st) – Sumptuous and innately sexy, Cassa La Femme has an Arabian nights meets South Beach feel. Moroccan cuisine is served amidst gyrating belly dancers while diners are secluded in private tented areas. “It is if they are serving sexiness with the lamb,” Karen said. “You feel a world away from New York.”

L’Absinthe – (67th between 2nd and 3rd) - No one does love like the French. L’Absinthe is a deliciously authentic French brasserie. The restaurant captures the glamour of Paris in each bite of the food. Diners and daters rave about the charm and excitement that is abuzz in the atmosphere.