Midnight Madness

While I may not like Thanksgiving turkey, in the past, I have always enjoyed one aspect of the holiday weekend –Black Friday.

Down in Virginia for the holiday, M and I spent a good part of Wednesday afternoon shopping at the pre-sale event at the Leesburg outlet mall with M’s mother. The outdoor mall stretched for miles with rambling paths of stores that reached out like arms, extending as far as the eye could see. The mall was quiet; a few shoppers carried bags of holiday gifts as the three of us enjoyed a cup of Starbucks and a beautiful fall afternoon. In Restoration Hardware a chaise caught my eye. “This is beautiful,” I said to M and his mom, feeling the soft crushed velvet and as I reclined on the boudoir piece. “I love it even more because Chief won’t fit on it.”

The three of us stood over the piece of furniture, hands on our hips we inspected it with a designer’s eye and carpenter’s sense of space, trying to deduce where it could go in the apartment and if we could fit it in the car. “That’s going to be an additional 25% off during our midnight madness sale,” the sales clerk said as she came up from behind us. “We are opening at midnight Thanksgiving eve, but I can ring you up today for it if you like.”

“Done! We will take it!” I said as she attached an orange sold sign to the chaise and handed us the paperwork.

But now we needed a plan. How are we going to get this gi-normous chair back home? “I’ll see if I can rent us a minivan or an SUV,” I said to M as I searched online to find a car. In less than 5 minutes I had a car reserved at Dulles airport and a plan in place. “We will go pick up the car after dinner and drive out to the outlets around midnight. We can toss the chair in and then hit the road in the morning. This is so easy!”

The best laid plans….

Just before midnight, M and I bundled up in our warm coats turned up the heat in our rented Uplander and found a radio station that wasn’t all Christmas music as we got on the road for our 40-minute trip to Leesburg. “When we get there, we should get the chair in the car first, but then I want to do a little damage at the stores,” I informed M. “We should definitely go back to the Saks outlet. I had my eye on this pair of boots.” While I plotted out our shopping strategy M focused on the empty road. “Easy as pumpkin pie.” I smiled at M, the promise of our fun midnight shopping excursion and the 4 cups of coffee keeping me pumped up. This was an adventure.

As we approached the exit for the mall, traffic slowed to a creeping pace, then it stopped entirely. For miles ahead, in the darkness of night all we could see were red taillights. “Fuck,” I said to M. “Oh, fuck!” M repeated.

In an hour, we moved less than a mile. I could see the mall in the distance, the spotlights rising up into the night sky. Cars jammed the exit ramps and frustrated drivers were letting their shopping-crazed passengers out on the side of the highway as they hiked the rest of the way on foot. “This is not good. Not good,” I muttered under my breath. At 2 am, we finally had made it to the turn in for the parking lot. The sale certainly earned its name; cars were parked in drive-thru lanes at banks and fast food restaurants which lined the side streets, people were parking on the grass and sidewalks, cars were packed 10 deep with people, hordes of crazed shoppers rushed through oncoming traffic like ants to an open picnic basket. “This isn’t madness,” M said, “This is mayhem!”

“I have to pee,” I said to M.

“Why didn’t you go before we left?” he asked sounding like a mother talking to their 4 year old.

“We left 3 hours ago. I DID go before we left, but I also drank an entire pot of coffee.” Each bump in the road hurt, I crossed my legs and tried not think about running water.

“Maybe I should get off here and run to the bathroom and then meet you at the store,” I said as we finally were in the parking lot. I bolted out of the car and made a mad dash for the bathroom trying to navigate through the sea of people until I made it to the restroom which had a line 30 deep. I figured, by the time I made it back to M he would have the chaise loaded into the car ready to go and we would be out of there in 10 minutes.

The best laid plans….

