Wendy Markham - Slightly Married

So much so that I’m positive we’ll be able to agree on the details of our wedding.

What counts more than anything is that we love each other, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.

Nothing else matters.

Okay, so I take back what I said last night.

Other things do matter.

Things like head counts and menus and which end of New York State gets to host the big event—and that it will, indeed, be a big event.

So no, this getting-married thing isn’t just about being in love.

I figure that out the moment I awaken on my first Sunday morning as a fiancée to realize that A) I’ve got about eight months to plan my dream wedding, and B) the afterglow-basking must come to an abrupt end if I’m going to get this show on the road.

I slip out of bed quietly so that I don’t disturb Jack, who’s sleeping soundly at last. He was up and down for most of the night, blaming the hour delay in getting our reserved table at the bistro and the rich pasta dish he scarfed down after a fried-cheese appetizer.

I, however, suspect that last night’s extreme case of agita could be attributed to the cause célèbre for our dinner, rather than the food itself, or the hour.

This, after all, is a man who regularly comes home from late nights at the office to unwind with family serving–size Chef Boyardee beef ravioli—often gobbled cold from the can—topped off by an entire row of Double Stuf Oreos.

There was a time when I, too, could have chowed through that midnight spread, and more—and followed by a Salem Lights chaser.

Thank goodness my days of binging-without-purging are long behind me. My stint as a human chimney is more recent history, but after a couple of false starts I ultimately kicked that habit, too. I know I definitely won’t go back now because there’s something unsettling about envisioning myself as a bride with a cigarette butt hanging out of her mouth.

Somehow Jack, who never smoked, has always managed to avoid both a weight problem and indigestion despite his lousy late-night eating habits.

So like I said, I think his upset stomach last night was due to the shock of actually being engaged.

Oh, well. I’m sure he’ll eventually get over it. And while he’s lingering in the recovery stage, I really do need to get busy with the planning stage.

I open the closet and swiftly pull my lilac-colored velour robe over my comfy red-plaid flannel pajamas, then slip my bridesmaid-blistered feet into a cushy pair of green terry-cloth scuffies.

Yes, I clash. Who cares? I’m a fiancée.

And Jack—unlike Will McCraw—cares about who I am, not what I’m wearing.

You know, I can’t believe there was ever a time when I thought it was normal to have your boyfriend offer fashion pointers—or that I dutifully followed Will’s.

Wait until he hears I’m engaged. I can’t wait to tell him.

For that matter, I can’t wait to tell someone. Anyone.

Too bad Raphael is currently winging his way toward Africa and his safari honeymoon.

I wonder if it’s too early to call Kate. She likes to sleep in.

Who cares?

This is big news. I close the bedroom door behind me, grab the phone and quickly dial her number.

“Is Kate there?” I ask excitedly when Billy answers on the third ring.

“She’s throwing up.”

Oh. Right. Morning sickness. I forgot all about Kate’s new pregnancy. She’s due in late September…which means we’ll have to increase the guest list to three hundred and one. Two, if she insists on bringing a nanny. Three with an accompanying wet nurse, which, knowing Kate, isn’t all that far-fetched.

“Can you have her give me a call when she’s done?” I ask Billy, who mumbles something that might be an agreement.

To be sure, I say, “Can you tell her it’s urgent?”

“Yup.” Billy hangs up.

You’d think he might at least have asked me if everything is okay.

No, you wouldn’t think that. Not if you knew Billy, anyway.

Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I can’t stand him—although sometimes I really can’t. But that’s just because he can be an arrogant, prejudiced, elitist prick.

When he’s not being an arrogant, prejudiced, elitist prick, he’s fine. More or less. He’s just not my kind of person. We simply have nothing in common other than his being married to my best girlfriend.

Anyway, I really should be glad he didn’t inquire about the urgent nature of my call, because I might have been tempted to blurt it out.

And I really don’t want Billy, of all people, to be the first to hear the big news.

I consider calling Buckley O’Hanlon, my best straight guy friend. Then I remember that after Raphael’s wedding, he and his fiancée, Sonja, were heading out to spend the remainder of Valentine’s Day weekend at some romantic inn in the Hamptons. They won’t be back until tomorrow.

I could call Brenda, Latisha or Yvonne, but I’ll see them at the office first thing in the morning. It will be much more satisfying to stick out my hand and show them.

But I have to tell someone, and soon.

I’ll just wait for Kate to call back. I’m sure it won’t be long. How long does it take to barf, brush your teeth and dial the phone?

In the kitchen, I brew a big pot of coffee, throw on a Frank Sinatra CD—and promptly find myself homesick.

Between the fragrant hazelnut grounds and Frankie baby singing “My Kinda Town,” I could close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting at a vinyl-covered chair in my parents’ kitchen. No, it’s not in Frankie baby’s Chicago.

It’s in Brookside, New York, just south and west of Buffalo—which might as well be in the Midwest. My father frequently plays Frank Sinatra on Sunday mornings as we lounge around in our robes with coffee. The only thing that’s missing is the aroma of something frying. Bacon or pork sausage, pancakes or eggs in butter, onions and hash browns in olive oil—there’s always something frying in my parents’ house.

Suddenly, I’m desperate to share my big news with them—the news I told Jack just last night should wait until we see our families in person.

Since my future mother-in-law lives a short train ride away, in Westchester County, we can tell her anytime. Wilma is the one who gave Jack the heirloom diamond in the first place, so she’s not likely to be very surprised.

My parents, on the other hand, gave up any hope of my getting married the day I moved in with Jack. That’s because, as everybody knows, people—namely, men—don’t buy cows who give milk for free. At least, everyone in Brookside knows that. Probably because Connie Spadolini told them.

What my mother never did understand is that in Manhattan, where cows are as scarce as affordable apartments and a gallon of milk is as expensive as a gallon of gasoline, living together is a prelude to marriage, not an alternative.

I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees my ring and witnesses the end of the shameful era she refers to as Tracey Lives In Sin. It was only slightly less traumatic for my family than the previous eras known as Tracey Turns Her Back on Her Family (i.e., Relocates to New York) and Tracey Falls in Love With a Flaming Homosexual.

Not that Will actually was. Gay, I mean.

But as far as my father and brothers are concerned, if you’re going to wear black turtlenecks and expensive cologne and have an affinity for show tunes and fresh herbs, you’d damn well better be a middle-aged Italian man. Or have a vagina.

Poor Waspy Will, sans vagina, obviously had to be closeted, according to the macho macho men in my family.

Anyhoo, the only thing Team Spadolini would find more disturbing than my living with—and not marrying—Jack, would be my marrying Will McCraw.