Bri-rony

Bri-rony.

Let's start with a definition of Irony. Remember that from eighth grade?

Irony:

Literature.
a. a technique of indicating, as through character or plot development, an intention or attitude opposite to that which is actually or ostensibly stated.

b.(esp. in contemporary writing) a manner of organizing a work so as to give full expression to contradictory or complementary impulses, attitudes, etc., esp. as a means of indicating detachment from a subject, theme, or emotion.

I remember reading O. Henry's Gift of the Magi as the quintessential story to learn about irony. You will recall that in the story, a young, cash-strapped couple is trying to decide what to give one another for Christmas. The wife in the story has long, cascading hair. I remember thinking she probably had hair like Mary Ingalls from the TV version of Little House On the Prairie. So, she decides to cut her hair and take that money to buy her husband a chain for his prized watch. But ironically, the husband sold the watch to buy the wife hair combs, which she no longer needs. And, obviously it's hard to get full use of a watch chain when the watch itself has been sold to buy hair combs.

Irony.

Brirony is any irony associated with being a bride, including but not limited to any of the following occasions and functions: the wedding, the rehearsal dinner, the bachelorette party, a bridal shower, a honeymoon.

Here's why irony is on the top of my list of middle school English concepts.

I have been waiting for our new platform bed to arrive since June 11. Hegemonic Crate and Barrel, however, has taken more than its own sweet time to deliver it. Something about North Carolina and fabric swatches. When we first moved to the love nest, so distraught I was about not having a bed yet that I asked Jeff every day in a very annoying and whiny voice: "WHEN is our bed coming?" He would pat me lovingly and say, "You are only allowed to ask that once per day. No doubling up if you a miss a day. Twice on holidays. That's it."

I have been diligent about sticking the rule about whining about the bed. When the mattress came about 3 weeks ago, I was ecstatic and fell deeply in love with our semi-firm king sized mattress, which is so gigantic it feels like a trampoline just moved into the master bedroom. But, I still want the bed. I really want the bed. More on that in a moment.

This weekend, we are hosting for the first time ever my mother in our house. (Gulp.) Both my mother and Jeff's mom are in town from their sunshiny states to attend the bridal shower. I am looking forward to the new dynamic of having my mom stay in my house. It's the first time she's come without dad and the first time she's come without having a reservation at a nearby Hilton. This is big. Denial notwithstanding, I still know it's big. The only tiny raindrop of fear I have is offending her Catholic sensibilities at bedtime. Jeff and I have been cohabitating for a while. It's so not what the nuns taught me in school. It's not what my mother taught me either. But there you have it. I made up my mind to just pretend it's not all happening. At bedtime I will show my mom her room, check the thermostat and just pretend I didn't have 12 years of Catholic schooling that put pre-marital relations on par with mass murder and abortion. Pretend. Act. Dissociate. Whatever.

I have been giving myself pep talks all week. "Christie, your mother is proud of you and she supports your decisions even if she wouldn't do it herself. She will probably send you lovely postcards from Heaven while you rot in hell. Maybe she'll send some milkbones for you to feed to Satan's hounds." My spirits were bouyed by my pep talks because, honestly, I can be very persuasive when I want to be. And, I really wanted to be.

So, for the weekend, I was planning on just avoiding the topic of bedtime, bedrooms, beds, pillows, alarm clocks, snoring, insomnia, warm milk, milk, cows, sheep, linens, comforters, down, ducks, pretty much all farm animals. Admittedly the list is a little daunting, but I just didn't want anyone (me or my mom) to feel uncomfortable.

O. Henry, eat your heart out. Guess when our new bed is coming? Guess, just guess, when dear old Crate and Barrel, which had ample time from the sixth month of the year to the ninth month of the year to find a delivery person to delivery our bed for a handsome tip? Could it come in August? Over labor day weekend? How about late July? Noooooooo. Of course not. It has to come on Sunday, Septmember 7, 2008 in the window from 8:00 to 10:00 am. Sweet. There is no way around the whole "our bed" thing. Because "our bed" is arriving on Sunday morning early enough that I can't scoot my mom out for two hours before getting ready for the shower. I could tip toe into her room at 7:45 am and invite her to come to Starbucks for two hours, because you know you always end up on the back end of the time range they give you. We won't see that bed before 9:50 a.m. And how much biscotti and latte can two slender Southern women who share chromosomes really ingest at that hour?

So much for avoiding any forays into the topic of my sinful cohabitation. "Our bed" will end up in "our bedroom" while mom's in town, and we'll put "our sheets" on "our bed" and then talk about how excited "we" are about "our bed."