A Groom's Diary

2012-02-22T07:53:00.000-08:00

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, which of is of course the annual Christian fasting period in memory of the 40 days Jesus spent fasting before bringing his ministry a surprised public.

And it is the day annoying women in their late 20s give up on something completely meaningless so they can brag to their friends that they haven't had a Diet Pepsi in 22 days. But of course that's not true because they let themselves cheat on Sundays.

Wait...on Sundays?

Isn't that church day?

That's like a high school kid saying he isn't going to cut class anymore and only living up to that rule on the weekend.

And if that isn't enough, most of them pronounce it "Lint", (which would be the 40-day build-up of excess cotton in the front pocket of your jeans). Maybe these people should give up the mispronunciation of Christian celebrations for Lent...

Me? Sometimes give something up for Lent...and sometimes I don't. I've decided to give up several things this year, and like everything that is going on in my life right now, they are centered on the girl who is about a thimble over 5-feet that I'll be walking down the aisle with in October. We even had a discussion as to what I should give up.

She wants me to give up eating beef.
I'm going to give up eating beef in church.

Clearly, there is no possible chance that I'm going to stop eating hamburgers, filets, t-bones, tri-tips, flanks or even jerky, but if avoiding snapping into a Slim Jim during communion gets me some good favor with the Big Guy upstairs, I can hold out for a while...

She wants me give up correcting other people's grammar.
I'm going to give up on people who use bad grammar.

I know you all think that I'd be a "more better" person if I went her way, but frankly "I could care less" about people who can't master their native language. It may be a "mute" point in the era of text-messaging and twitter, but I'm going to try "hella" hard to get the message across.

She wants me to stop drinking to excess.
I'm going to stop NOT drinking to excess.

I literally average about 5 drinks a week these days. Zero drinks for about twenty days and then a nice relaxing binge. But here's my thought: if I drink that way EVERY night, she won't consider it excess anymore. It will just be Tuesday.

She wants me to stop giving my commentary during The Voice.
I'm going to...yeah...I should probably cut that out.

I'm not proud.
But I love that show. Of course--I'd pretty much watch any show that featured interviews with Cee Lo Green where he is creepily stroking a white cat.

She wants me to stop texting and driving.
I am going to stop texting HER while driving.

I don't know why it took me this long to figure it out. She'll never know I'm putting my life and our family's well-being in danger to type "haha" in response to another text if I don't send that text to her. GENIUS!

She wants me to stop picking my nose.
I am going to stop picking my nose when she's aware I'm doing it.

The thumb-pick...the urinal clear-out...the fake-scratch...I'm going to have to start implementing them all.
Or I can just pick my nose while I drive. Nobody can see you through those 1/4" clear windows.

It is going to be a long six weeks...

This blog is my voice in the wedding planning process. It is not meant to be a guideline and using it as one will likely end any successful marriage and/or future-marriage.

2012-02-13T17:44:00.000-08:00

I made it through the New Year without going entirely broke and losing my mind with forced "couple-y" celebrations and was getting my haircut a few days later. I made my next appointment and it happened to fall on February 14, which led to the following exchange:

Girl who cuts my hair: "On Valentine's Day? Won't you have plans?"
Me: "Nope."

I guess I should explain that I have a very odd relationship with my hair "stylist." I call her "Britney", but you'll know her as #5 on my list of worst dates. It may seem strange that I get my hair cut by someone I went out with once, but the horrendousness of the experience qualified her as the perfect person to cut my hair. A few years ago, I came up with the following parameters:

1. Female
2. Young enough to have some taste.
3. Absolutely no desire to date her.
4. We pretty much hate each other.

Clearly, she meets all four qualifications.

You must understand, I started losing my hair at around 19 and am clinging to my last months before clippers. These yellow-brown shreds of hope are all I have left, so I'd better be able to chew out the person that screws them up. Having someone I like cut my hair would be a disaster. I'd just have to walk around 3/4 bald and 7/8 out-of-style...

But of course, this entry isn't about hair cuts, it is about Valentine's Day. Which leads us to her follow-up question:

Britney: "You're not doing anything special for Valentine's Day?"
Me: "Nope."
Britney: "You're at least getting her something, right?"
Me: "I already did. It was round and cost me three ****ing months of salary."

Of course I was being harsh. I've never once thought about the cost of Melissa's engagement ring and have every intention of being delightful to Melissa on this Valentine's Day...but should I have to?

I mean--I'm marrying her. That's enough, right?

And what is more romantic than a guy who has spent the last six months in and out of twenty-minute conversations about linens and flower-arrangements?

Anyone reading this knows better. NO. That is not enough. At some point in the Middle Ages, a bow-hunter named "Cupid" accidentally shot his wife through the heart while trying to feed his family, and an on-looking blacksmith/greeting-card-writer got inspired and changed the English-speaking world forever.

It was so easy when I was single. The day would just come and go like any other Tuesday. No flowers. No overpriced dinners. Maybe you splurge at the checkout line and buy some delicious Sweethearts for yourself. Sure, you go home that night and pop in a RomCom, try to slit your wrists with a nail-file and cry your eyes out, but the next morning you get up and move on with your life.

Everything changes when that pink Sweetheart reading "4-EVER" becomes a reality.

For example:

-For my first 31 years, my mom would send me (or hand me) a Valentine's Day card with a dollar bill inside. It was her way of saying, "I know you're incredibly lonely, with absolutely no prospects and I'm having my suspicions that you may be gay, but here is $20 so you can wash away your pain with a medium, meat-lovers pizza."
I picked up the mail today, and there was the card from my mom. Inside? A paragraph about how excited she is that I finally found "the one". I mean--thanks, Mom. It is FUL-filling and everything, but it isn't FILLING like the delicious Domino's Pizza I used to buy when you sent money (and I wasn't lactose-intolerant.)

-One thing you realize quickly about being half-a-couple is that it is a great opportunity for a woman to say, "EVERY DAY is Valentine's Day for me. You don't need to buy me anything just because it is February 14th", which is woman for, "You sir, will not be getting a gift. I spent the money on your gift on myself and expect you not to know that and use double your piece of the budget on me." If there were a Rosetta Stone for the Wife Language, this would be taught on the first day.

-My former tradition of RomCom and weeping just doesn't work anymore. Like the disappointment that high school brought when you realized that it wasn't like Saved by the Bell, romantic comedies take on a new life when you're in a couple.
I used to sit around thinking, "This is great. Someday I'm going to be chillin' in my bookstore and Julia Roberts is going to walk in and profess her undying love for me."
Now? You've got your Julia Roberts. Just without the movie star's pay grade. You're exceedingly happy, but you make the realization that nobody is as happy as the characters in a romantic comedy. Or as good-looking. Or capable of making a living at such a sweet job. And getting struck by lighting is much more likely to kill you than let you in women's inner-most thoughts. It really ruins the whole genre...

So yeah. Valentine's Day pretty much blows. Fortunately, St. Patrick's Day is just around the corner and you can drink yourself into forgetting about Valentine's Day until next year...

I'd write more, but I've got to run to the mailbox. I'm mailing myself $20 to make myself sick on dairy and processed meat.

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process, and despite my charm and wit, I'm not as good-looking as I seem. (I'm actually twice as good-looking as I seem.)

Tell your friends! I love new readers.

2012-02-07T17:58:00.000-08:00

Apparently the Great Vendor Battle has finally begun to take shape, as Melissa and her mother hired a "Day-of" Wedding Coordinator last week. (For those of you who still have your testicles attached, a day-of wedding coordinator is one that acts as an onsite referee for the days events, keeping people in-place and on-schedule. The alternative would be a "Wedding Planner" who coordinates, orders, designs, and facilitates the entire process from engagement to fluffing the pillows of the honeymoon suite.) I took a step back and let the two of them run on this decision because with the exception of being on time, my interactions with the Wedding Coordinator (hereby known as the "WC"--which takes on new meaning for european weddings) will be pretty limited, whereas Melissa and her mother will be on the phone with her constantly between now and wedding day.

Many would say that hiring a day-of WC is superfluous, but much in the same way that it makes sense to block doctors from operating on their children, hiring someone to tell a stressed-out, liquored-up bride that she's 15 minutes behind schedule takes the pressure off of relatives and friends who might take the cursing and kicking personally. And frankly I like the idea of having someone with a whistle and an airhorn keeping things moving. Efficiency is what this country was built on after all...

In stepping aside for this decision, I missed a couple of conference calls, but heard nothing but positive about the WC. What I'm afraid of is that the WC heard nothing but positive and thinks that she has an easy assignment, when in reality there are a few land-mines that I might have warned her about.

