A Word From the Weiss

        Just as they say no news is good news, I suppose that all charity is good charity. Or is it? Yes, there are always people who may give less out of the goodness of their hearts than to out-give everyone they know and gain public recognition. But what if you give strictly to receive something in return, and that something is a bit more concrete than social status? And it’s not just something concrete, but something truly shallow?
        Something shamelessly ephemeral?
        Something totally tacky?
        Such was the case last Sunday night when I began to watch a TV special entitled Night of Too Many Stars.
        OK, maybe it is possible to be too rich or too thin, but how, you might ask, can there ever be too many stars? I suppose there might be a production with such a star-studded cast that there are just too many names to name. Or one with so many egos attached that you run out of dressing rooms and don’t know who to give top billing.
        In this case, though, the show was a fundraiser on Comedy Central, and there were so many celebs involved that there wasn’t enough time for everyone to get into the act. So, many of the stars were simply sitting on the set in order to answer the phones.
        They were there strictly to talk to anyone who called in to make a donation, that is. And that’s how I suddenly found myself in trouble.
        I hadn’t known anything about this show, but my husband had read about it and, being a devotee of its emcee, Jon Stewart of The Daily Show, set our DVR to record it. And shortly after it kicked off at 9 p.m., he suddenly remembered to turn it on.
        Judging from the name, I prepared myself to see some sort of comic variety hour. Au contraire. Sure, it was plenty funny. And it had plenty of variety. But its main purpose was not to entertain, but to raise dough for (and awareness of) the rising epidemic of autism.
        Although my purpose has never been and never will be to impress anyone else, I would like to think that I’m as charitable as the next guy (or next Jewish mom), maybe even moreso. I also consider autism to be both a pressing issue – it’s now estimated that 1 in 88 children are born with it – and an unquestionably noble cause. The way that people choose to allocate their contributions is extremely personal, though, and having no personal connection with the condition, I prefer to direct my philanthropy elsewhere.
        After all, cancer runs in my family (I lost both of my parents to it), so when it comes to health-care issues, that tends to be my priority. As a writer and a lover of theater, music, and all things creative, I also feel compelled to support the arts. (They may not exactly preserve life, but they help make it worth living.) And as a nice Jewish mom, I feel driven to contribute to the Federation and other Jewish organizations. (We make up less than .2 percent of the world’s population. So if we don’t help each other, who will?).
        Add in a little bit for food for the poor, political campaigns, and various other causes friends ask me to support, and how much more can I be expected to give?
        But soon into this star-studded, on-air extravaganza, I began to rethink this stance.
       Now, I also never have been someone to fawn over celebrities. As exciting as it may be to glimpse someone famous while at a restaurant or on the street, I’ve never understand the thrill of getting anyone’s autograph, and have no overwhelming desire to get my picture snapped with a movie star (although I might just find the time to pose if Hugh Jackman or Hugh Laurie were available).
        To have an actual conversation with someone famous sounded appealing, though, and this show had an abundance of them on hand. Not just stars. Too many stars! Or at least too many to choose from.
        Not that callers would actually get to choose.
        I mean, sitting at that long bank of telephones were some major-league A-listers: not only madcap supporting cast members from The Daily Show, along with Seth Meyers, Kenan Thompson, and half the current cast of Saturday Night Live, but also Jerry Seinfeld, Jimmy Kimmel, the late-night host of Jimmy Kimmel Live, and – I kid you not – Tom Hanks!
        I’d never had even a single moment in which I’d hankered to speak to Tom Hanks. But there he was, just hanging there, or maybe more accurately Hanking there, affably manning one of the countless phones. And I thought, Why not speak to Tom Hanks?
        Or Paul Rudd (co-star of everything from Anchorman to The 40-Year-Old Virgin to the forthcoming Anchorman: The Legend Continues), who is among my favorite actors?
        Or even Hoda Kotb, whom I watch religiously on weekday mornings as she co-hosts the fourth hour of NBC’s Today (while getting mildly smashed starting at 10 a.m.) alongside the ever-effervescent Kathie Lee Gifford?
        Come to think of it, I had a whole lot of desire to talk to Hoda. My daughter had run into her in NYC in recent months, not just once but twice, leading me to believe that this might be destiny. Beshert. Allegra was convinced that I was meant to go on the show to talk about my blog. I believed Allegra was destined to go on the show to sing when she released her forthcoming jazz album. Could this be my chance to broach both subjects?
        All I had to do was call… and make some sort of monetary donation, of course.
        Also of course, there was no guarantee that I would get to talk to Hoda, or Mr. Hanks, or a recognizable “star” of any kind. As anyone familiar with the show Dancing With the Stars must know, sometimes that term is used rather loosely. (Bristol Palin? Melissa Rycroft?) In other words, this experience might turn out to be a bit like one of those gumball-style vending machines you see in front of supermarkets, where your kid puts in a quarter because she sees a glittery, bejeweled ring encased inside a plastic capsule, but to her dismay all that comes out is a rubber caterpillar or some other piece of junk.
        Perhaps I would make my donation and then merely get to talk to Andy Cohen, whom I admire for being both a prominent Jew and the first openly gay host of an American late-night talk show (Watch What Happens Live, on Bravo), but whose work I am mostly unfamiliar with, since I’ve never seen the show he is best known for hosting, The Real Housewives of New Jersey.