“Why do you have bolt cutters in your hand,” I said to M as I returned from the bathroom. M and an employee from Restoration Hardware were in the cargo bay of the car fighting to get the seat down. The instruction manual open, an array of tools on the ground and pieces of what used to be a seat were scattered everywhere. “This back row of seats is broken,” M said. He was sweating even in the frigid night air. He jiggled the seat backwards and then forwards trying to release it as two employees from the store tried to cram the chaise in the side door. “Want to get some rope and tie it to the roof,” I asked. M gave me a look which I took to mean “Shut the fuck up” and I backed off. Another 40 minutes went by, three men – my husband being one of them, continued the good fight to get the seats to go down. I cursed the chaise as I shivered on the sideline and watched the testosterone and pieces of the car fly around in front of me at this sporting event.

Exasperated, M looked almost ready to quit, call the chaise, the car rental, the 4 hours of frustration a sunk cost and call it a night. “I’m getting this in the car or we aren’t leaving here,” he said. Faced with the unpleasant possibility, I would have to spend the night, and perhaps the rest of my life, on the floor of Restoration Hardware I conjured up whatever little manly skills I had and jumped into the bay of the car. “Let me try something, “ I said. M threw up his hands, “Try whatever you want. This thing isn’t moving.”

I pulled a cord, and then pushed the seat forward and out it popped – sliding off the tracks easily. The three men watched in awe as I repeated the same step with the other row of seats. “I am woman, hear me roar,” I bellowed at the top of my lungs. “Now get that chaise in here and let’s go home.”

I don’t know if M will ever sit on that chaise, but it certainly looks lovely in our apartment.

Gobble Gobble

Could it be Thanksgiving already? I had to look at my calendar last week to confirm it after I heard it mentioned by a sales clerk. Maybe it was ennui from being back from the wedding/honeymoon or perhaps I just lost track of time, but Thanksgiving feels early this year.

I’m not one for turkey, sweet potatoes and the host of other Thanksgiving related foods people indulge in for this holiday. I am more a Halloween kind of girl – the candy corn, mini Baby Ruth’s and bit size Snicker bars are my poison. Never could understand the commercials for Alka Seltzer and Jenny Craig which pop up this time of year, an image of an overstuffed man laying on an overstuffed couch watching football.

Thanksgiving is just not my holiday; long lines at the airport, bumper to bumper traffic on the highways all for the promise of turkey and stuffing? Turkey, the idea of it, puts me to sleep which may partly explain why family has been known to do Thanksgiving dinner at a steak house. Well, that and my mother’s cooking skills.

There is one part of the Thanksgiving festivities which I do like – and that is being with family. So while you are sitting in traffic on the runway at La Guardia or battling the throngs of people fighting for a seat on NJ transit and questioning all this effort for turkey, keep in mind what the holiday is all about: Being grateful and giving thanks for those you love and the distance you would go to be with them.

Happy Travels!

Cold Dose of Reality

“Good morning, folks. We have begun our initial descent into the New York area and we should be on the ground at 7:45. The current temperature at JFK is 34 degrees. Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.” I awoke to the pilot’s announcement, scrunched into a tight ball in my seat, my face pressed against the cold window, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and opened the shade. Thirty-four degrees. The honeymoon was over. Hawaii was 12 hours and a world away.

Below, I could make out the coastline of Long Island – the narrow stretch of beach, the naked trees, the cold grey New York morning. I always disliked red-eyes, there was something about waking up in a new locale, your vacation far away and a whole new day in front of you that made flying, the end of a vacation even worse. M was still asleep next to me, his eyes tightly closed as a red American Airline’s blanket covered him. I didn’t wake him.

We circled over Queens and in the distance I could see the city sparkling in the early day’s sun. The steel of the skyscrapers bounding towards the sky, the golden drops of sunlight glimmering from the antennas which, like an out-stretched arm, reached even higher. We were away for two weeks, but it felt longer – the season had changed while we were gone, the clocks fell back to their restful state and the first frost, according to my mom had finally arrived.

We bounced down the runway, the plane came in hard and skipped to the right until we finally came to a complete stop and M woke up. “We’re home,” I said. I was partly excited to have life back to normal and partly sad that the wedding, the honeymoon, the planning – those things which took up so much of my time and which I looked forward to, were behind me. Gone were the blissful honeymoon days of big breakfasts and lazy afternoons poolside enjoying a cocktail with an umbrella and a good book. Gone were the side trips, the adventures hiking the Napali Coasts or horseback riding across open pastures to our own private waterfall. Tomorrow, I will wake up in my own too-hard, t00-small bed that doesn't come with turn down service and fancy mango cookies on the pillow. “Yay,” M said, his eyes still shut as he pulled the blanket tighter, “yay.”