A few examples:

1) My Future Father-in-Law is a Mafia Chieftan.
Most wedding coordinators know how to deal with pissing off a member of the family, but in our case, you're pissing off a member of THE FAMILY...

2) The Salads We Ordered Are Topped with Live Hermit Crabs.
But they're little, so don't sweat it.
3) The First Two Rows of Seating are Reserved for Family and the Third is Reserved for Billy Dee Williams.
If he allows freaky white-women to join him, that is Billy Dee's decision, not the WC's.

4) My Aunt is a Cougar.
Not an older-lady who prowls on young men, but a real, live cougar. She's well-trained and obedient, but sometimes nature beats nurture and she eats one of us.

5) We Expect the WC to be Captain of the Staff Flip-cup Team.
Games begin at around 2 for the 4:30 wedding, so you should be able to settle into your buzz by reception time. (Oh--and we're playing with whiskey.)

6) My Dad can Eat Left-handed or Right-handed.
Not so much an area of concern, but really impressive to watch.

7) I have a Red-headed Friend Named Travis who gets the Oral Diarrhea when he Drinks.
I haven't seen him in a couple of years, so we'll want to catch up, but if you see me talking to him for more than four minutes, you're instructed to pull me aside and say, "Ian, you're needed on the veranda to milk a koala."

8) When you see the Groomsmen, that is What they Actually Look Like.
They won't be playing a joke or anything, honestly. They'll genuinely be trying to look their best...but you can only put so much frosting on a cake...

And finally...

9) If my Dad's Friend Russ asks you to put your Watch in a Fishbowl, DO NOT put your Watch in the Fishbowl.
Just trust me.

I think that's about it...except for the massive prank we'll be sure to play on her on the day of the wedding that leaves her angry enough to storm off before the wedding is over and just freaked-out enough not to write us for payment...

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process. It is meant to entertain and enlighten brides, grooms and the general public on the esoteric world that is a groom's mind. It is in no way legally-admissible or an actual depiction of my dad's friend Russ, who for all I know doesn't even own a fishbowl.

2012-01-30T17:59:00.000-08:00

Crash-diets are one of the uniquely American traditions.

There is a high percentage of the world's population that doesn't know where their next meal is coming from, but Americans willingly starve themselves. And they do it entirely for aesthetics.

Sure--we mask it. Now it is called "fasting" or "a cleanse", but we all know what it is. People can't control their desire to eat Oreos by the shovel-load and decide that simply starving yourself is the only way to lose weight.

Nowhere is this more-prevalent than with brides-to-be and particularly bridesmaids-to-be. To hell with planning and proper exercise, a woman just decides that two weeks before the wedding starts that she'll look like Brooklyn Decker by living off of Diet Coke, cigarettes and yoga until the wedding day. How would you like to sit next to this woman on an airplane? If you dared eat your peanuts in from of her, there is a fair chance that she will throw you through the cockpit door like a missile.

Fortunately, I don't have to deal with this. Melissa is neither the crash-dieting type, or the "goes to the gym but doesn't really workout" type. Instead, she stays in shape year-round and genuinely enjoys exercise, the same way I do. She is shaking it up a bit with the wedding coming and trying "cross-fit". (If you're not familiar with cross-fit, it is the brain child of a Navy Seal who drank two gallons of Red Bull and decided to get a workout in by throwing cars around a parking lot.) I'd love to join her, but for the past year have been working out at home, doing "P90X". (And to answer the obvious follow-up question, "YES! I absolutely tell-everyone-I-know-how-hard-and-how-great-it-is-as-much-as-I-possibly-can-but-am-still-not-as-obnoxious-as-someone-who-is-training-for-their-first-half-marathon.")
But I kind of feel like we're missing out by avoiding traditional "gym workouts".

"The Gym" (particularly in January, when all of the New Year's Resolution types are slogging their way through the one month of exercise they'll actually get this year) is a magical place where strange and mysterious creatures appear. It's like Narnia with barbells.

Don't know what I'm talking about? Clearly, you didn't make a New Year's Resolution to workout this year.

I'm a firm believer in this-: the same people exist at every gym in the world and if you were to see them outside, away from the exposed pipes, loud music and rubber floors, you'd have no idea who they were. It's like our own private Truman Show for 70 minutes, five days a week. You don't know any of their names, don't particularly care for most of them, but oddly feel more comfortable seeing them when you walk in every morning. And for the same reason, trying to maintain a normal conversation with someone you know outside the gym when you're working out is impossible because their presence is interfering with your warped social interactions with your gym friends.

Maybe this whole wedding thing has me nostalgic, but I've spent the past week thinking about my Gym Friends...I'm sure you've met most of them:

"The Social Butterfly"
He hasn't been in a tanning bed in almost an hour, which explains why his teeth have stopped glowing. His hair is gelled, his clothes are stylish and his sleaves are cut-off, exposing the tattoo of the Italian flag on his right arm. He only performs one exercise. Bench press of course. 185 pounds on the rack...maybe 7-8 reps. Then about a fifteen minute break to talk to every 35+-year-old woman in the gym, making it clear that if they're looking to have an affair, his studio apartment is clean and the beer sign over his bed provides a romantic glow.

"I'm Here because my Wife is Making Me" Guy
This guy is an absolute sweetheart and probably lives up the street from your parents. He's completely content being 30 lbs overweight, but because his wife signed up for Jazzercise, she drags him to the gym every morning so he can do the elliptical at 2 mph while soaking in some television. Unlike the other 60+ year-old men in the cardio section, he isn't watching Fox News, but is content with whatever the previous person left on...because he's just cool like that. If he exists outside the gym, I bet he gives out full-size candy bars at Halloween...

"The Non-Cougar"
She's about 40. Clearly divorced. Superstar fit. And her breasts were clearly created by an assembly line. That sports-bra she's wearing gives her the attention of every 20-something guy in the gym, but she's not having it. While she walks like a cougar and talks like a cougar, if you haven't sold your first business, she ain't havin' it. You can look, but taming this beast requires a Ferrari. The Social Butterfly thinks he's close to finally sealing the deal, but she's just humoring him, waiting for her next prey...

"Hotel Workout" Guy
While you won't see him at your home gym, stroll into the 10x10' gym at a Holiday Inn Express and you'll find him getting his only workout of the year. He's got dress socks on and will uniformly do the following workout:
-Two minutes on the treadmill at 143 mph until he jumps off, pretending there was some kind of error with the machine that caused him to stop.
-Between 3-5 bicep curls with a weight that is 6x what he should be lifting.
-A trip to the water cooler.
-A sigh and cursory glance over the room to see if anyone is paying attention.
-And a quick getaway...
What goes through these guys heads? Just because a hotel offers an amenity does not mean that you're required to use it. Do you take the shower-cap home too?

He's a close relative of...

"I Don't Know How to Use Any of the Equipment" Guy
You know how at a public beach there is a row of bouys that you can't go past until you've passed the swimming test? Gyms should have the same thing. Not that I'm an elitist that wants this idiot off of my bench, but people need to stay in the Nautilus section because someone is going to get hurt if he keeps trying to balance that 30-pound weight on his ear...

"Comfortably Naked Guy"
He's normally pretty fit and someone you don't mind sharing gym space with, but as soon as the workout is over, he's walking around the locker-room, dressed like the Charmin baby. (I've even seen him dry off in the air-dryer!) For some reason, he loves talking to you. He thinks your career is fascinating and whatever exercise you were doing could really help him out. He's a heck of a nice guy, but his business is way too close to you for you to feel like talking about business!

"Grunting Buddies"
At a combined-weight of 620 pounds, Ron and Ron, The Grunting Buddies, spot for each other every day in the free-weights section. In the five years they've been lifting weights together, neither has ever so much as attempted to mount an elliptical machine, because guys named Ron don't use elliptical machines. They lift big weight for an hour a day, while grunting and spitting their ways to herneas. Together, they're comic-relief, but once a month you hear one proclaim "I won't be here tomorrow, I gotta go to my kids' wrestling match." When you hear that, take notice and just go for a jog the next day, because when The Grunting Buddies are separated, they become...

"Can You Give Me a Spot?" Guy
"HEY! Can you give me a spot?" Inner-monologue: "No, Ron. I can't. You're trying to bench-press a Subaru and I don't want to get your spit on my new Lululemon running shirt." But despite what Jiminy Crickett tells you, you respond, "OH YEAH! No problem!" Then you're inspired to say things like, "All you!" "You got this!" "Come on!" as he cranks out three reps that will keep the chiropractic industry profitable for the next decade.