        Or perhaps I would indeed get to chat with Hoda. Ed Asner. Or even Tom Hanks.
        As I contemplated this dilemma, I watched as Mr. Stewart set up the first major auction item of the night.  Evidently, the call-in portion of the show that I was watching was indeed live, but another segment of the program had been taped on an earlier date at New York City’s Beacon Theater. And at this event, Stewart had gotten various major celebrities to donate some rather unconventional services to benefit the cause at hand.
        “Our next guests have appeared in such hits as Night of Too Many Stars 2008 and Night of Too Many Stars 2010,” he said. Then he introduced Tina Fey and Amy Poehler.
        These SNL alums, close friends themselves and two of the funniest people alive, quickly burst onstage to offer a chance to become their new best friend… albeit only for that one night. As Fey stipulated, though, they preferred that this honor go to a female “just because, let’s face it, men and women can never really be friends,” so “inevitably, we would end up having sex with you.” And as much as racier things have happened on the major networks, on everything from The Young and the Restless to The Bachelorette, that was not the kind of camaraderie that these girls had in mind.
        We were talking girlfriend friendship, rated G. “We’ll French-braid your hair!” Poehler prodded.
        With that, the action started off at $4,000, but quickly ascended to nearly ten times that amount as a bidding war ensued between two members of the well-heeled-looking audience. Finally, it was agreed that this mutually devoted duo actually had room in their lives, or at least on this particular night, for two new friends, provided that each of the contenders was willing to cough up $36,000 for the privilege, as they readily were.
        “I want the brunette!” Poehler squealed preemptively.
        Then Grace Ann from Connecticut, and Karen from Rockland County bounded up to receive bear hugs from their new celebrity friends and join them over glasses of wine at an elegant, white-clothed table, and the girl talk got instantly underway as Fey fawned over her new gal pals, lavishing praise upon them for their best identifiable features.
        “You have gorgeous raven hair,” she told Karen. “It’s really offsetting your skin beautifully.” Then she gushed over the gray sequined camisole gracing Grace Ann. “This top? Fantastic! You have a natural fashion sense.”
        Hey, my hair offsets my skin. And I’d like to think I have a natural fashion sense. And what fun to have new friends, and famous, witty, best-seller-writing ones at that. Boy, did it look like they were having a barrel of laughs! I wanted to play this game too.
        “Uh, hand me the phone,” I said to my husband, who never comments on my skin.
        As I dialed the number up on the screen, I wondered how much I’d have to give. Presumably, the generosity of those two women was motivated by a far more personal connection to the cause than mine. But if they were prepared to shell out $36,000 – that’s 2,000 chai – then I certainly could cough up some paltry sum to support this worthy effort.
        I couldn’t help wondering if the amount that I offered might help determine which star was designated to me. How much would you have to shell out to shoot the breeze with bandleader Paul Shaffer? What might it cost to mince words with Meredith Vieira? And how much more might it take to mull life over with Julianne Moore?
       Then again, if each of these people had a set price, then what did that make them? You know that old joke, as well as the quote attributed to Winston Churchill when a socialite supposedly agreed to sleep with him for 5 million pounds, but huffily demanded “What kind of a woman do you think I am?” when he offered her only five pounds instead: "Madam, we've already established what you are. Now we’re haggling about the price."
        As I dialed, I became breathless with anticipation, expecting that someone with a household name was about to pick up the receiver and jot down my credit card information. Instead, after a few rings I got a woman named something like Marisol who said that she could help me. And by the time I'd spelled the name of my street and provided my Zip code, I asked sheepishly, well, didn’t I get to speak to one of the stars?
        “Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure. Of course you do,” she said, not sounding at all convincing. It was merely her job to get down all of my vital statistics first. But I needed to be aware, she said, that if I happened to get disconnected after that (and she said this as if she were alluding to the prospect of my getting wet while going outside in a raging storm), then I should simply keep calling back until I managed to get through to someone.
        Then she asked how much I wanted to donate. Hmmm. I hadn’t quite settled on any specific figure. Hanks was touting the fact that for $100, they would send you both a Derek Zoolander 2013 “End of Syphilisation” calendar and a DVD of the HBO series Game of Thrones with ersatz commentary by comic actors Tracy Morgan and J.B. Smoove. I didn’t particularly covet either of these items, let alone both. On the other hand, even though the cause of autism wasn’t near or dear to my heart, I also didn’t want to appear cheap. So I spit out a number that I thought sounded passably decent.
        “How about fifty bucks?” I asked. I guess that was good enough because she didn’t make any attempt to haggle with me. She simply wrote it down with my credit card number, expiration date, and three-digit security code.
        Then she promptly disconnected me.
        I wasn’t completely sure that I had lost the connection right away because there was Muzak for awhile, then nothin’. Dead air. But after I’d heard complete silence for three or four minutes, I gave up in exasperation and promptly called back. The person who answered this time was a guy named Juan, who asked for my name and how much I wanted to donate. And when I explained that I already had made a donation and was calling back to talk to one of the stars, he said to hang on, then disconnected me again.
        By now there was a stand-up comic named Bill Burr on the show going through his shtick. I’m not so sure he qualified as a star because I had never heard of him. But he definitely qualified as a standup comic because he was crass and kind of obnoxious. And also pretty funny.
