Read Online Autobiography of a Fat Bride by Laurie Notaro - Free Book Online Page A

me, there was a very good article in one of your magazines called ‘Flatware: An Investigative Report’ that you should read. You ever try eating stroganoff with a candlestick? Have you? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Then
register.
”
    Haunted by the vision of trying to cut into a filet mignon with a salt shaker for the rest of eternity, I grabbed my boyfriend and we embarked on picking out stemware, washcloths, casual dinnerware, and lots of things we didn’t want but could return for cash or credit, since there was a great pair of cowboy boots I had my eye on in the shoe department. In effect, the entire ordeal was nothing short of an engagement hazing/endurance test. It took us two days, rotating in shifts, to pick out all of the essential things we were going to need or risk our marriage eroding into a miserable and dismal failure. Every choice was laced with trepidation and chance. Who knew if the double old-fashioned juice glasses could be the unraveling of our love or if the villain was really the etched goblets? You never knew.
You never knew.
I didn’t even know the truth behind two-hundred-thread-count sheets and if three hundred was better or worse, and there I was, picking out things that were supposed to last a lifetime.
    I realized I had crossed a line when I was standing in the towel department and found myself shouting across the aisle to my boyfriend—who was seeking well-deserved slumber on a bed the size of a hot dog meticulously vignetted in Ralph Lauren’s Avery Cafe bed linens—“Why are we even going through the motions of this wedding if we aren’t getting the full-size bath sheets? What
is
the point?”
    Bridal black hole. Sucked right in. Fortunately, I was able to pull out of it after I received an invitation to a bridal fair at the same department store a week after we registered. The lure was free gifts. I figured if I wasn’t going to be a beautiful bride, I might as well get some free stuff by just being a bride in the first place, and I talked my unfortunate maid of honor and best friend since third grade, Jamie, into going with me.
    As the loot was handed out, we saw one girl tackle another for a free Wedgwood gravy boat. I saw a bride-to-be and her maid of honor work an unsuspecting lone bride like grifters, trying to make her trade her Lenox crystal ring-holder gift for their package of thank-you cards. I saw a girl erupt into tears when she opened what looked like a jewelry box that really held a pen with an attachment for a big, nasty feather. And I watched all of them circle around me like raptors when I won the shower cake as Jamie held them at bay with lit aromatherapy candles she grabbed from a nearby display.
    It was enough to make me go home, grab the closest wheelbarrow, gather up approximately fourteen hundred pounds of bridal magazines, and dump them straight into the gaping black hole of our recycling bin.

Don’t Drink the Kool-Aid

    W e had run into a snag.
    Neither my boyfriend nor I had been to a church in years and had no one to marry us. Although one of our friends swore he was an ordained minister and would perform the ceremony, we changed our minds when we found out what kind of medication he was on.
    After some searching, I found a minister in the phone book and made the call. Assuring me of what a great ceremony he performed (including a portion in which the bride and groom high-five each other), he then informed me that he was busy on our date and that he would refer me to one of his colleagues.
    That’s how we found Ellen.
    Ellen called, and told us that she ran a church on the west side of town. She suggested that we come down to the service the following Sunday to see if we liked each other. I agreed. There couldn’t be any harm in that.
    On Sunday, we got up early, took showers, and made sure we were both wearing clean underwear, even if both pairs were my boyfriend’s. We ironed his shirt and got ready for church.
    With the address in hand, we set