It's a bad sign when you are puking before the bachelorette...

          Two weekends ago we celebrated my dear friend Emma’s bridal shower. From a feminist standpoint I think that showers are slightly lame. Why should we need to separate ourselves into genders in this unnatural way to ooo and ahh over a bunch of kitchen items as though modern women still have to learn to cook for their husbands? That was certainly not the case in my household growing up. Everyone knew how to pour their own bowl of cereal-dinner. But Emma put it well herself. She said: “I’m just looking forward to a day when all of the important women in my life meet and are altogether.” This I understand. Who would not want the support of all of one’s women role models to meet and encourage you in this next big step in life? And for us from my still-tight circle of friends from growing up in Connecticut, Emma is our first friend to move to this big step so we, of course were very excited to celebrate as well. And of course, there’s that little detail of her choice of groom. Not only is he a nice guy, but a graduate of Yale medical school. He is also an accomplished guitarist with an MBA he decided to get for fun. Way to go for such an underachiever, Em. But we would expect nothing less for our Columbia educated friend from childhood, even if he is a Yankees fan.

          I have neglected to include a crucial detail in this exposition about the bridal shower. My mother was throwing it. It was her idea, in fact, almost a year ago. She has known Emma since she was six years old after all. Well, I hardly need tell you that she went into this process with all the casualness of a seasoned professional in the catering business, (which she actually was for over 20 years) and the grace of a modern-day Emily Post. But of course the week of the shower, she was calling me every few hours to obsess about the minutia of the menu, the décor and the possible games we might play (I managed to talk her out of that one). But she wanted to make it special for Emma. Emma’s place setting was displayed for all to see and of course there was a mannequin festooned in a white dress in the foyer to greet us. There was a crepe paper “Trail of Emma” featuring pictures of her from babyhood and beyond. And there was a mimosa bar and enough delicious food to feed the cast of Nabucco, (obscure opera joke, haha). Overall it was a great success. There was an outpouring of love and support from both the bride and groom’s sides, with poems being read and enough humorous diversions to make the gift-opening interesting. And this couple actually needed their gifts because they had just become homeowners the day before. Apparently, there was one discrepancy in the registry. According to her fiancé, Emma has registered for about 17 different kinds of bowls. To this I say, why not? Bowls are perfect for cereal-dinner.

          Fast forward a week to this past weekend, which, from my perspective, was slightly more eventful. While en route to the bachelorette in Manhattan, I stayed Friday night at my parents’ house again where we had celebratory cannolis for my mother’s birthday. At 3am I became violently ill. I am, of course, perfectly capable of vomiting on my own without any assistance, and would never wake up my roommate in the middle of the night to notify her of the occurrence. Apparently the vicinity of my parents’ bedroom made it impossible for me to act like an adult. I immediately banged on their door to tell them that I was retching all over their new bathroom. My dad was not too keen on the update. “Why did you wake us up?” he said. “Because I’m throwing up!” I cried, as if it were the most plainly obvious thing in the world. My mother asked no questions and wasted no time in arranging a bucket near my bed. She then said “Gee Kate, you’ve got to get better. You have to go to New York tomorrow.” Thanks. That thought had not occurred to me. I did not need the bed bucket, but it was nice to know it was there.

          Mom and I both had tricky stomachs the next morning and we attribute it to our questionable cannolis. But a few acidophilus tablets later, I was on the train to New York and having a wonderful time.

          I can’t help but be reminded of the only other time I have had food poisoning, which was in October of this year and also involved Emma’s wedding preparations. Emma was visiting me up in Boston and while arranging plans to go out on the town for the evening I came down with a debilitating stomachache. But I was trying to rally. I was no slouch of a hostess and we were going to go out and have fun! After several rounds of anise seeds, ginger ale and pepto, it was clear that I was not going out. When my boyfriend (also our ride for the evening) showed up, I was failing to stand at anything more than a 45 degree angle and was told to get back in bed. So there I was in the fetal position on my bed when Emma said, “I was going to buy you a drink and ask you officially to be my bridesmaid”. “This is better,” I replied, laughing. Emma said that every time she rolled over on my couch that night, she could hear me throwing up. It was one of the more amazing marathons of stomach illness she and I have ever been privy to. Although the bout of this last weekend was nothing compared to that of the fall’s, with the wedding approaching in September, I should probably start popping the acidophilus now.