        “When is the nerd epidemic just going to end?” he was asking. “Like, when is the nerd bubble just gonna burst? They’re (bleep)ing everywhere! Every show, they’ve got a guy with black-framed glasses, kinda awkward, going [and here his voice went up two octaves], ‘I don’t know how to talk to the opposite sex!“ This is supposed to inspire me? When I was a kid, nerds had shame. They had horrible days at school. They were stuffed into lockers, left there overnight... Then in the morning, the janitor let them out and they got the (bleep) kicked out of them for wearing the same (bleep) two days in a row.
        “Now they’re walking around all proud, double pocket protectors, black socks yanked up. This is what happens when you get rid of bullying. When you get rid of a species’ natural predator, it just grows exponentially.”
        Hmmm. The only thing growing in my house was my frustration, because in the time it had taken Burr to malign all of geek-kind, I had called back three times, only to explain my plight, listen to a few more insipid bars of Muzak, then lose contact again.
        But I’d already anteed up 50 bucks, was still watching, and had nothing better to do. So I simply hit redial again.
        Now Jack McBrayer, an actual, certifiable star (he plays Kenneth, the Gomer-like, lovable NBC page on 30 Rock) was getting in on the fun. He had consented to quaff a shot of vodka for every $25,000 donated, and the chance to raise his blood alcohol was evidently an inspired way to raise dough because those dollars just kept pouring in. With a dramatic drum roll, Letterman sidekick Shaffer unveiled the latest total, $56,377.
        At this, Rudd proffered two shots, which McBrayer downed with palpable distaste. Either the actor is as straight-laced as the prig he portrays, or vodka is just not his drink.
        Next, young Canadian singer Carly Rae Jepsen sashayed out to sing and gyrate to her smash hit "Call Me Maybe" while actor Harvey Keitel ran interference by flatly reciting the lyrics (also with palpable distaste) between verses.
        Then Comedy Central talk show host Stephen Colbert of The Colbert Report (he of the irreverent impulse to tease and the two silent T’s) got to do his share… with a bear. He strode onstage arm in arm with a big brown grizzly, which he insisted that he trusted unconditionally. “Just to illustrate my point,” he added, “before coming on tonight I slathered my entire body with salmon. That’s how much I trust this bear.”
        He also had stuffed his jock strap with chestnuts and blueberries, he continued, and was about to douse his neck with “the pheromones of a female bear in estrus – powerful stuff for a bear. This is like porn for the sinuses.” Then he entreated the animal to join him in a Sondheim medley. Before he could begin to rhyme “personable” with “coercin’ a bull,” though, Colbert had fallen prey to his furry friend, his arm seemingly torn from its socket as he collapsed while cajoling the audience to “give generously.”
        Yet the next musical interlude proceeded without a hitch… or dry eye in the house.
        When Jodi DiPiazza had been diagnosed with autism shortly before her second birthday, her parents had been warned that there was little if any hope. “What they told us was there’s no cure for it. It’s a life-long disability and don’t expect too much,” Tom DiPiazza, her father, stated in a video segment aired on the show.
        Indeed, as a toddler she had been given to uncontrollable tantrums. Yet years of intensive behavioral intervention had not only enhanced her social skills, but also developed her natural musical abilities. Now 11, Jodi was able to appear onstage at the Beacon Theater, where she played and sang along exquisitely with Katy Perry on her hit song “Firework,” then wrapped her arms around her pop idol's waist in an adoring hug.










        
        Even the ever-cynical Stewart -- a gentle soul, after all, and a genuine Jew -- found himself so verklempt that he struggled to choke out words as he went to a commercial break.
        But just when I began to feel great shame about my frivolous aim, comedian Louis CK took to the Beacon stage to remind me that, as pervasive a problem as autism might be, this was a night of too many stars but not a whole lot of earnestness or solemnity.
        The celebrity item he’d been enlisted to hype was a true one-of-a-kind experience. “You get to make your Christmas card photo… with Al Pacino.” And he wasn’t talking about some cheesy cardboard cutout of the pre-eminent star of both stage and screen. “Al Pacino will be there with you,” he exclaimed deliriously, “as if he were in your family!”
        What if you didn’t happen to celebrate Christmas? No problem. They had prepared for all contingencies. “Jews, we’ve got you covered. We’ve got a background for Jews. Seriously! He’ll do a Jew-y card thing.” They were even ready to accommodate atheists. “The background will just be a desolate nothing. Just sadness and despair,” he said.
        Neither of these alternate options turned out to be necessary, though. After berating the crowd for not going beyond the top bid of $20,000 – “Jesus Christ, it’s Al Pacino. He was in The Godfather… all three of them!” – CK, star of the FX comedy series Louis, joined the bidding himself. And the honor finally once again ended up being shared by the two highest bidders – an audience member for $20,000 and CK himself for $25,000.
        Then, on the live show, Pacino emerged in a cheery red cardigan and dutifully smiled for the camera as each tree-side family portrait was snapped in turn.
        After which, my spirits lifted (even though Christmas is clearly also not my thing), I reached for the phone and dared to try, try again.
        This time, a young woman answered instantly and was a little more honest with me. When I explained my situation, she confessed that the problem of people getting cut off was reaching epidemic proportions. Donors were being put through to the celebrities even if they only gave a single dollar, creating such a backlog of callers waiting on hold that she wasn’t supposed to offer to try to reconnect anyone unless that person asked.
        Since I had indeed asked, though, she said that she would gladly give it a try.