We struggled with our carry-on bags – the tennis bag, a wheelie, the backpack which we were forced to purchase on our LA stopover when the plastic shopping bag M insisted on carrying bottomed-out and out came all of the carved Tiki statues which he bought - “The God of War, The God of Good Fortune – these will be great in my office.” I had hoped they would have been lost in checked baggage. Like zombies, we waited with the rest of the flight at the luggage carousel. It was a sold-out plane, surprising for a red-eye. With our 6 pieces of luggage finally in-hand, we jumped in the car and headed towards the city.

I was shivering. When we left, it was in the 60s and taking a jacket didn’t even cross my mind. “Come here.” M reached out his arm, offering me warmth and a spot under it. I nuzzled in, squeezed between my purse and the Tiki statues that rode in the back of the car with us. “You could’ve put these in the trunk,” I said as I took a punch to the left side by the God of Long Life as we turned onto the Queensboro Bridge.

We pulled up outside our building and began to unload the luggage. “I’ll hold on to the statue bag,” M said taking it from the driver’s hands as he assisted us. A friendly and funny neighbor noticed our return from his third floor window. “You’re back!” he yelled. “Congratulations.” With that, a shower of rice poured down on us as he hummed what I think he thought was the wedding march, but was in fact the graduation march. When the rice was gone, he chucked out the empty box of Uncle Ben’s minute rice which fell at our feet. “Welcome home.”

Don't Tell the Bride

There are some things which you just don’t tell a bride…at least not during the wedding.

It still seems weird to reflect upon the day, even here, from the vantage point of distance under a Hawaiian sunset and the soft tropical breeze which lulls us to sleep every night. It still feels like a dream, as if it didn’t already happen. But now, the stories of the day arrive on email, come in quick phone calls from friends and family back home to help us reconstruct the puzzle of the day.

It was noon on the day of wedding. I was in the early stages of getting ready, changed into my official “getting ready” outfit which consisted of a sweatshirt that said “Mrs. Snuffleupagus,” a pair of cut-off sweatpants and the Ritz’s bedroom slippers when the emergency lights in the room started to flash and the crackle of the overhead speaker cut through the silence and tension like a butcher knife. “Please remain calm. An emergency has been reported in the hotel. Stay tuned for evacuation directions,” the voice on the loudspeaker blared over Enya on the in-room iPod. It took me a good 5 minutes to even digest the announcement. Emergency? Like a fire? I pictured myself, a vision in white smoke with my perfect wedding going up in that smoke as I navigated down 28 flights of stairs. Do I take my dress? Do I get a refund from the hotel?

The sirens started going off and I heard from my perch 28 floors above the Ben Franklin Parkway the blare of fire engines racing to the hotel. In all of the nightmare scenarios I envisioned on the day of the wedding – the florist’s truck overturned on I-76, a Noreaster causing havoc on people’s travel plans, falling down and breaking my leg, I never imagined a fire at the hotel. My phone started ringing, first my cell phone and then the room phone. With a towel on my head, I adjusted it to place both phones to my ears. “Are you okay?” my mother’s concern was audible. M texted me: “Run”. “Just stay in your room and wait to hear back from me, but have your shoes on and ready to go,” Ilana, our event coordinator instructed me as she went to seek out the issue. I was wondering which shoes? My 5 inch stiletto wedding shoes or sneakers which I forgot to bring?

The elevators were turned off and escape from this unknown emergency meant tear-assing down the steps. In tears, I began to pack up items to take with me until I got a phone call letting me know that a steam pipe burst and the fire department was taking care of it. T-minus 5 hours and one disaster averted.

The sun broke through the clouds, the hair and make-up artists arrived and my wedding suite began to fill with bridesmaids and family – everything was back on course. Robotically, I went through the motions of the day as a pack of wild butterflies did a ballet in my belly. The photographer arrived, clicking away capturing each candid moment as it occurred.