"New 80s Workout Gear Guy"
He's in the gym every morning and is actually in pretty good shape. But the neon, lycra pants and the Cobra Kai headband remind you that despite his otherwise normal appearance, there is a pretty good chance he's a serial killer.
Being out-of-style is one thing, and wearing old clothes is another--but this guy somehow manages to find brand new workout gear that is older than Justin Bieber. You can't trust people like that. He won't use an elliptical or any Nautilus equipment, because in his Whitesnake World, those machines don't exist!
Nope--all free weights and exercise-bikes for him. One of the few Gym Friends that you can find outside of the gym, but you may also know him as one of his alter-egos: "Skis in Jeans Guy" or "Dude at the Bar with a Toothpick Dangling Out of his Mouth".

"See This Unattractive Married Woman I'm Training? You're not Training an Unattractive Married Women...and that Makes me way more-Awesome than You" Trainer Guy
Personal training is really hard, and for the most part, good personal trainers are grossly-underpaid. But like any profession, there are good ones who are underpaid and terrible ones who are paid by people who just don't know any better.
You know this turd. He sports his bright red trainer shirt and his undergrown goutee and walks around like he owns the place, when in reality, the place owns him. I pity the women that shell out $60 an hour to have this guy read off a list of workouts he picked up in the 3-day training course and only hope that those same women have the sense not to hire him again in three years when he inevitably starts selling mortgages.

And my personal favorite...

"Only Hot in the Gym Girl"
She's in fantastic shape and sports those Nike stretch pants like she's the mannequin that they were built for. In the gym, she's the object of the affection of every personal trainer and the occasional 40-year-old guy who happens next to her on the treadmill...but leave the gym and throw her in work clothes and you realize that she kind of looks like a foot. Her hair is ratty from constant sweat, her pores look like a lava-rock and she smiles like a marionette.

And for this exact reason, she never leaves the gym.

She stays.

In her ideal habitat.

With the rest of your Gym Friends.

Ensuring that if you "just don't have the energy" today, there is something else to lure you back to the land of white towels and water-bottles...

I miss these freaks.
I'm going to go join a gym.

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process. It is not meant to be an advice column, but rather a glimpse into the mind of a man who is walking into certain doom. Share it with the world!!

2012-01-26T18:45:00.000-08:00

We started interviewing DJs last week.

Some people say that it isn't that big a deal, but save a groomsman hooking-up with the aunt-of-the-bride, the DJ and music are the most-memorable element of a wedding.

Don't believe me?

Case in point--Laura and Adam's wedding.

They had a beautiful wedding at a winery on a canyon overlooking the Columbia River. It was a perfect summer afternoon. Everything was great. And then the DJ set up. His table and equipment were fine, except he had a makeshift podium, and the front of it read "DOCTOR ROCK." Awesome right? Well...sort of.

There were a handful toasts, all very nice, except that Doc Rock (as he was quickly referred to) made a point of getting on the microphone and one-upping every single toast. It was painful.

And these were no average toastmasters. The bride's grandfather is an NFL Hall of Fame quarterback and has a presence like Moses...but sure enough, Doc Rock stepped up and provided a topper to a guy who played football at a time when you were actually safer without a helmet.

Fortunately, in that case, the bride and groom had the sense of humor to laugh their way through it. But quite clearly, I have no sense of humor. None.

Thus far we have three candidates:

Candidate A.
A national service of highly-trained, highly-sought-after DJs who are the types of people who stand behind flame-throwers and spin their records in Las Vegas, Miami, and everywhere else men without chest hair live. The kind of guys whose myspace accounts had hundreds of messages from girls that looked like strippers, but were too hot and had a slightly too-positive relationship with their fathers to strip. They're absolute professionals. And the guy they lined us up with is a pure badass. His full-time job is creating and selecting music for TV and movies. That's right--he's Jason Segal in Forgetting Sarah Marshall.

Not only can he pop in "Teach Me How to Dougie", he can also use his magical, thumb-ring-toting fingers and somehow blend Jay Z's "Run this Town" with the theme from "Who's The Boss?" so seamlessly that Rihanna's voice comes in right as the TV would be flashing a saucy picture of Mona and her vixenous red hair.

Candidate B.
A 60ish man local to the Palm Springs-area who seems to work every event in the desert because...well...he's local to the Palm Springs-area.

If it weren't slanderous, I'd give you his website so you could see his suggested playlists. Among his "must-plays" are "The Electric Slide", "YMCA", "Friends in Low Places" and for the "young" crowd, "Baby Got Back." In other words, the four worst songs ever-written. Upon informing him that all of these songs were on our "DO NOT PLAY" list, he said, "Well you can give me a list of the songs you want me to play and I'll play them." which makes him about as qualified as...

Candidate C.
My iPod.

In an attempt to level the playing-field, we've tried to ask everyone the same set of questions. Here are a few examples:

Question 1: Could you describe a time when your client wasn't pleased with your services.

Candidate A.
"Last year, a couple from Las Vegas, upon declaring that 'they were paying for the wedding and were going to play what they wanted' instructed me to play exclusively house music. They also wanted the dancing to begin immediately. It was a smaller wedding, and mostly family. For two hours I played annoying house music and nobody came to the dance-floor because the bride and groom were still taking pictures and nobody in the crowd was between the ages of 8 and 50. So I made the call and changed it up. It worked great and the dance-floor filled up. The bride came up a couple hours later and thanked me. I switched back to house music and everyone was happy."

Candidate B.
"That doesn't really happen. I know what people like to hear and deliver it."

Candidate C.
It's an iPod. It can't talk.

Question 2: "We've been to a couple weddings where there were a lot of slow songs and the dance-floor never really got going. We've been to others that were all fast songs, and the older crowd never made it out there. Any thoughts?"

Candidate A.
"You have to feel out every group. I like to start with a few classics that the older crowd is familiar with, but still have that 'cool' element for the younger crowd. From there, you kind of figure out when people are getting tired and sprinkle in a slow one...it is all about finding balance."

Candidate B.
Him: "I alternate fast and slow songs. That way people can come off and on." Us: "But doesn't that kind of kill momentum?" Him: "I've done this a long time...trust me. I know what I'm doing." (We flip him off through the telephone.)

Candidate C.
Again--it is an iPod. Oh--did you think it was someone named "iPod"?

Question 3: "What is popular right now?"

Candidate A.
"I don't know why, but everyone loves 90s hip-hop right now. Maybe it is just the that people are getting married who went to high school dances when this stuff was popular, but it seems like everyone is in love with it again...

I'm trying to clean up the classics though. Just making sure I have clean, high-quality copies of some of the standards. It can really add to the experience."

Candidate B.
(Belches loudly.)

Candidate C.
Dude--an iPod is an inanimate object. It cannot converse. Yes--if you plug it in, it can create noise in another device, but it doesn't interact! How are you not getting this?

Question 4: "What is your cost?"

Candidate A.
"We recognize that we may be a bit more than other DJs, but we're obviously providing a best-in-class DJ as well as a music/entertainment consultant that will work with you throughout the planning process and will coordinate with the venue and wedding coordinator on the day of the wedding so the DJ can focus on playing music and not worry about the other minutae. That said, for six hours, we charge one kidney and your first male child."

Candidate B.
"I'd do it for $700 if I can bring my dog. I don't really want to leave him alone for that long."

Candidate C.
Finally a response from the iPod that we can really appreciate...

Who are we going with? I don't know. The fact is, budgets matter, but I sort of feel like Candidate A would give us a fighting chance of throwing a party wild enough for Lindsay Lohan to stumble over from the Betty Ford Clinic, drink three bottles of champagne and start stripping in the lobby of the hotel. That may be enough to sell us...

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process. It is not meant as an advice-column, but if you need advice, mine would be to shave that ridiculous soul-patch.

2012-01-18T17:52:00.000-08:00

Snow day.

In many parts of the world, the term "snow day" doesn't really exist. People are usually either intelligent enough to live in a place where it doesn't snow, or if they do live in a snowy area, they don't lose their damn minds when it inevitably happens.
Seattle, WA would have to be considered the epicenter of snowbound panic. Every single school district in Western Washington's three most-populated counties cancelled school yesterday-----before a single flake had fallen.

I lived in Denver for two years, selling wine in my luxurious company car. That company car? A rear-wheel drive, no-weight-in-the-back pickup with bald tires. The perfect vehicle to navigate the Western Plains after 20" of snow. I once did three spins on black-ice while traveling north on I-25, only to wind up going the exact direction I was initially pointed, continuing forward. Someone pulled up next to me a few seconds later, gave me a "meep-meep" and waved as they passed. Just another Tuesday.