        While she did, comedian Seth Rogen came out to offer yet another encounter of the celebrity kind.
        The star of such hits as Knocked Up and Superbad said that he knew many people with autism, so to recognize the cause, “I’m going to pee with the highest bidder.”
        I kid you not. As Stewart quipped, he wanted to have “a pee party.” In this case, Rogen stipulated that he wished to reserve this honor for males only, because what he was offering was a chance to use the men’s room side by side, with a camera crew in tow. And then, if there were even the tiniest drop of self-righteousness in his righteous act, he succeeded in flushing away that impression by adding, “I gotta go pretty bad, too!”
        By now, I was beginning to feel that my own personal agenda here might not be as tacky and tasteless as I had feared, or at the very least that I shouldn’t be quite so hard on myself for not approaching the enterprise in a dead-serious, reverent manner.
        I was also beginning to wonder who in their right mind would offer so much as one cent to relieve themselves on camera, even in the company of a star of Rogen’s stature. But the bidding started off at $4,000 and soon began trickling in rapidly. And then for a third time, thanks to yet another bidding war, the prize was ultimately split two ways as the pair of people vying for this privilege forked over $16,000 apiece and then bounded onto the stage.
        One of the two turned out to be something of a star himself, advertising mogul and TV personality Donny Deutsch, who used to have his own show on CNBC and is now a frequent guest on MSNBC’s Morning Joe and NBC’s Today. I don’t know whether he had any personal connection to autism, but he joined in with enormous hilarity as Stewart offered both Gatorade and asparagus to enhance the prize experience, then Rogen led this merry band to the nearest men’s room, camera crew indeed in tow.
        Maybe it was just a sudden attack of camera shyness, or perhaps Rogen hadn’t needed to go quite so badly after all, because upon arrival all of the participants seemed to have significant trouble getting their money's worth, if you get my drip... Er, drift.
        But I can’t tell you if they ever actually succeeded or not because suddenly my latest telephone companion came back on the line to tell me that it was hopeless, and that all she could suggest was that I hang up and try again in 10 minutes or so.
        I didn’t believe that my prospects were going to get any better by waiting, however, and with some prodding this nice young woman agreed to try once more on my behalf. She put me on hold again, and I braced myself for the sounds of silence. But instead, I heard a phone begin to ring. And then a different female voice came on and said hello.
        “Uh, hi!” I responded, so startled after waiting all this time that I found myself at a loss for words. And although she didn’t identify herself, I had the distinct impression from the cacophony of voices and ringing in the background that I had gotten through to an actual star.
        “Who’s this?” the voice ventured, sounding young and just a little breathless.
        I gave my first name only, then proposed the question right back. “Who’s this?”
        “Allison Williams,” she responded sweetly.
        Allison Williams. Allison Williams. The name sounded so familiar, but I just couldn’t seem to place it. So I proceeded to put my palm over the receiver as best as I could and stage whisper to my husband, who is a bit hard of hearing, “Who is Allison Williams?”
        He looked at me blankly and shrugged. “Ask her what she’s on,” he whispered back.
        That may have sounded like it made sense. I felt embarrassed to ask her, though. These people volunteering their time to man the phones were being billed as “stars.” Yet how much of a star could someone be if you had to ask them who they were?
        Her name sounded so strangely familiar, but I couldn’t begin to fathom who she was or manage to attach a face to the name. It sounded to me like a newscaster name. I had this vague sense that she was someone who delivered a nightly broadcast, maybe in New York. “Thanks for tuning in! This is Allison Williams with the 6:00 Evening News.”
        “Ask her what she’s on!” my husband urged again as I put her on speakerphone. But I shook my head vehemently and struggled to find something else to say instead.
        “Are you sitting up there with everyone else on the set?” was the best I could come up with as I peered at the screen imagining her face might suddenly pop into view.
        “Yes,” she said genially, “I am, but we’re all about to head out for the evening.”
        And before I could come up with anything remotely scintillating that might prolong the conversation, she began to sign off. “Thanks so much for your donation,” she said.
        “Well, thanks for volunteering your time for such a worthy cause,” I replied lamely.
        “You’re welcome!” And with that she clicked off and the line once again went dead.
        Only then could I race to my computer to find out who the heck this woman was.
        “Allison Williams.” I let my fingers do the Googling as fast as they possibly could. Then I looked at the photos attached and screamed.
        Allison Williams! She was one of the four young stars of Girls on HBO, the most talked-about hit on the air last year and without question of one of my favorite shows. She played Marnie, the gorgeous but uptight best friend of the main character, Hannah, played by the series’ 26-year-old wunderkind creator, writer, and star Lena Dunham, whose ground-breaking production had been hailed by many as a Sex in the City for the 20-something set and was regarded by my daughter Allegra as a virtual video of her life.
        As for why I’d kept thinking that she was some sort of a newscaster – hullo? Her father was Brian Williams, the NBC network news anchor I watch at 6:30 every night.
        How could I have been such a fool? How could I have wasted this opportunity?
        Never mind having my daughter get to sing for Hoda and Kathie Lee. My son Aidan is an aspiring TV writer who free-lances regularly doing crew work on assorted TV shows. For the past year, I’d been virtually obsessed with the idea of his getting to work on Girls, meet Lena Dunham, and, as mental as this sounds, maybe even date her. (Never mind that she created Girls. She’s a nice Jewish girl.)
