i have been her kind

Almost four years ago I stood in a Catholic church and did the thing I thought I would never do. Got married. Less shocking than the fact that I a) got married and b) did so in a Catholic church was the fact that c) I survived the wedding planning process. Wedding planning is a test of many things - organization skills, budgeting, personality management. It's a test of relationships as well. For me the biggest test was not in my relationship to my husband - we passed pre cana with flying colors - but rather my relationship with my mother. My very jealous mother.

We've all seen the commercials where a bride is given away at the altar by her father and the mother looks on proudly, smiling beatifically in her tastefully subdued mother-of-the-bride outfit. The mother looks proud and peaceful, thrilled for her little girl on her big day. Cut to our wedding - my mother sits in the front pew fuming that my father's girlfriend has been seated in the same pew as she is. She tries to make eye contact with her friends and family in the pews behind her, seeking validation for the injustice she's suffered. Meanwhile, my husband and I exchange vows and blissfully exit the church.

Five years ago my husband and I got engaged at sunset on Oak Street Beach in Chicago. A year and a half later, we tied the knot, the groom with a dapper pocket square accenting his rented tux and me wearing pink shoes to accent my dress. At most weddings, the bride is given away at the altar by her father while her mother looks on proudly, smiling serenely in her tastefully subdued mother-of-the-bride outfit. The mother looks proud and peaceful, thrilled for her little girl on her big day. Cut to our wedding - my mother sits in the front pew fuming that my father's girlfriend has been seated in the same pew as she is. She tries to make eye contact with her friends and family in the pews behind her, seeking validation for the injustice she's suffered. Because as usual, she feels the need to make it all about her. 

When I started planning my wedding, I tried to politely solicit my mother's opinions on certain details, like the reception venue (she found us a graceful historic home, hidden in the hills, very Great Gatsby-esque). But when it came time to choose a wedding dress I knew that I wouldn't include my mother in the process. I was 30 years old, for god's sake, I didn't need anyone's validation. I didn't want to hear any critques or comments about my choices. I knew what looked good on me and what didn't. A year before the wedding my sister and I got preview tickets to a Vera Wang sample sale. I walked in and an hour later walked out with a dress. Clean lines, simple styling, chic, and unfussy. Perfect. I took pictures with my digital camera and sent them to my mother, who was unimpressed. I took this to mean that I had made the right choice.

But in the following weeks, I found myself wondering if I'd made a hasty decision. Should I have tried more on? Would I have liked a dress with a bow, with some lace, maybe one that was strapless or A-line? My mother kept telling me I was nuts to have bought the first dress I tried on. It was the wrong size she said, too fitted, too daring for the small town where I'd grown up, no one would know how to handle such a dress. The priest would throw me out of the church at the sight of the plunging neckline. And on. and on. and on. So I quietly made an appointment at the most exclusive bridal shop in the city to try on more dresses.

The next Wednesday I went straight from the office to The Ultimate Bride. I was the only bride in the waiting area alone. I browsed the piles of bridal magazines as I waited, lingering over the glossy pages of dresses and cakes and candlelit tabletops. Eventually a woman about my age, badly dressed in pants that were too tight and sensible shoes, descended upon the waiting area and called my name. I stood up and waved. She frowned.

"Let's get your whole party together to go back to your fitting room," she said briskly.

"I am the whole party," I said.

She peered over her out-of-date glasses at me. "We don't get many brides in here by themselves. And we don't allow taking pictures. Are you sure you don't want to have your mother here with you?"

I smiled sweetly at her. "I'm sure."

The next two hours were a flurry of girly confections in white. Spun sugar, ribbons of frothy lace, bows and dots and flowers, creamy white swirls of heavy pearly satin and silk. At the end of it I was exhausted. And more sure of my dress decision than ever.

I never told anyone about my moment of uncertainty. I knew that my mother would somehow find a way to use it against me. That she would make a point to tell the story over and over again, to friends and my new family, about how I got "nervous" and that I should have listened to her. I didn't feel like listening to her making my marriage into a story all about her. Because in the end, everything is always all about her.  And that's why I largely tried to leave her out of planning my wedding - for once, I wanted something to be about me. I wanted my dress to reflect who I was, not who she wanted me to be.

Last night it looks like Tom, Katie and Suri were in town with Oprah - this photo was taken at Lake Pointe Towers by Navy Pier in Chicago. Maybe they were staying there instead of a hotel for some privacy? I watched the first half of his interview today and thought that he seemed genuine (aside from the Scientology thing which I find to be creepy, but to each his own). Truly, who can imagine what it would be like to be hunted by paparazzi every day?! I would buy a sonogram machine too if I were him - he says he was just trying to keep things private, that they had a doctor come to them instead of going to a hospital every time. I hope he and Katie are as happy as they seem to be, she's always seemed normal to me, not to mention she's from Ohio and apparently loves all things sugary!

