So I promised myself I would _not_  buy into the wedding industrial complex. In fact I said, I'm a hip New Yorker, I'm just going to wear a gorge couture dress that happens to be white and happens to have absolutely no taffeta or tulle. I will not be a Queen for a Day.

Then everything changed. You see, I walked into a fancy Madison Avenue shop and stripped and put on a corset and was fitted into a fabulous lace concoction with a train and a sash and when my mother and cousin saw me they started crying and when I looked in the mirror I said to myself, "I'm a queen!"

Later I was telling a biologist friend that when the lady in the shop bustled the dress in the back I felt like I was in a living tableau of a Manet painting. She laughed and said you know, when certain African monkeys are mating their butts look all white and rosy like a bustle. And I thought, fuck--I mean, thank you for puncturing my absurd nineteenth-century fantasy.

Tonight I'll be at the mother of all bridal shops, Kleinfeld's. But they're not sending a limousine for me and my crew of like 8 women since they relocated the shop to Manhattan. So I certainly expect some bubbly. That place is like a military installation. I had to book about a month ago, and give my credit card, and if I needed to cancel and didn't within 48 hours they'd charge it, and I had to call back myself five days ahead to confirm. Sheesh. Does one have to jump through so many hoops in getting married to prepare one for the effort it takes to maintain a healthy marriage? Then again, Kleinfeld's is a choice, one I felt I had to experience, if not least to report back to you!