        At the very least, I could’ve gushed to Williams about how much I admired her work, and Dunham’s, and that of all the other young stars connected with the show. I could have told her how much the writing resonated with my own daughter (even if knowing this makes the many sexually explicit scenes a little too graphic for my taste).
        But no. “Thanks for volunteering your time for such a worthy cause,” is all I said. Why hadn’t I listened to my husband for once? How could I be so (bleeping) stupid?
        Talking to Williams was, in its own way, even more thrilling to me than getting to hobnob with Tom Hanks. (Honestly, what would I have said to him? “Loved your work in Castaway, but that volleyball, Wilson? Ya gotta admit he stole the show”?)
        And all I suddenly wanted was to call her back again.
        Getting through the first time had been almost a miracle, though, or at least an act of unfettered persistence, unabashed pushiness, and uncharacteristic chutzpah, even for me. If I’d had to give a name to my own evening, it would’ve been “The Night of Too Many Calls.”
        Besides, as I’d learned, when you phoned in the best-case scenario was that you got the luck of the draw, and as Williams had told me they were all about to head out.
        So all I could do was call Allegra to report my thrilling news, only to hear her chastise me for not telling Williams what big fans we were of the show (and how much she related to it and felt that it totally captured her life). And then to comfort myself with the knowledge that I had indeed made a small but nice donation to a very worthy cause.
        For in the end, maybe no one truly gives a hoot why we give or to whom we give it. The essential thing is that we give. (And in the end, the show raised $3.7 million for autism, including the money from corporate sponsors. Now, that’s a whole lotta vodka.)
        Even so, I’m not quite ready to give up just yet. I still want Allegra to sing on Today someday for Hoda and Kathie Lee Gifford. I still want Aidan to manage to meet (and perchance to write for, work for, or even date) Lena Dunham, or Ms. Williams herself.
        And so, though autism may not quite be my thing, I now can’t wait and am already counting the days. Yes, it’s only a year to go until The Night of Too Many Stars 2013.

A Word From the Weiss

        Sure, weddings are wonderful occasions, but they are also occasions that make us wonder. We wonder whether to have the chicken or the fish. We wonder whether the marriage will last. But most of all, whether we are the mother of the bride or the mother of the friend of the sister of the bride -- as I was recently -- we wonder what to wear.
        That last issue becomes even more of a quandary at times of year like this one. We’re right on the cusp of two different seasons. Do we dress for summer or dress for fall? Is it too late for linen? Too early for velvet? It’s hard enough figuring out just how farputzed (Yiddish speak for “dressed to the nines”) to get for a Sunday afternoon affair. But in late September, will it still be steamy, or should we be prepared for the big chill?
        Given that I went to only three weddings this year – my kids, being in their early to mid 20s, are way past the bar mitzvah stage now, but not quite yet into the nuptials  – I couldn’t really justify shelling out for a lot of new dress-up clothes. So when we RSVP’d to accept for the wedding of Stephanie, the daughter of our close friends Amy and Rich, I planned to make do with the nice dress I’d bought for my nephew’s wedding in August.
        Since Charlie and his lovely and brilliant bride Holly had opted for a small, low-key ceremony and reception on a farm in Oregon, this wasn’t a terribly dressy dress. It was far from the sort of flashy or elegant attire you might ordinarily choose for a wedding.  But it was a pretty dress. It was certainly a nice enough dress. And since I was not an integral member of this particular wedding day, I was convinced it would more than do.
        Anticipating that the weather might turn on a dime, however, I picked up a back-up option to keep as an alternative. It had rosettes along the neckline and was fashioned in a shiny, bright fuchsia fabric that said “afternoon wedding” to me. I figured that if I didn’t wear it this time around, it was bound to come in handy for another occasion. The dress was too long, though, and when I modeled it for my husband, he turned up his nose.
        This came as no great shock. He prefers me when I first wake up in the morning or dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, preferably sans makeup and with wet hair. When he saw the new dress, he told me it looked like something someone’s grandmother would wear.
        OK, I’m actually old enough to be a grandmother. But no one actually wants to look like a grandmother. So I never bothered to get this dress shortened. I didn’t get around to returning it either, though. I just hung it in my closet and forgot about it for months.
        As the wedding approached, I grew distracted with other things. Our daughter Allegra was coming home to stay with us the night before. So were her good friend Samara, and Samara’s older brother Avi, who were attending the wedding as well. Their parents, Laurel and Chengiah – dear friends we have in common with the bride’s family – had moved to South Africa earlier in the year, so we had invited them to stay with us.
        Being a nice Jewish mom, I spent the day that they arrived shopping and preparing a sumptuous dinner for the kids. Then, as soon as the meal was over, the girls retreated upstairs to Allegra’s room to finalize what they would wear to the wedding the next day.
        Each had packed two different perfectly nice prospects in their suitcases, complete with matching shoes and other accessories. But that didn’t discourage them from slipping on countless other possibilities they found in both Allegra’s closet and mine.
        You may be incredulous that 22-year-olds would have the slightest interest in any garment owned by someone of my vintage. But once upon a time I was a fashion reporter, so many things that I purchase are relatively timeless and geared to last. Then there are the trendy items I bought in the ’80s and ‘90s that are back in style again.
        But after they’d tried on about 27 dresses apiece, I began to reconsider my own attire. Did that long striped dress show me off to my best advantage? Was it dressy enough after all? And there was a twinge of fall already invading the New England air. Was the striped dress a little too “summer?”