For the “big reveal” I was to go with the photographer and videographer to an undisclosed location where M would be delivered to see me for the first time. In the lobby of the hotel, I waited for the car to be brought around so that I could be packed in like a sweater into tie-box, my dress shoved, rolled and hiked up so that I fit. Another wedding party had gathered on the steps of the hotel out front. From afar, it was a huge wedding party but what caught my eye was how they were dressed. The only way to describe the scene is to say straight off the stage of Jerry Springer’s – DNA paternity testing for Prom sluts and their illegitimate babies.

The bridesmaids were dressed in gowns more appropriate for centerstage at a strip club in Tampa than the Ritz Carlton in Philadelphia. They wore long Barney-purple spandex gloves which stretched above their elbows, their eggplant color gowns were slinky and tight to the ground with choker-collars covered in rhinestones. All of them were smoking, cigarettes dangling from their yellow-stained teeth as they shrieked and hollered like it was an Eagles’ game. Even the bride flicked ashes from her cigarette, her white gown and tiara comical. “There can’t be two brides! That ain’t right,” one pudgy bridesmaid screamed looking like a purple sausage link. “We should get her!”

Get her? Get me? Are they fucking kidding? This is a wedding not a friggin white trash catfight at a monster truck rally. The photographer quickly tucked me into the car and sped off. M and I had our moment alone, seeing each other for the first time that day and for the last time until we were man and wife.

But here is where “Don’t tell the bride” part of the tale begins:

I basically forgot about the other bride, the other wedding – I was in my moment, at my wedding and everyone and everything else evaporated. It was about us, our friends and our families – the other bride, her wedding – it wasn’t important. But the hotel had a smaller ballroom to fill that night, they do multiple weddings all of the time using all of the available space and making sure to keep the weddings in their own distinct areas. After the ceremony, our guests were ushered up to the main level for cocktail hour. Everything was as beautiful as I pictured it; rose petals covered the tables, the ice sculpture of the LOVE statue soared above the raw bar, up lit with amber lights. M and I did our hellos, enjoyed a glass of champagne and barely sampled the food which I meticulously picked and stressed over for months. “I didn’t get an oyster,” M whined.

As the cocktail portion of the evening wound down, and guests headed to the ballroom for dinner, guests from the other wedding party invaded our cocktail hour, pilfering half-drunk drinks from the tables and attempting to make off with our ice sculpture. This fortunately, I didn’t learn until after the evening.

Later that night, I noticed a few cops in the lobby of the hotel. At the time, I remembering thinking about it, I remember wondering why so many police officers would be in the lobby of the Ritz. I remember saying to Ilana, “Lots of cops here. Is this from the pipe bursting?” Well it wasn’t the bursting pipe – it was the eruption of violence at the other wedding.

Turns out, that the Jerry Springer groom had been sleeping with one of the bridesmaids and this piece of useful information wasn’t made available to the bride until her wedding day. And rightfully so, when the bride discovered this pearl of information she walloped on her new husband, attacking him with fists of fury until an all-out brawl broke out and their wedding reception resembled a WWF convention. My brother knew what was going on, sharing an elevator ride with the bride and groom where the groom called his bride an “asshole” and she returned the compliment by calling him a “huge asshole”. Exiting the elevator my brother said, “Congratulations and good luck.” The bride belched her thank you and the groom dropped his beer bottle on the ground, wasted he slid down the wall of the elevator. Thankfully, no one shared this with me until the next day.

M was also aware of the havoc which was occurring simultaneously to our wedding. At the satellite bar, right outside the ballroom where our wedding was going on, M went to get a drink. “What wedding are you here for,” the bartender asked. M explained that he was the groom and the bartender informed M that guests from the other wedding, where I assume there wasn’t an open bar, had been coming down to siphon from ours. “We had one girl down here, so drunk, she did a header into the wall. I had to get security to stop people from coming down to your wedding.”

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, did the tree even fall? I guess the same can apply here, to our wedding. I didn’t know any of this until the night was over. And now, in retrospect, it all makes for a good story…which I am sure will air in a month or two on Jerry Springer.