Seattle gets snow once a year. It's usually about 2 inches, but based on the sheer panic, you'd think there were two inches of spiders on the ground. On Sunday, I went up a small hill (in my all-wheel drive car) and watched three people just put their cars in park. Halfway up. In the middle of traffic. They basically said to the world, "Well---I've made it 37 years on this planet. The car I chose isn't getting up this hill. I guess it is time to die."

Unbelievable.

On Tuesday, as the storm rolled in, I thought it wise to take a commuter plane to Portland and back for a meeting. If I had to sum up the flight home in a single non-word, it would be "vomitous." After prying my fingers from the armrest and stopping myself from mumbling the Lord's Prayer, I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the car. Realizing that with Snowpacolypse coming, I may not see Melissa for a few days, I diverted my trip home by her place (on the other side of Lake Washington, therefore making it unreachable in a snowstorm). It was about a fifteen-minute visit that got my mind working.

Twenty-four hours later, after a day sitting by a large window looking out at the snow, my mind has been in some strange places:
-Getting married is a pretty big deal. (If you haven't thought about that before, you're either a terrible person or have never been anywhere near getting married---which is about where my mind was 18 months ago.) I made a 30-minute detour for 15-minute visit with my fiancee that will likely be the only time I see her during this odd, undriveable week. In a few months, I'll be taking 30-minute detours when I walk to check the mail because frankly, we'll need the break.
-I keep looking at the trees outside my window, with their branches weighed down with heavy, wet snow. Any minute, one of them is going to shake off wildly, like a golden retriever in a beer ad. And with my luck, it will be when I'm searching my pantry for food I threw out before making moronic New Year's resolutions.

-My condo is about 900 sf, but is pretty well-designed. It doesn't bother me to be trapped in here for a day. I workout at home. I work from home. It really isn't that big a change. But if TWO people were trapped in here for a couple of days, it would look like two gerbils trapped in a tubesock. (Dear God, Please don't make snow for the year or two that we have to live here because of the depressed real estate market that was brought on by your wacky idea to deregulate banks. Thanks.)

-All over Western Washington, there are kids who will do anything to spite their parents. And in the ultimate rebellion against their parents' sage advice, today, one of those kids will eat yellow snow.

-The woman from one of the DJ companies we're considering for the wedding keeps calling. Should I be annoyed with her persistence, or pleased that someone actually cares and take that as a sign that they'll think of all of the details when it comes time for the wedding. Annoyed it is.

-I have a client who cannot spell my name, even though it is clearly written on the previous email. From here on out, I'm spelling his name "Phred."

-Melissa bussed in and out of work today (as she does every day.) I imagine buses on snow days to be very hot, foggy and uncomfortable, with everyone falling out of their seats after they dressed themselves like Randy in A Christmas Story.

-I know that if girls live together long enough, their "cycles" get sync'd up. Is it possible that the guy who lives above me and my pee-cycles are in sync as well? We always seem to be in the bathroom at the same time. This morning at about 2:30, I heard him walk in at the same time I did and flush. Normally I don't flush in the middle of the night, but I did this time. (You know--just to let him know I was there and was thinking about him.)

-Schools will be back in session on Friday, and there will be a nasty, slushy snow all over the fields of elementary school. One kid will still be inspired to make an ugly, grassy snowman. I applaud his determination, but don't anticipate he'll be in the running for valedictorian when he gets to high school.

-My bathroom is covered with 8x10", signed photos of ironic white people. Scott Baio, Joe Piscopo, John Daly with a heater in his lip, Joe E. Tata (of 90210 fame), Mark Eaton, my father in college steamrolling an SAE lion, Mike Ditka chewing out Jim McMahon, Yakov Smirnoff, my friend Bill doing standup comedy, Brian Bosworth, an incredibly-effeminate picture of my friend Marko and more. Obviously, these are all going into a box when Melissa moves in, but if something stupid like a painting of seashells goes up, I'm going to encourage the housekeeper to knock it off the wall while dusting.

-I guess we're going to need to get a housekeeper.

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process. It is not intended to be an advice column or a "wedding blog" but rather an invitation into the mind of a man entering certain doom. Tell your friends!

2012-01-12T17:20:00.000-08:00

"We've got a nice little Saturday planned. We're going to The Home Depot--check out some wallpaper and flooring. Maybe Bed, Bath and Beyond, I don't know. I don't know if we'll have enough time!"
-Will Ferrell, Old School

This weekend feels like the final reprieve.

Somehow, there is nothing on our calendar in a year that I would call a "circus", but that would be an injustice to the bearded women and eunuchs who provide project management for Barnum and Bailey...

There is nothing on the calendar. Not a single bullet-point. God love it. 25-year-old me would be wildly emailing every friend in sight saying, "Ain't got s--- to do, let's party!"

But this is 31-year-old me. 31-year-old me is getting married. 31-year-old me has balls the size of raspberry seeds.

How are we going to fill our weekend?

Well--for starters, it is Golden Globes weekend, so you'd better believe we're going to do some last minute cramming by going to a couple crappy, artsy films that feature absolutely no karate and if they include nudity, is probably of some saggy-skinned old chick. I hope we can stay awake for them...we may have a glass of wine or two beforehand...oooooooooooo! SINNERS!!

That's just the evening. What are the daytime events?

We literally have the "nice little Saturday" that our generation has been mocking for the past ten years. Costco to pick up a pair of glasses (on sale!!) and several thousand rolls of paper towels, so we can save $.13 a roll. It picks up from there, because we're headed to...wait for it...Crate and Barrell!!!

You're probably thinking: "Oh--they must be registering." Nope...we're PRE-registering. No picking out future gifts. No hilarious Rambo commando-rolls with the registry-gun in hand to shoot glassware. Nope. We're going to walk around the store (and maybe a couple of others) to "get ideas" on what we might like to register for so we can ensure that we have linens for every occasion.

But do you want to hear the best part?

It was all my idea. All of it.

Speaking of eunuchs...

2012-01-04T17:04:00.000-08:00

Melissa has spent the majority of her life in musical theater. Have I ever mentioned that? She finished college and followed her dream by moving to New York to pursue a life on stage. As with any actor--or any professional--there were highs and lows, but her highs all seemed to center on her time working as a stage entertainer on the Disney Cruise Lines, where she played some of her dream roles and met some of her closest friends.

I knew she was an actress when we met---my parents had seen a half-dozen of her shows---but I had no idea of her Disney obsession. And she had no idea that I had a secret little habit of listening to showtunes when I'd go on long drives. So on our third or fourth date, when I'd just returned from a long drive back from Portland, we got into my car and the Broadway cast of The Lion King was blasting at an eleven from my car stereo. Some guys would have been embarrassed, but considering my company, I decided to own it and started belting out a few lines of "Endless Night", the climactic original song that was written for the Broadway rendition.

It worked too. She's said on multiple occasions that that performance was one of the things that made her trust me and continue to date me, because, as she puts it, "I have just the right amount of gay in me."

Take that as you will, but in our relationship and life has truly begun to imitate art, as "Endless Nights" seem to be a theme of late.

It's January 4th. New year. For me, that means a new budget. For Melissa, it means her first budget. And since we have the joy of blending our finances later this year, it means I--the Budgeter--is for some reason inspired to take ownership over the finances of Melissa--the Non-Budgeter.

Everyone has experienced an exchange between a Budgeter and a Non-Budgeter. For most of us it begins at childhood, when we walk through a store and start pleading to our parents that we "need" a certain toy. Well we don't "need" it, we "want" it. But in the mind of a five-year-old---a classic Non-Budgeter---there really isn't a distinction. In the mind of the parent---the classic Budgeter---there is a definitive distinction.

In general, there isn't a great split between the two groups. Non-Budgeters buy and the figure out what they have left. Budgeters figure out what they have and determine what they can buy. It's simply an issue of time and place. But like any two groups of people who agree on 80% of things, the 20% they disagree on become an animated mess. That's why environmentalists chain themselves to trees. It's what started the "Occupy Wall Street" movement. And it is the reason that personal finances are the number one cause of divorce in the United States. People want to see it their way and it is inconceivable to the other person that things should be done this way.

But don't be confused. The Budgeter is not necessarily the person who makes the most money (or any money at all), it is simply the person that manages the finances and determines how a couple is going to get through the month with the lights on.

We're trying to get ahead of it, but it is an incredible challenge. I'm an engaged man who doesn't enjoy getting kicked in the crotch, so I've learned how to "kid glove" the difficult issues. But with money it isn't that simple, as for the first time in our lives, we have judgment passed on each expenditure. Yes--I find it ridiculous that there needs to be a place in the budget for a $200 pair of shoes and a $100 haircut...but I sure do like paying for rounds of golf and ridiculous gym equipment! How do I declare her purchases unnecessary in one breath and mine valid in the other?
I guess the good thing about doing a budget the year you're getting married is that there is no money to go around anyway, so you don't have to balance my cupboard full of single-malt scotch with her girls spa weekend. We're basically balancing whether we're eating the Costco chicken tonight or the Trader Joe's chicken. It's a much easier conversation, frankly.