        So I dared to slip it on and venture into Allegra’s room to model it for the girls. The verdict was not just instantaneous, but unanimous. “You absolutely cannot wear that!!!”
        This sent me foraging in my closet to find the back-up number I had purchased a few months back. The girls nixed the purple shoes I paired it with (“too matchy”) and the beaded evening bag I proposed to carry (too “ungapatchka”). But the dress, they said, was perfect. Well, it was almost perfect. The problem was that I had never shortened it. It was still four inches too long.
        I considered returning to my closet to find some other old thing that was suitable. But Allegra had already claimed my old standard fall-back, a classic, strapless, ruched number in shiny olive green satin. And it was just as well. This dress was so fitted to the body (and to my body in particular) that it had always taken two people to zip me into it. And in recent years, I had reached the point at which it would take a lot more than that.
        No, the fuchsia dress would have to be it. That meant its hemline had to come up. And fast.
        I scoured the house for any spool of thread that might be a reasonable match. But this was a very bright hue, a very unusual hue, and none of the thread I had would do. By now it was past midnight. So I figured I would go to sleep and try to buy some thread in the morning, never mind that it would be Sunday and fabric stores would be closed.
        Being a nice Jewish mom, I spent the majority of the next morning rustling up a lavish breakfast for my young guests, then cleaning it up. Then I spent no small amount of time finding jewelry that would match the girls’ dresses, as well as helping Avi choose a tie from my husband’s vast collection, since he had somehow neglected to bring one.
        By the time everyone else was dressed, and I had finished curling my hair, I realized that I had a big problem. That fuchsia dress was still four inches too long. And I didn’t have any thread that would suffice, let alone enough time to do any actual sewing.
        Then, with only minutes to spare, I had an inspiration. I ran down and found a roll of clear packing tape. Then I turned the dress inside out and quickly taped the hem up.
        Since the bottom of the dress was now simply folded under awkwardly and didn’t come to a sharp enough edge, I then proceeded to iron the very bottom of the dress, being careful not to let the hot iron come too close to the tape, fearing that it might melt.
        Voila! It was now the perfect length. Would it manage to hold throughout the day? It would have to. I didn’t have anything else to wear, and we were already running late.
        We were so late, in fact, that as we arrived at Saint Clement’s Castle in Portland, CT, nearly 10 minutes after the appointed hour of 3 p.m., we could see in the distance that the outdoor ceremony was already under way. Allegra and Sam had decided to drive separately much earlier, but Avi was with us, and he and my husband took off as fast as their legs could carry them toward the chupa (wedding canopy) in the distance.
        Unfortunately, this was much faster than my legs could carry me, since I had discovered that the packing tape was not only crunching audibly with every step I took, but also forming a tight band around my knees, preventing me from taking anything but itsy-bitsy baby steps. It didn’t help that my low spike heels were sinking into the grass.
        “Why are you walking pigeon-toed?” my husband demanded in a stage-whisper from where he was, a good 10 steps ahead of me. How could I even begin to explain?
        By the time I reached the assembled crowd, my husband and Avi had found seats near the front, but I didn’t want to call attention to myself, so I simply stood in the back.
        It seems to me that I can never call it right with weddings. At the one we attended much earlier this summer, we arrived well in advance only to find that the ceremony itself didn’t actually begin for well over an hour because there was a lengthy bedecken (a Jewish ceremony in which the bridal party remains in one room and the groom and his attendants stay segregated in the other, while guests get to greet them separately).
        I generally assume that weddings will commence as much as half an hour late, in order to ensure that all the “dearly beloved” have managed to gather first. But when you assume, you make an ass out of “u” and “me,” and this one evidently had gone off like clockwork.
        Fortunately, although I had missed the dramatic entry of the bridesmaids, the ushers, and the bride herself, I’d arrived just in time to catch the most important part. The vows.
        The bride and groom had chosen to write the words they would utter themselves. And some pretty unbelievable words they were.
        Brian spoke with such sincerity and raw emotion, barely keeping it together as he gazed at Stephanie with overwhelming adoration and unadulterated admiration – “worship” might be a better word – that I choked up completely and, to be honest, could barely focus as Stephanie addressed him with her own touching words of undying love.
        I instantly had no doubts whatsoever that this was one marriage that would last.
        I was also suddenly glad that I hadn’t dared distract anyone by seeking a seat, because soon after this the groom got to step on the traditional glass and then to passionately kiss his blushing bride. And then, as they turned and strode up the aisle arm in arm, I found myself in the perfect vantage point to capture true love on camera.
        Then I finally got to join the rest of my family for the cocktail reception, as well as find our good friends Pat and Michael, who are also very close friends of Amy and Rich.
        I was excited to see them all and spend the rest of the day there celebrating with them. But to be perfectly honest, I was also a wreck underneath it all (literally), because Pat is someone who doesn’t miss a thing, and who is apt to be outspoken to the point of being blunt. And I feared that the crunch of that packing tape was still vaguely audible.
        I also could feel that in many places, that hasty hemline was already falling down.
        Pat and I had a great time nonetheless imbibing in a couple of cocktails apiece, including my standard choice of a Sex in the City-inspired Cosmopolitan, as well as an Amaretto sour, something that Allegra recommended or perhaps even invented herself.
