Aunt Sally is neither my Aunt by blood or by marriage. Aunt Sally is my mother’s comare—an Italian term of endearment. Aunt Sally is such a beloved friend to my mother she is my appointed Aunt.
Aunt Sally was an interior designer. She did not have official certification. She had, and still has an eye for style. And her flair extends to fashion and party planning. So when I got engaged, I did not need David Tutera. I had Aunt Sally. Because even though the term had not been invented yet, in 1985 I had a wedding planner.
Aunt Sally traveled with my mother and I everywhere and made virtually every decision about my wedding day. My mother and I lived in fear of making a decision on our own. We deferred everything to her. We trusted her completely. Every detail was important. Every detail was accounted for. It is a concept that is quite normal today, but in my time weddings were less complicated.
My wedding dress was a Frank Massandrea design—all silk—with little embellishment—the current fashion had gowns dripping in lace and beading. It was a precursor to Vera Wang. We purchased it at a boutique in New Canaan Connecticut. My mother’s dress was Nolan Miller, it was bought at a specialty store in Teaneck, New Jersey. And the wedding favors came from Queens. Distance was no barrier to Aunt Sally’s perfection.
At the church we rented tall candelabras with fresh flowers to line the alter. And thanks to Yonkers Public School I had a printed book for mass—the graphic designer created the cover. And the corner of the booklets were tied with off-white ribbon that belonged to my grandmother. I knew of no one at that time who had a printed book.
And the reception was held at Tappan Hill in Tarrytown. It was then and still is now a beautiful venue—an old estate formerly owned by Samuel Clemens. Aunt Sally picked out the menu. She also had us bring in our own linens—the underlay needed to be peach and the lacy overlay needed to be off-white lace. The theme was fall but no mums were allowed. Aunt Sally hated fall flowers. She also hated baby’s breath, ferns, and carnations. The hurricane lamps had to be brass, not pewter. My cake was off white butter cream decorated with fresh baby peach colored roses. The cake was chocolate with cannoli cream. A cake topper with a bride and a groom was forbidden. Everything was classic—elegant--with a twist. And everything down to the invitations was brown, off white, deep peach and gold metallic.
And our personal beauty became an obsession. We went to a tanning salon—tanning beds were a new invention. And Bruce, my fabulously gay hair dresser came to my house the day of the wedding to do our hair and make-up. He gave my mother eyelashes which he applied lash by lash. And when he was finished beautifying us, he went to my husband’s hotel and did his hair and man bronzer. This was unheard of behavior in 1985.
Everything was orchestrated by Aunt Sally—and it was magnificent. So when Aunt Sally asked me recently why my mother and I were getting so over-the-top for my nephew’s wedding. I had to laugh. I told her it was all her fault. She taught me how to be a crazy person. She taught me how to be obsessed with the details. She elevated the bar before the bar was even invented. Aunt Sally ruined me. Because once you taste perfection it is all you ever desire--- nothing else will do. And when my daughters get married---watch out---Kim Kardashian will bow her head in honor. Maybe my girls will have 4 wedding gowns instead of three.
No comments:
Post a Comment