Escape From Bridezillia. Jacqueline deMontravel
even rivaled my mother in the number of renovations she gave her kitchen. Whenever they met, they shared this secret language of contractors, architects, and new stoves the way a W accessories editor sought to discover a burgeoning jewelry designer. Daphne always appreciated Mom’s recommendations for her experienced eye, while Mom loved Daphne’s young, modern approach.
She greeted me at the entrance with her expensive hair, dressed in white denim pants, a charcoal sweater, and fitted jean jacket. Either she just came from Vera Wang or this was the Upper East Side uniform. Her long blond hair was brushed back, delicately balancing on the tips of her ear lobes before it naturally cascaded past her shoulders. Not even a jog in the park would undo her natural style. I’ve asked her many times in the past how she could keep her hair so perfectly, but she’d respond rather evasively, guarding her secret as would a director of CIA military operatives.
I always felt disheveled, inadequate next to Daphne. Her clothes came from the tissue wrapping of roped shopping bags and slipped onto her tiny frame. Her delicate features were prim, her profile simple and perfect like the cutout from an old-fashioned silhouette.
In that Sixty-ninth and Park tone, she said, “So? Let’s see it.”
See what?
“Emily? The ring! I’m surprised you haven’t smacked me in the face with it.”
I raised my hand languorously. Daphne took a firm grasp; her eyes widened, but not from trying to spot the diamond.
“Lord of the rings!”
“Yes, I thought the movie was too hyped as well.”
“What the hell is this?” she said, dropping my hand. “It looks like Emily’s missing tooth covered in silver magic marker!”
“Emily’s missing a tooth?”
But from the anger in Daphne’s voice, I could tell we weren’t about to discuss her daughter’s missing tooth.
“Emily, this is completely unacceptable. You have to get rid of it.”
I regressed back to when I used to steal neighborhood pets, pawn them off as strays to my mom, and ask if we could keep them.
“I can’t just return it like some sweater that I got in the wrong size.”
“Why not? It clearly doesn’t fit, so you have the perfect out.”
As I was about to give my rebuttal, Daphne interrupted, “Don’t give me the sentimental value line, which went out with drafty old castles.”
I wanted to write an anonymous letter to Daphne’s editor at Gourmet, saying her recipes made my guests suffer from salmonella, do things that placed me in a school therapist’s deviant file.
“But it was Henry’s grandmother’s,” I said in a final effort.
“Did she make pies for a living?”
“Apparently a German woman, big boned.”
“Though who am I to talk,” she moaned, patting her stomach. “I can’t seem to fit into any of my pants. It looks like I have to pay Oz a visit.”
Daphne wasn’t making any trips over the rainbow—no easy feat—she referred to her nutrition expert.
“It’s not too bad,” I said, feigning admiration to my silver-baby-tooth diamond. “In fact, the ring is growing on me.”
“You’d need to gain another two hundred pounds before it grows on you!”
“Come on, Daphne,” I snapped, now fully riled. So my fiancé wasn’t chosen because he knew when to put his name on Louis Vuitton’s waiting list, giving his wife the right gift come Christmas. Henry and I weren’t that kind of couple. And I wasn’t materialistic.
I had to figure how to subtly key Henry into getting his name on Vuitton’s waiting list.
“This ring is much more appropriate for me, my lifestyle. With my painting,” a heated pause. “And you know how I can’t justify having a Cartier tank with all of the Wonder Woman Timexes I’ve lost.”
I really wanted a Cartier.
“Imagine losing a four-carat engagement ring and how bad a day that would be.”
Daphne, not looking satisfied, led me into the kitchen, where I became the target of two children with waving hands and barnyard screams until they settled in the vee of my arms.
“What a gorgeous dress, Emily.”
She pulled away to give a curtsey, aptly showing her French blue velvet pinafore Florence Eisemann with a satin bow.
“And how about showing me that missing tooth of yours?”
Emily proudly opened her mouth, poking her upper lip.
“But the tooth fairy said she’d still give me a treat even though it’s missing.”
“How much do teeth go for now?” I asked Daphne.
“Twenty. But if we put that diamond from your ring under his pillow, she’d get considerably lower.”
“Twenty? Whatever happened to a silver dollar and one of those tooth fairy certificates you used to get from Penny Whistle Toys?”
Daphne placed some cookies and bite-sized brownies onto a square celadon plate, arranging and rearranging them in different patterns.
“Mommy,” said Emily, tugging on her sweater. “I’m dehydrated.”
“You’re not dehydrated. You’re seven.”
I asked Daphne if I could help, her wave saying if-I-had-a-second-I’d-need-it-for-my-used-up seconds.
“So I’m thinking of having my tubes tied.”
“Tubes tide?” I wasn’t versed on contractor terminology.
“A hysterectomy. I’ve been getting so fat, and the idea of being pregnant again…”
I looked to Daphne’s size 4 figure. She was not fat.
“Don’t go there, Daphne.”
She put the plate in front of me, arranged in a heart. I held a brownie and asked if it was fat-free. Daphne nodded longingly as she opened the fridge door, unsealed a salmon-colored Tupperware container with cut carrots and celery marinating in lemon slices and water, and arranged a few stalks in a shrunken flower vase. She bit into a piece of celery, which sounded like boots crashing on ice. I really enjoyed my brownie, but had my suspicions of its fat content. Two little hands slammed on the plate, followed by some giggles. Emily then darted to the fridge to take a bottled water.
“Andy and I had to attend this dinner the other night, and I couldn’t even zip my red Zac Posen dress. This is my safety dress.”
“Safety dress?”
“Dress that makes me feel thin even on fat days.”
I nodded, thinking of my beaded Celine.
“So you just add another fifteen minutes on the Versaclimber.”
“Fifteen minutes? Who has fifteen minutes?” she moaned.
“I believe half of Hollywood, now that reality television is such a success.”
“Emily. I just can’t be pregnant again. I just had Emily and Henry. Henry was born, like, a day ago.”
It did seem that Daphne was always pregnant. Pregnant and making low-fat pastries, but I wasn’t about to share that with her.
“Well, forget about me and my problems. You’re getting married!”
“Indeed I am, though I may not have the ring to prove it,” I said, looking down at my hand.
“That’s for sure.”
“But we