This morning I almost got hit by a car - me and a red-haired guy on a bike, both of whom were minding our own business. I was here, heading north on LaSalle Street, on my way to the lakefront, at about 8:30 am. As I was crossing the street, there was a white car in the curb lane heading south toward me - and he was in a hurry. As in he suddenly decided he needed to make the light, I guess, b/c he gunned it just as he started to get close to me. Once he was whizzing right past me, I heard brakes squealing and put my hands over my ears, waiting for a crash. When I got to the curb on the other side I felt shaky and sick - I turned around to see the car on the opposite curb, stopped, sideways, and a red-haired biker shaking his head, unharmed. Thank god.

It reminded me of something I heard not long ago - a friend who works in the medical field told me that there's some crazy stat about the number of car accidents and deaths that are caused by people trying to speed through yellow lights. The doctor he worked for always used to tell everyone that "Yellow means caution - slow down!" Most people take yellow to mean "hurry the f up if you don't want to be late" - I've certainly been guilty of it. No more - from now on, I'm going to try my best to stop at yellow lights. That should really piss off everyone driving around me in Chicago traffic. C'est la vie.

This is my salvation in the warmer months of Chicago. Every morning that it's above 50 degrees and not raining, this is where you'll find me. I always head east to the lake front to Oak Street Beach first, jogging along Oak Street and observing all of the self-important people ambling up the street in the morning. Usually it's a mix of wealthy socialite types with beaucoup de plastique and oversized sunglasses, a few homeless beggars shuffling along, some banker looking douchebags with pleated pants and then a few of my favorites, the dandies. The dandies are the gays over 50, with their slicked back hair, bow ties and tanned skin, pocket squares.  Total throwback to another era, think Palm Beach chic or Dominick Dunne. I breeze by them all anonymously, happily, on my way to the beach.

Oak Street Beach is where I got engaged five years ago, in a summery flowy skirt in the sand in front of the Drake. It was perfect. For me, that beach always is. When I run I usually head south along the lakefront down to Navy Pier, sometimes out into Olive Park if I have time. I like to turn off my music but leave my headphones on, so that I can be alone and enjoy the lapping of the water on the rocks. Water as far as the eye can see to the east, and some of the greatest architecture ever to the west, the curve of Lake Shore Drive with Mies van der Rohe's genius dotting the drive. On a clear day I just sometimes stop to drink it all in, take a deep breath and try to be in the moment and remember the feeling. At the end of my journey is Ohio Street Beach, (hmmm) where Japanese tourists with cameras usually flock to take photos. Later in the season the swimmers are also here, plunging into the water in their wetsuits even in July.

Because the path south is mostly concrete for runners, I've been trying to head north as well where the path is blacktop, easier on the joints, I'm told. North Avenue Beach is a wide, expansive beach, it's easy to convince yourself you're in California when you're there. The ship that anchors it is so kitsch, with a bar up top where all of the Lincoln Park Trixies converge on summer weekends to try to meet Mr. Right. I love to run all the way out to the end of the pier here in the mornings during the week, when it's empty. You feel like you're running out to sea, with the 10 ft wide pier beneath you headed straight east across Lake Michigan, a bit of sand beach on one side, but mostly just choppy sea as far as the eye can see. The wind whips you and pushes you, takes your breath away and tries to defeat you, but you keep going. Coming back it's a mesmerizing view of the city, the Drake nestled at the curve and the weathiest enclave around, East Lake Shore Drive, stretching out past it.

Chicago with the lake, the wind, the sand and the wanna-be glamour in the summertime is my favorite. It *almost* makes winter here survivable. Almost.

we have to move. I can't take it anymore, living in this teeny tiny space. it's unbearable. but it's more than that - I am ready for my life to change. I want to have room to do art projects, build furniture, spray paint home items. I want to have a patio with real outdoor furniture and maybe a small patch to garden.

I want to have mobility. Like today, I washed my favorite (read only) everyday bra and somehow the washer managed to un-bend the hook at the back, rendering it un-fastenable. I need to go buy a new one. A simple chore, really. But not here - how to pull it off? I can't drive to a department store b/c there's no where to park once I arrive; unless I want to pay $25 to park in a garage; waste of money. I could take a cab, but there and back would be around $15-20; again, waste of money. I could walk but it's freezing and raining and would take too long anyway. There's no el that's convenient. Thus, a simple chore becomes a epic task that involves much planning. I may ask P to drive me and drop me off, that way the cab home is the only cost. But really, why does it have to be so hard?

The stupid part is that we already know the answer; it's almost a given that we're leaving the city and moving to P's hometown. There, I said it. But he keeps hesitating and postponing and stalling on a decision. Let's get it over with already. A toast to forward motion.