However, it isn't the daily or even yearly budget that has me rolling around crunching numbers like Dustin Hoffman in an unsuspecting casino, it's the budget for 2040. And the idea that now that I've committed to marrying this woman and raising a family with her that I have to figure out a way to support that family. It's absolutely terrifying, and frankly, if you're married (or about to be married) and don't spend at least two nights a month staring at the ceiling in complete panic, you're either a) an international movie star, b) kidding yourself, or c) an absolutely horrible husband and father.

And unfortunately there is no place to turn for advice.

Your parents? Seriously? The generation that's investment advice was "if you're going to buy a house, find a way to buy the one next door as well." Really? That was a thing? There are some terrible houses in the United States and I can almost promise you that there aren't two next door to each other that I could afford. If I wanted that as an investment strategy, I would be in the Yukon Territory, bartering with an Inuit on a deal for he and his brother's igloos. (And frankly--that would be a better location than most of the affordable real estate I know of...) But your parents are completely blind to this, because they live in a house that is nicer than anything you'll ever be able to dream of affording and they bought it for the price of a Playstation.

And what was their other advice? "Put the money in the bank." Yeah. Great call. You remember banks, don't you? Those big fancy buildings in New York that used to manage your money but now don't exist? Yeah, banks. The institutions that led to the greatest financial collapse since the Depression. You know...banks!

My brother is somewhat of a financial savant (or the 15 letters that follow his name tend to imply that he is) and when I asked him how the hell I'm going to support a family in the modern world, he simply stated that "for the first time in many generations, the general standard of living will fall." Well that's reassuring. So my kids will be wearing origami shoes and eating ketchup for all three meals, but so will the other kids in their class!

Not scared yet?

Consider this:

If you are making 5% annually on your money, which---in the current economy---would be like hitting .700 in baseball---if you consider the rate in which college tuitions are rising, you'd need to put away roughly $650 a month, every month, for the first 18 years of your child's life to pay for college. And that's per kid! And only if they go to a state school! Do you realize how many boxed sets of The Wire you can buy for $650?

A lot, that's how many.

And forget spending the money, how about making it? To earn enough money to save $650 per child and still have enough money to pay a mortgage, car payment and twice-weekly back-waxings, you really have two options: 1) marry a Kardashian or 2) invent an affordable flying car. (And quite frankly I wouldn't want to be around when either option inevitably fails.)

So what is my point? I guess I don't have one. Except that tonight will be another Endless Night, wondering what insane invention I can create to save the world (and my future financial ruin.) But at least a few of you are reading this, and like my unborn kids who will find comaraderie in their friends eating the same Heinz-centric diet they are, tonight I'll have a few new brothers. Staring at the ceiling. Every bit as helpless as I am.

This blog is my voice in the wedding planning process. If you enjoyed today's post, please help my children get out of paper shoes by helping me find publishing for my burgeoning book.

2012-01-02T15:43:00.000-08:00

Why do we make New Year's Resolutions anyway?

The turning of a calendar page from December to January suddenly implies that we need to change our lives for the better by proclaiming to the world that we're going to start working out five days a week...or we're going to quit eating chocolate...or we're going to quit selling heroin in old folks' homes...

But why? We're just setting ourselves up for failure by robbing ourselves of something we genuinely enjoy---or forcing something we hate upon ourselves.

So I am taking a different approach.

Instead of committing to do something new, or cutting out the things I love most, I'm just going to realize that I'm already pretty fantastic and focus continuing the great habits I already have. And with this being the most significant year of my life (with the new Bieber album dropping and everything) I think it is particularly important. I mean--if I'm going to get married, I'd better be at my best, right?

Here are my New Year's Resolutions I've selected to be the model husband...

New Year's Resolution #1.
Only wash my hands in public restrooms if someone else is there who might silently judge me for not doing it.

New Year's Resolution #2.
Get married to the woman I'm engaged to. Once this is done, be mindful of how I select future wives to ensure everyone gets along.

New Year's Resolution #3.
Make sure to comment on every facebook post with a typo, ensuring that the author is made aware of their mistake.

New Year's Resolution #4.
Whenever I'm in a social setting with one of my friends' wives and they don't have a drink in their hand, I will make sure to ask her if she's pregnant.

New Year's Resolution #5.
Text and drive. Even when I don't have anything to say.

New Year's Resolution #6.
Use as many cards as possible to split up dinner checks. (And be sure to make uneven splits on those cards--none of this "split it three ways" garbage.)

New Year's Resolution #7.
Use jargon whenever there is an opportunity. The last thing I want is for people to understand what I'm saying.

New Year's Resolution #8.
Smoke in other people's homes...but be sure to bring enough heaters for everyone.

New Year's Resolution #9
Continue picking nose freely while driving. People can't see me even though the windows aren't tinted and they're sitting three feet from you.

New Year's Resolution #10.
Make sure to stare creepily at attractive women in the pre-boarding area before getting on a flight. It makes their travel experience that much better.

New Year's Resolution #11.
When I come to a party/event and find an open bar, make sure that the next morning, my only memory is that there was an open bar.

New Year's Resolution #12.
Soda at every meal. That stuff is not only delicious, but great for metabolism and long-term energy.

New Year's Resolution #13.
When I receive an email entitled, "FW: FW: FW: Food for thought...", don't even bother reading it---just forward it to everyone in the address book. People love those things, and they are ALL useful!

New Year's Resolution #14.
Lick a few more of these Save the Date envelopes. I don't have time to exercise this week, so another round of vomiting will have to suffice.

This blog is my voice in the wedding planning process. It is written to tell the world how they should think, act and be. And if you think you know better than I do, piss off. I'm better than you.

2011-12-27T18:01:00.000-08:00

At this time last year, I'd only been dating Melissa for about five months, but all signs certainly pointed to her being "the one".

And any doubt was quickly wiped from my mind when she proposed that for New Year's Eve, we go to a friend of her's house, play with their 2-year-old and then maybe dust off a few board games.

Now for many, that would have been a tremendous letdown.

No fancy clothes.

No party.

No built-up anxiety when you count down to that all important moment when you kiss the person next to you to prove to the other people in the room that you aren't nearly as lonely as you appear to be on your facebook profile.

But I'm not most people.
I knew the alphabet backwards long before I knew it could save me from a DUI. I know every word to more than one song by The Verve Pipe. I went to a college whose most famous graduate is a serial killer. I once ate a penny having been convinced a gumball would come out of my ass.

So this was music to my ears. It was the exact New Year's Eve that I'd dreamed of since I was about 23 and realized that New Year's Eve was God's way of telling you that "you and your friends are not nearly as cool as you think you are." (There was a party. There were three kegs. Two of them were returned.) (And no...I didn't know you could return a keg for a refund either.)

And this year, when I told her that the mighty University of Washington Basketball Team had a game on New Year's Eve, she seemed relieved and even excited that that was how we were going to spend the evening. It's like she has some fancy abacus that tells her precisely what everyone else in the world would like to do, turns it 90-degrees, lights it on fire, and then puts the fire out with a Diet Snapple and VOILA! Out pops what I'd like to do...and for some reason she goes along with it.

What a delightful human being.

It begs the question though...why do we have such a collective distaste for this non-holiday? For me it is a layered frustration. There are the superficial reasons that bother me and the deep-rooted truths that inspire pure hatred.

The superficial are just simple mistruths about New Year's Eve.

1. "I love champagne!" Well that's fantastic, slightly-overweight-girl-wearing-far-too-little-clothing. But that isn't champagne. It is cheap, American, sparkling wine. (And don't call me a wine snob. True--I've put a tremendous amount of time into researching the topic, but it doesn't take a Master of Wine certificate to know this, it just takes a viewing of "Wayne's World".)

2. "It's amateur night...don't want to deal with it." Funny how every person that utters this ridiculous cliche hasn't been out at a bar past midnight since "glee" was just an emotion. Isn't it probably time that people our age admit that we're the amateurs? You haven't drank this much since last New Year's Eve...they haven't drank this much since last night. I think by "It's amateur night...don't want to deal with it." I think you mean, "I just found a 2" grey hair growing out of my ear. Even if I had the energy to go, I wouldn't have the energy to enjoy it."

And most-importantly...

