His girlfriend got the ring. So why no ring (or even a Tweet) to his mother?

By Jeanette Friedman, Special To The Dayton Jewish Observer, January 2010

NEW MILFORD, N.J. — With three daughters, it’s a new experience to become the mom of the groom. Especially such a groom.

It began at my granddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah, when Dan — social media guru of Jewish masses — brought his significant other, Morissa (we call her Ris), to meet the matriarchs.

My mother, a Brooklyn bubbie of distinguished rabbinic descent, her sister-in-law, and the rest of the family were all under one roof.

The next day, my youngest, my only boy, a grown man in everyone’s eyes but mine, let me know he was going to pop the question in two week’s time, and that I had better keep my mouth shut.

OK. So I immediately called my oldest daughter who said, “Butt out!” So I did.

My son also told me that it was Ris’ birthday. I left her a birthday message and she called back. If I had a million bucks I would buy her a home. No, that’s not her thing.

“What do you want for your birthday?” I asked. “I’ll see if I can arrange it.”

“Your son,” she replied. And I said, I would wrap that up for her.

I immediately e-mailed Dan and asked him to put on a huge gift bow with a birthday card from me and to hand himself over to Ris. He ignored me.

Thanksgiving came. Was I bringing a turkey for the kids? Nope. I wasn’t. Dan was heading up to Syracuse to ask Ris’ parents for her hand in marriage.

Cool beans! So off they went. I couldn’t find out what was going on. Dan posted something about a surprise on Facebook, and I waited for the call.

It came on Thanksgiving afternoon. The wedding was scheduled for the Fourth of July in her parents’ backyard in Syracuse.

OK. No problem. Not much. Do we drive, get a bus, catch a plane, take a train? And should we charter something for the old ladies? I talked to Ris’ mom and dad. They were worried about not being observant. Who cares?

They must be nice people because Ris is a class-A1 mensch.

I Twittered the news immediately, Facebooked it at the exact moment Dan did, sent an e-mail to all my colleagues, friends and family and made only four phone calls—to my Mom, my mother-in-law and two old aunties who wouldn’t know a computer if they God forbid fell over one.

Suddenly, Dan’s cellphone seems to work. He takes my calls and answers e-mails. Wow! And he e-mails a photo of the bling —an antique diamond set in a beautiful ring.

When he wanted to spend more, Ris said save the money for a roof over their heads. Smart lady.

On Monday, Ellen, Ris’ mom, thankfully decides 150 people schlepping to her backyard in Syracuse isn’t green. Do it in Brooklyn where the friends and family are.

The Botanical Garden, their first choice, Dan says, costs thousands. Have I got any ideas…and oh, yeah, this is going to be a halachically-correct wedding, but, “We are going to blow away the customs, and do things our way.”

The matriarchs were going to have to watch the bride and groom circle each other instead of the bride walking around in circles by herself. It is said she thus builds the walls of their future home, but these two believe they are partners for life.

No one gets to run rings around anyone else. And his Dad and I would share giving a blessing during the ceremony. Yes!

With the Botanical Gardens so expensive, Prospect Park, right across the street is an option. The Parks Department  says weddings cost $25 and a $300 bond in case you wreck the grass. The two sites are the Grecian Pavillion and the Oriental Garden. (The Oriental Garden is where the denizens of Crown Heights go to do Taschlich on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. Many a match has been made there.)

But — you can’t have a wedding on the Fourth of July because everyone and his brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and third cousins twice removed will be barbecuing in the park.

And my oldest daughter, the specialty cake decorator and catering wannabe says, “Whoa, everyone, Fourth of July is during the Three Weeks.”

Pick another date. OK. June 27 it is.

My oldest daughter, the practical one who has attended hundreds of weddings, also asks, “What about the heat in the summer, when rivulets of sweat trickle down anatomical areas while you dance around. And what if it rains? I’ve been at weddings where I had to stand ankle deep in mud.”

“Hey,” I say, “Didn’t you tell me to butt out?”

She e-mails her brother. “Can’t do it on the Fourth. The Three Weeks. And it’s hot and where’s the dance floor?”

We are now looking at August.