        I also took this opportunity to snap some fabulous photos of Allegra in her wedding finery, along with her two dear friends, whom I instantly dubbed the Three Miss-keteers. (Michelle, as her sister’s maid of honor, looked exquisite as ever. So did Sam, although to my mild bemusement she had ultimately opted for the very first dress she’d tried on.)
        As for Allegra, that ruched dress fit her like a green leather glove and looked so flattering, if you ask me, that I realized in a flash that its days in my closet were done.
        The view by the castle overlooking the Connecticut River could not have been more breathtaking, although there was indeed a bracing trace of autumn chill in the air. Also, looking around at the other guests, I realized that Allegra had been right. This dress, rather than the far less formal, summery one, had been the right one to wear.
        I also decided that my husband had been wrong. I did not look like a grandmother.
        Then it was time to go inside, find our place cards and take our seats for the reception.
        Rich, the father of the bride, had come up with the novel idea of having individual wedding cakes decorated with sugar flowers placed at the center of every table in lieu of actual flowers (which was not only exquisite, but actually more economical, I assume). Resting on footed antique silver platters, they were the ultimate in edible arrangements.
        As father of the bride, he also gave a wedding toast that was both heartfelt and hilarious, concluding with his hope that Steph and Brian would be as good to each other as his wife Amy had been to him, a sentiment that made my eyes gush all over again.
        But as we dove into the delectable tortellini appetizer, I must confess that my mind returned quickly to my hem, and the mayhem that was unfolding (and unpeeling) within.
        For as much as I tried to enjoy the meal and all the festivities, every time I shifted in my chair, I could feel the plastic tape crinkling here and there, continuing to detach.
        In fact, when I dared to peek under the tablecloth, I could see telltale tentacles of unstuck tape protruding from my dress where I’d fortified the main strip on either side.
        Pat and I are dear friends, as you know if you are regular readers of this blog, but I knew exactly what she would say if she detected this situation and discovered that I had been foolish enough to think that taping up a hem would do: “Are you out of your mind?”
        My mind, meanwhile, turned to the festivities that lay ahead. My husband and I are avid dancers, but it seems that the only time we ever get to display our enthusiasm and prowess on the dance floor (or lack thereof) anymore is when we attend a wedding. I certainly didn’t want to miss out on that.
        Then there was the whole issue of the hora. Although the groom was not, in fact, Jewish, I had been assured that there would be a hora during the reception. There is nothing more moving to me than joining in this ritual dance on a joyful occasion – and this was as joyful an occasion as anyone could imagine, because my friends regarded the groom as such a mensh that they regularly referred to him as “Prince Brian.”
        There was no way I was willing to forego this pleasure, nor the chance to share in their delight. But every time I thought of joining hands to dance with everyone in a circle, I envisioned my hem coming completely undone, shreds of tape tearing loose and tumbling down as my friend Pat stopped mid-kick, pointed at the tape and shrieked, “Are you out of your mind?”
        By the time the salad course was being served, I could stand the worry no longer. Besides, those two cocktails I’d downed had managed to run their course, and I had no choice but to make a pit stop. As I stood and hobbled to the ladies room, I awkwardly tucked two telltale tabs of crinkled packing tape back under my dress, hoping no one was paying attention in case they slipped out again as I crossed the vast reception hall.
        Then I sequestered myself in an empty bathroom stall, where to my complete horror I felt the entire length of tape detach as I gently lifted the dress’s narrow skirt.
        Now what was I going to do?!?
        I had considered bringing along the roll of tape and a pair of scissors, just in case I needed to make repairs during the event, but neither had fit into my tiny evening bag. So I had been obliged to leave them behind.
       Yet the main strip of tape I had used on the dress had lost its tackiness almost entirely and could not realistically be reattached with any real hope that it would hold.
        Was I going to spend the remaining hours of the reception hiding in the bathroom?
        I stood inside the stall in total terror, wondering what I could possibly do now while waiting for a pair of guests to finish having a lengthy conversation about their haircuts. Then, the moment that they finally exited, I did the only thing that I could do.
        I reached beneath the dress, and in one fell swoop loudly dislodged the entire length of tape around the bottom of the dress, wadding it up into a tight ball in my fist.
        Then I dashed out, tossed it into the trash, and surveyed myself in the mirror.
        It was not good. No, not good at all. It was actually even worse than I’d anticipated.
        There was a distinct ridge all the way around the bottom of the dress where I had ironed it at its new length, and the four inches of extra material hung down from there.
        I looked, in a word, ridiculous. But what choice did I have other than to go with it? I couldn’t stay in the ladies room one moment longer. It would be hard enough to explain where I’d been for the past 10 minutes while everyone else was devouring their salads.
        I emerged to find the rest of the guests in rapt attention as the father of the groom gave his toast. Reluctant to call any more attention to myself than necessary, I slunk slowly over to girls’ table, which was on the near side of the room against the wall. Allegra would be my test market. My fashion police. My guinea pig in green satin.
        “How bad is this?” I whispered discreetly when I had reached her side.
        “Is what?” she asked, still engrossed in the toast and genuinely perplexed.
        I lowered my glance decisively in the direction of my knees, then up again at her.
        “This,” I said. Then I stepped back a foot or so to give her the full-length view.
        Shifting her eyes from Brian’s father for barely a second, she surveyed the damage, then shrugged. “You’re fine,” she replied.
        Was she out of her mind?