3. " I can't wait for New Years. It's my favorite holiday!" Where do I begin?
Let's start with simple grammar: You only put an "S" at the end of you "New Year" if it is possessive of something. Examples: "New Year's Eve" or "New Year's Day" or "New Year's Poop." Unless of course you're wishing me multiple "Happy New Years", which is possible, but completely illogical.
And on to factuality: New Year's Eve (otherwise known by the half-whitted as "New Years") is not a holiday. It is the night before a holiday. You don't get New Year's Eve off, you get New Year's Day off.
So not only is "New Years" not a holiday, if you refer to section a, you'll realize that it isn't even a noun. It is just nonsense.

May I move on to something more substantive?

It would hardly take Sigmund Freud to get to the bottom of Melissa and my collective intolerance for New Year's Eve. It absolutely stems from each of us spending a decade as a single person who was forced to publicly look forward to the night and privately dread it.

23-year-old couples are envious of single people. They see New Year's Eve as Hef's Mansion being imported to Denver or Dallas or wherever you happen to be for the night.
But when you're in your 30s, and have been through the battles yourself, you realize precisely how miserable the night is.

First there is the fear of being left alone.
Watch a New Year's Eve party sometime. At about 11:40, you'll see guys circling girls like Neptune orbiting the sun. Leaving space, but knowing that when the clock strikes midnight, you're the closest thing with a pulse and an Adam's Apple.
It's gross, really.
I guess at a party, you're with friends. Or at least a friend of a friend of a friend. If it really came down to it, you could get 3-4 tidbits of information on the person you just swapped spit with.

But at a bar?
Foul.
In the final moments of 2004, I had the strangest midnight of my life.
At 11:40, I start my orbit around a passibly-attractive girl that had come in our group but I'd only spoken to briefly.
But at midnight, a meteor whose orbit circles much closer to the mother-star swooped in and grabbed her away.
Stunned and confused, I froze.
And then out of nowhere, a stunningly attractive blonde appears in front of me, grabs me and plants one on me.
I shake it off and we exchange a smile. She says, "Hand me your phone", which was obviously code for "I'll give you my number."
She took the phone in her hands, looked me dead in the eye, and then bit the screen of the phone, shattering it and rendering the readout useless.

She did hand the phone back to me, so there was some positive that came from it.

If you're afraid of the bar scene, or the pressures at midnight, there is always a group of friends "getting a cabin somewhere" on New Year's Eve. This event is for the single person who has resigned on December 3rd that there isn't an amputee's chance in a boxing match that he's going to get a kiss at midnight.

There is a 6 bedroom cabin. There are 14 people. That means that you and the only other single person on the trip are sleeping on the couch. And that person's name is Evan.

It is either loneliness or a pretty significant life change.

Looking at the body of evidence, Your Honor, you can certainly understand why I would bear resentment toward New Year's Eve and yet another reason that I've found the perfect mate in Melissa.

Who knows?

In ten years, there is a chance that we let bygones be bygones with New Year's Eve and decide to go out and celebrate. But I'm guessing there is a greater likelihood that we'll use the advantages of the eastcoast feed of DirecTV and watch Carson Daly's balls drop at 9:00 Pacific Time. (And no, I am not being paid by DirecTV to write that.)

This blog is my voice in the wedding planning process and the journal of a man whose future is entirely planned and yet completely unpredictable. Share it with friends, family and anyone else who has Internet access and a love of the useless.

2011-12-20T17:57:00.000-08:00

Save the date.

Seems simple enough, right?

Here is the day we're getting married. Block it in your calendar. Book a hotel if you really want to plan. Get crazy and start thinking about which Chuck E. Cheese you're going to drop your kids off at, yelling, "Back in an hour!"...

But apparently it is slightly more complicated than that.

First you need a medium. A card. A magnet. An atomic clock. Something.

From there it just becomes a marketing plan. Drive them to your website. Sell the rooms in your room block. Get RSVPs on events so you can buy in bulk. And most-importantly, get them to the registry because those two-different-types-of-plates-that-look-exactly-the-same-but-are-for-totally-different-occasions-and-are-way-more-important-than-the-all-in-one-hot-dog-cooker-I-wanted-to-buy are not going to buy themselves!

In reality, none of those things are terribly challenging. Except that women actually care what things look like.

And there enlies the crux of male frustration.

It's the reason we have to pay $120 for a pair of jeans. The reason we have to wear belts with shorts. The reason I have five pillows on my bed that have never been saturated by my 2:30 AM drool because those pillows aren't for sleeping----they're for looks! (And that's a double F-U because they're called "throw pillows" and we're not even allowed to throw them!) (Make that triple because I haven't been allowed to build a fort in months!)

But it is the reason we love them. If women didn't make things pretty and make bathrooms smell like daisies, they'd just be dudes...and I don't have nearly enough bologna in my fridge to feed two dudes.

So because we love women we learn to be patient with them while they're looking at dozens of potential Save the Date cards and literally thousands of wedding website templates. We just pull out our smartphones and play Tetris until they come to a decision. It's what the cavemen did.

Obviously, I learned a few things. It is by no means a complete list, but it is a few things that every guy should know before beginning the process of selecting (or witnessing the selection of) a Save the Date.

1. "Orchid", "Lilac" and "Eggplant" are not plants. They are colors.
And not only are they colors, they are all purple. But they're different purples. And you can't mix purples. It's apparently a rule.

2. When choosing a website name, think about it before you press "accept"?
And I'm not referring to the "Dayton Ohio United Coalition of Health Educators" selecting their acronym for a web url. I'm referring to ignoring the fact that "melissaandian" as a part of any website has far too many "A's" to ever be inputted correctly.

3. If you're going to use your online photo site to search for pictures, delete albums with old girlfriends PRIOR to accessing the site with your fiancee.
This should be pretty self-explanatory. It's bad enough that you forget whether a conversation/experience you once had was with her or the other girl. Giving her a glimpse of the ex never ends favorably.
And do you really need to save those pictures? The new facebook is so invasive that you can actually press a button and watch your ex 24 hours a day.

You know...if you're into that sort of thing.

4. Sending Save the Dates that read "Black Tie" to people who aren't invited solely for the purpose of getting them to buy a tuxedo and then crushing their spirit by not inviting them is cruel.
But if you do it, I'll paint you into my "Wall of Heroes" alongside Mother Theresa, Abraham Lincoln and Billy Dee Williams.

5. Suggesting that you should use postcards instead of cards with envelopes to save money will only draw a response of "You cannot put a price on our love."
Well it would seem that you can in this case. The United States Postal Service has done it on our behalf. It is $.16 per unit. It's a hell of a deal.

6. Jokes about shortening "Save the Date" to "STD" are not nearly as funny as they seem in your mind.
So don't bother saying them outloud. Not even these:
-"I've received STDs from all of my closest friends."
-"I went downtown this morning and picked up an STD."
And my personal favorite...
-"Who would have thought that looking at Internet sites could give you an STD!?!?"

This blog is my voice in the wedding planning process. It is meant to be shared and would love to be published. For money. Lots and lots of money.

2011-12-15T17:45:00.000-08:00

Ten days until Christmas and counting...

Or as my mother would say "Ten Days" until Christmas and counting. You know, because later in her note she leaves a footnote indicating who once said "Ten Days" (and capitalized them no less!).

My last Christmas as a free man...which is a big deal.

And believe me--I've been taking advantage! On Tuesday I parked downtown and then started walking into office Christmas parties, spiking eggnog and slipping roofies into vegetable dips. Then I just stood by the wine table and waited for the magic to happen.

And of course, my only Christmas as an engaged man...which isn't such a big deal.

Really though. What significance is there to being engaged on Christmas? "Engaged Christmas" is literally the only section of Christmas cards that Hallmark is missing. What would those cards even say? "CONGRATS ON YOUR FIVE GOLDEN RINGS!" (**Note: This card is only for sale in Utah.)

Honestly, we're not even celebrating together. We've instructed Santa Claus to drop a few things off for us on the night of the 23rd and we'll have a pseudo-Christmas on the morning of the 24th, but in delaying the inevitable of attempting to coordinate family schedules, we've just decided to spend Christmas Day with our respective families. (A decision that is decidedly easier to make when your "respective families" live 3 blocks from one another and enjoy spending time together. I have little doubt that a cup of holiday cheer will be raised at some point that day.)

But it does have us looking forward.

Did I mention that our combined age on our wedding day will be 67.5? That means a couple of things: 1) I'm running out of chances to use my college ID to get a discount on movies and 2) there won't be a large portion of our marriage that is baby-free. So looking forward to what Christmas will look like in our future eventually devolves to a discussion of the traditions we'd like to have with our children someday.

And to no surprise, I'm willing to share that list with you:

-We will leave exactly 8 carrots out for the reindeer and make Santa Claus create his own version of "The Hunger Games" and determine which reindeer he's going to kill off on the flight to the next house.

-In lieu of an advent calendar, we'll give the kids a glass to drink. On the first day it will be water. On the second day, it will be 23 parts water, 1 part liquor. Third day? 22 parts water, 2 parts booze. You see where we're going--on Christmas day, my 5 year old son, Ichiro Tiger, and I will share a glass of Johnnie Walker while his sister, Anita Weddingringbeforeyou'reallowedtosomuchashugme, mixes herself a martini.

-We will never throw or attend "Ugly Sweater" Parties. We will however throw an annual "Ugly, Sweaty" Party.

-All of our gingerbread houses will have two bathrooms, so the gingerbread man of the house doesn't have to deal with the gingerbread woman's licorice hair in the bottle-cap sink.

-No boughs of holly. In fact--no boughs of anything.

-Our outdoor lighting will be entirely blue and white so our neighbors feel the need to bring us eight days of gifts and we're not expected to give them a thing.

-I guess it goes without saying that Santa will be getting lactose-free milk, because there is no way a man that old can process dairy.

-For Christmas dinner, unlike most modern, American heads-of-household, I will in fact carve at the table because I want my children to know that they are definitately eating an animal that was once alive and had parents and siblings that loved it.

-Because we don't have a chimney, I will leave the doors unlocked for Santa to come in. (My address is 511 13th Avenue, Seattle, WA 98119.)

-When writing letters to Santa Claus, we'll actually put stamps on them and put them in a real mail box instead of just dumping them in a box at Macy's. How dumb do you think kids are? Mr. Rogers explains mail-delivery on a daily basis, and I've never once heard of Mr. McFeelie working for free. THAT MAN GETS HIS DOLLAZ!

-If our kids are "naughty" we will absolutely give them coal in their stockings---and we will light that coal on fire!

-Instead of driving to the mall to have our kids take an annual picture with Santa Claus, we will take them to have their picture taken with Gilbert Gottfried.

-We will never, ever buy those ridiculous multi-colored candy canes. What communist came up with those things? Fact--less than ten percent of all candy canes are finished. When you make them taste like blueberry, lemon and baking soda, that percentage falls to roughly zero.

-Screw it. I'm hanging our stockings without an ounce of care. YOU CAN'T CONTROL ME!

-We will be the first family in history to put presents ON the tree...thereby finally making the song "I'll be Home for Christmas" logical.

-The kids will not be allowed to watch Christmas movies, but instead will watch the Christmas episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air where Boyz II Men save Christmas on repeat until they realize that acapella music is ghastly.

-We'll go caroling down the block every year, but will do so carrying burning stakes and encourage all of the townspeople to do the same. (Wait. Think about it. Got the image? Think "Shrek". ... ... ...getting there? Okay...now laugh amongst yourselves.)

-The kids will never be allowed to listen to the song "Christmas Shoes." I mean--read the stuff we're doing! We're going to have the best Christmas ever! Why would we ruin it with the most-depressing, completely-unfit-for-recording-and-replaying "Christmas" song in history???

But more than anything, I'm looking forward to celebrating Christmas with my wife-to-be and our two adorable, hypoallergenic children. Because it is really all about family...

This blog is my voice in the wedding planning process. It has little or nothing to do with marriage, weddings or anything of the like and is actually beginning to just be me ranting about things that I deem "stupid". Tell your friends!

2011-12-07T18:57:00.000-08:00

This thing is actually happening.

Before marriage, life is incredibly transactional. You buy "stuff" and you do "things" but you do so without a great deal of permanence. What has become the most-important thing in your life on a Tuesday is forgotten by Thursday and you're all the better for having experienced it.

Some of these purchases and experiences are more-significant than others.

I bought a condo two and half years ago.

I've moved state-to-state a few times.

I've dated girls, and one was even the motivation behind one of those state-to-state moves. (Two of those moves if you count the fact that I moved back a year later.)

In 8th-grade I saved up enough money to buy a stereo for my room (which I believe now provides the soundtrack for my father's garage.)

I have a bathing suit that is stained brown from swimming above a hot spring in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

My friend Bryan and I once played craps for 8 straight hours in Lake Tahoe and despite never making a bet larger than $5, came home with a combined $2,500 in our pockets.

But in the end, none of these things had consequence. None had permanence. I thought twice about all of them, but just kind of "did it" in the end.

I don't mean to imply that I'm having doubts. I'm not. And it isn't cold feet--in fact that expression makes absolutely no sense. Cold feet? HUH? When I get nervous, my feet sweat like Ruben Studdard in a Bikram Yoga class.

It's just that I'm getting married...and that's kind of a big thing, you know?

A handful of my friends called me to tell me that they booked their hotel rooms for the wedding (despite it being 11 months from now).  Wait---people are actually going to come to this thing?!? That's a lot of pressure!

On Friday, Melissa is ordering her dress. As the groom and a guy who has absolutely no patience for this type of thing, I have nothing to do with it.  But apparently a big deal for her.
For most of life, men and women live independent, but balanced lives. In this case, men don't really have a paralleled experience. The closest thing I could come up with was in Little League when your dad drove you to the sporting goods store to buy your first jock and cup. And I guess in a few ways, they are pretty similar:

-White is your only color-option.
-It isn't comfortable, but is absolutely necessary.
-Renting one is kind of gross.
-When you wear it, all of your best friends are standing next to you in matching outfits.
-It gives you the feeling that everyone is staring at you.
-When it actually comes time to wear the thing, you think to yourself, "MY GOD! PLEASE LET THIS BE THE ONLY TIME I HAVE TO WEAR ONE OF THESE THINGS!!!!"

Each step in the process is yet another step toward the inevitable. When I proposed, we set our intentions. When we booked the venue, it became clear that whether we got married or not, someone was going to pay for it! When people booked rooms, it was evident that all of the people I care about most were going to watch me slosh down the aisle with my sweaty, Ruben Studdard feet. And now she's buying a dress??? Good Lord! There's no "you could wear it to book club and stuff if you don't get a chance to wear it at a wedding..."

I guess my transactional mind is just having a tough time making sense of it all. I love Melissa. I can't wait to marry her. I can't wait to have kids. I can't wait to spend the rest of our lives together. I'm just realizing at some point next fall, there is going to be a Monday morning where we wake up and pour cereal out of the same box---a box we each own 50% of.  That moment marks the end of the 6 hour "LOOK AT US!"-fest that is a wedding and begins an actual marriage. And if that concept doesn't scare the crap out of you, then you aren't human!

I think that's why women go into depression after their wedding. They spend a year planning out every detail of how they're going to act like a princess for an afternoon...and then they wake up the next day with a guy who smells like cheese.

Why this all struck me on an unsuspecting Wednesday, I have no idea. I just know I've got eleven months to figure out how to go through the rest of my life without smelling like cheese.

This thing is actually happening. Holy &*#@!

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process. If you like it, please share it. If you don't, please share it anyway...your friends may not be as negative and empty-souled as you.

2011-12-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

Well despite the German Inquisition going some directions that none of us were quite prepared for, we all managed to survive Thanksgiving Week. In fact, as a general rule, The German was the most uniformally-agreeable person in the room. Sure, he was on his best behavior and we really don't know him very well, and we were all so blind drunk that his face looked like a fluffy, smiling cloud, but he did well.

We accomplished a few things wedding-wise:
-Her parents finally saw the venue and approved.
-We got a second crack with the onsite-event planner and didn't want to kill her.
-And most importantly, Melissa's dad managed to get me upgraded to a suite the night before the wedding.

With all of that complete, we realized that while we're still about 11 months away from the last time I ever get to wear the same pants four days in a row, that we'd better start making some detailed decisions.

-Melissa seems to have found a dress. (We'll have more on that later I'm sure.)

-The bridesmaids dresses are soon to follow.

-There are pictures that need to be taken. (We took a few for Save the Dates...that's an entry in and of itself.)

-And everything else. Florists. DJs. Linens. Booze. All of it.

But I've realized that we really can't do most of those things until we finally decide who the hell we're going to invite.

It seems like a simple process.

But it isn't.

I've mentioned this before, but the charming persona I've kept up over the past ten years (polite in formal situations, well-dressed, straight, single, willing to dance, good with old people...and did I mention single?) has afforded me roughly 60 wedding invitations. And 60 people wouldn't be a problem, but as it turns out, most of those people did not marry themselves and will actually be requiring two plates of macaroni and ketchup be served to them...

And that doesn't include the single people.

Or family.