        “Are you sure?” I whispered.
        She gave me a quick once-over one more time, then another reassuring nod. “Fine,” she repeated. “Don’t worry about it. It actually looks kind of funky.”
        Armed with her rare seal of approval, I dared to return to my table as soon as the toast was over and everyone had finished raising their glasses. I braced myself for an onslaught of ridicule, but Pat didn’t say one word. No one even asked where I’d been.
        So I proceeded to wolf down my salad, followed by the very ample main course. (My husband and I had both opted for the fish, although the chicken also looked good.)
        Then, as the DJ played the opening strains of “Hava Nagillah,” Pat caught my eye. “Let’s do this!” she exclaimed.
        So we and our husbands stormed the dance floor, linking hands as we spun in one direction, then the other, surrounding the grinning bride and groom as they were lifted high into the air in chairs. Then we clapped to the beat as Amy and Rich ecstatically linked arms with each other to spin in the center, then pulled in one friend after another.
        I was so deliriously happy for them all at this moment that my face almost burst. The last thing on my mind was my dress.
        Then suddenly, the music shifted smoothly into a medley of Motown tunes, and my husband and I continued dancing alongside Pat and Michael and the Miss-keteers until we could hardly breathe and had to take a break… to break into that wedding cake.
        All this time, no one seemed to take the slightest notice of my sagging hemline. Whether or not it actually looked funky, I guess that it did look fine.
        In fact, if anyone noticed any dress other than the gorgeous gown worn by the bride herself, it was probably Allegra’s… or perhaps merely what was in it. One of the ushers got down with her on the dance floor (indeed), and another male member of the wedding party “friended” her on Facebook the next day.
        And by the time we had danced the very last dance – and we did indeed dance until the very end – I’d come to realize that I should get over myself already. No one was that interested in me or my fashion faux pas. The only important thing going on was the love.
        In fact, if I hadn’t dared to blog here about my lame minor wardrobe malfunction, no one would ever have been the wiser, including my friend Pat, who will probably read this entry sooner or later and then unquestionably ask me, “Are you out of your mind?”
        Meanwhile, professional photos from the event were posted on a website the following week, along with a video of the happy couple pronouncing their wedding vows. So I can now bring a sampling of their actual beautiful, sweet and heartfelt words to you.
        Brian, who is 31 and works for Verizon, harkened in his back to their very first date – “the beginning of our love story,” as he put it. “It was warm and sunny, like the cheerfulness of your heart. We walked and talked for hours, sharing our life stories…
        “At the end of our date, we sat in your car, still talking, and to be honest, I didn’t want the date to end. I didn’t want to stop spending time with you.
        “When I left, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since. I noticed that there was something different about you, and I was right: You’re a Red Sox fan.”
        But on a more serious note, he credited her with “bringing the old Brian back. It’s because of you that I laugh louder, I smile with my face and my heart, and I dare to dream again.
        “I will forever have unconditional love for you. I’ll hold you in my arms, keep you safe, and comfort you in times of distress. I will anticipate when to wipe your tears away and when to cry with you...
        “In honor of your slight obsession with Disney movies, I found this quote: ‘Love is a song that never ends.’ May our love and our song never end, so we can dance in the kitchen together forever and find new ways to dance into each other’s hearts.
        “I vow to be your faithful lover, partner, and best friend from this day forward… and always find new ways to love you.
        “A dream is a wish that your heart makes. And today, because of you, my dream has come true.”
        Although they had not shared with one another in advance what they would say, Stephanie, who is 26, uttered vows echoing many of the same themes.
        “Every time I began to write about my love for you, and how much you meant to me, the words never came out quite right. It seemed that my feelings for you surpassed my powers of expression and my working vocabulary.
        "Finally, I realized it wasn’t my vocabulary that was the problem. It was words themselves. Our love transcended everything.
        “Our love is the way you squeeze my hand three times to say I love you, and how you dance with me in the kitchen. It’s the way you put up with me after a hard day at work, how you love my family, and especially the way you always – always – make me feel special.
        “...I was told that most love stories aren’t like those in the movies; they aren’t a fairy tale. Yet here we are, me in my princess dress, at a castle, surrounded by friends and family, with my prince standing in front of me. You’ve made our love story into the fairy tale I didn’t think was possible…
        “I promise to stand by your side in times of adversity and sorrow, and to share with you in joyous times. I promise to laugh with you and never stop kissing you.
        “I vow to never intentionally hurt you. But if I do, I promise to fix it with coffee ice cream and specialty beer.
        “I promise to support and encourage you. I will do my best to never let you down. But I will ALWAYS love you.
        “Today, I give you my hand, my heart, and my love, without condition, completely and forever.”
        Well, there you have it. That’s love. (And sorry if I let that segment run a little long, but I’m not much better at shortening wedding vows than I am at shortening dresses.)
        Watching those speeches in the comfort of my own home, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, with wet hair, no less, my eyes welled up all over again. But that’s little wonder.
        Weddings make us remember how we once felt back when our own love began. They help recapture those feelings for a moment. Maybe that’s why they make us cry.
        And before I begin to well up all over again, I have one more vow for you.
        I solemnly vow to get that fuchsia dress shortened by a tailor as soon as possible, and to never, ever wear a dress with a taped-up hemline to any else’s simcha ever again. Yes, I did something really dumb. But I’ve learned my lesson. And I am not out of my mind!