Or coworkers.

Or my parents' friends.

Or people I just happen to like.

Or (oh yeah!) Melissa's invites.

It's a tough decision. There are people who will read this that will take offense to being excluded, but it isn't personal. Well...yes, it is extraordinarily personal, but it doesn't mean that I don't like you. It just means...well...your team is going to the NIT this year.

(Most of you don't understand that joke, but believe me, it is hilarious.)

As you may have noticed by now, I like to think through things that have no bearing on real life. I spent roughly 20 minutes studying in my four years of college, but have spent nights lying awake in bed thinking about which of the traps in the final scene of Home Alone 2 would have killed the Sticky Bandits and which would have just hurt...

I don't know why, but things have to make sense to me. So instead of evaluating people person-by-person, I tried to create some criteria to slowly trim the list down.

Here goes:

To determine my portion of the invite-list, I started by writing down every person that is even loosely involved with my everyday life. That left me with...

528 people.

Eliminate every girl (and guy) I've ever been romantically-involved with...

396 people.

Wipeout everyone that I haven't spoken to in the past year...

341 people.

Delete anyone who voted for Ralph Nader in a Presidential election...

338 people.

Scrub people who aren't pregnant but still refuse to drink at the reception...

291 people.

And those who are pregnant but will still drink at the reception...

288 people.

Cut out Neil Patrick Harris and his date because I don't actually know him or know where to send an invitation...

286 people.

Trim anyone who still listens to Dave Matthews...

257 people.

And we can't have anyone from Canada...

250 people.

Should probably cut any coworkers who have ever used the "Are you working hard or hardly working?" line...

239 people.

Same goes for coworkers who I outwardly hate...

238 people.

I really don't want anyone there of Welsh-descent, because screw them...

231 people.

There's that one chick who still has the dancing baby from Ally McBeal as her facebook picture...

230 people.

We can't have people who haven't seen Hoosiers...

212 people.

Roommates who have stolen from me...

154 people.

(No...that's about right.)

Melissa really doesn't care for that guy who always belches his hellos/goodbyes to her...

153 people.

Delete anyone who has ever ordered Dr. Pepper at a restaurant with less than 4 locations...

144 people.

Nix the people who will be offended by our "pants-optional" cocktail hour...

129 people.

I really don't want my friend's mom who "likes" everything I post on facebook...

128 people.

Probably best if I don't invite anyone who knows "The Garbage Bag Story"...

116 people.

Anyone from the westcoast that I've ever seen willingly drinking whole milk...

105 people.

My neighbor, Frank...I don't even know how he got on the list...

104 people.

Better add back on anyone I've cut who is still telling OJ Jokes...

108 people.

That couple that will camp the night before the wedding and then ask to use my room to shower in...

106 people.

I guess I can't include Melissa's ex-husband...

105 people.

The Bulls will probably have a game that night...

93 people.

It's going to be annoying when they see that there is a Vegetarian option for food, but are curious as to whether there is a Vegan option...

89 people.

He won't come if he can't bring a date...

88 people.

He won't come if he has to bring a date...

86 people.

They always buy those gifts that aren't really gifts, but actually burdens, like a plant or a cat or a baby...

78 people.

Won't travel on planes because they recently watched La Bamba...

72 people.

Our wedding is the same weekend as the Seattle Renaissance Fair...

40 people.

Women who encourage their female friends to cut their hair into bangs saying "it looks so cute!" when they know that it looks absolutely ridiculous and they just want their friends to look terrible so they look better by comparison...

30 people.

Men who do the same...

29 people.

Everyone who says things like "Let's cheers!" or "We did a cheers!" when they really mean "Let's toast!" or "We did a toast!". You know, because "cheers" is an exclamation, not a noun...

2 people.

Yep! Eloping it is!

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process. It does not represent the views of the Coca-Cola Company, though I can't imagine why you'd think it would. Tell your friends...I'm sure they have nothing better to do.

2011-11-21T11:55:00.000-08:00

It's Thanksgving Week.

Since my parents decided to spend my potential inheritance on a winter home in the Palm Desert-area about four years ago, I've taken advantage and taken the week off to join them in the sun for the week.

I'm not going to lie. It's a pretty good lifestyle.

I wake up at 6 AM (because I went to bed at 8) and go to hot yoga. (For those of you who haven't tried hot hatha or "Bikram" yoga, it was invented by someone who was sitting around one day and said, "I've tried to give myself a heart-attack by over-excercising. I've tried to give myself a heart-attack by eating artichokes and mayonnaise at every meal. How can I create an activity where I can try to give myself a heart-attack by sitting completely still." Voila! Hot yoga.)
From there it gets much easier.
Nine o'clock lingering breakfast.
At the pool by 9:30.
3 or 4 naps.
Hit the driving range around 2:30.
Cocktails at 4.
Light dinner at 6.
Out cold at 8 PM.

Fantastic.

But with the whole "pending wedding" thing...and a pending wedding that is going to take place about 3 miles from the pool I'm sitting at right now, we decided to invite my new in-laws to join us for the week to celebrate the holiday, do some wedding planning and celebrate my soon-to-be sister-in-law's birthday.

So tomorrow I drive to the airport and pick up the ol' in-laws.

The in-laws.

I love the term. It's like a racial slur applied to family. And because of that, I'm going to refer to them as such throughout this post. But let's be honest--I have it about as good as anyone possibly can. I've known my future in-laws for more than a decade and had a great relationship with them well before I knew a few cocktails and a city where she didn't know anyone would convince their youngest daughter to go out with me. (And they're one of my parents' closest friends. They've stayed here half a dozen times. So we really don't have to worry about them getting along...)

But we're all still settling into the concept of post-marriage family dynamics and this week is going to have its fair share of intrigue.

Most-notably, my future-sister-in-law (who I'll hereby refer to as "Aretha" because I can) is bringing her boyfriend of about six months, who has yet to meet the her family. And he's from Germany, so while he may be used to the inevitable abuse of alcohol at American holidays, we're not sure if he's ready for the complete madness that is Thanksgiving Day.

In fact there's a lot we're not sure of. Which will make it that much more-interesting for me to predict exactly how the day will go...which I will do now:

THANKSGIVING DAY

9:35 I pick Melissa up at the airport (she's had to work all week) where I'm guessing she'll greet me with a kiss and then ask why I'm dressed so casually. I'll respond, "Because it's 9:30 in the morning and I'm on vacation?" To which she'll sneer and likely stab me.

10:18 We arrive at our wedding venue because Melissa wants to check it out again before she starts picking out vendors. Also, Aretha and The Boyfriend are meeting us there so The Boyfriend doesn't have to meet the entire team alone. I imagine our introduction to go like this:
Me: "Hey, I'm Ian."
The Boyfriend: "Hi, I'm The Boyfriend."
Me: "So...World War II huh?"

11:02 Realizing we don't have much to do at the wedding venue, we drive to my parents house. We tread water in the driveway so Aretha and The Boyfriend can hit the door first. Poor bastard...

11:06 I grab The Boyfriend a much-needed beer. He sneers at my horrendous, American taste in frosty malted beverages, shrugs and downs half of the bottle in one pull. (I'm hoping that's enough to get him through the first 45 minutes. If he runs outside to shoot up heroin, I think it means it isn't going well...)

11:41 Having grown tired of the awkward pleasantries, I pour myself a beer and head to the pool. Melissa follows and Aretha/The Boyfriend head to their rooms to change their clothes.

11:44 I'm heartbroken when the boyfriend walks out in normal trunks. I was really hoping for some awful Speedo or one of those amazing, full-body Bugs Bunny numbers.

12:01 I start complaining that I haven't eaten in three hours and my mom decides its time to pull out some appetizers. My dad mentioned this the other day--how can we possibly call them appetizers at Thanksgiving? They should really be referred to as "Meal One" because you ingest a minimum of 1,200 calories of chips, summer sausage and various dips. (Not to mention a veritable plethora of dairy-based foods that will ensure that I'm on the toilet for the entire Christmas season.) The women go inside to help...and decide they ought to start drinking too. Keep this moment fresh in your mind.

1:42 The food has kept coming and we're all completely full but continue to eat because a) the food is there and b) if we're eating we don't have to talk, and if we don't have to talk we can postpone the inevitable shock that stems from Melissa's family realizing that my mom makes rice-based stuffing, when everyone in the world prefers bread-based.

2:09 The Boyfriend pretends to enjoy American football so he can come inside and avoid Melissa and my mother asking him questions like, "So what is the ketchup like in Germany?"

2:42 I'm about four and a half beers deep and decide that if I'm going to hit all of the booze-groups, I'd better skip to scotch. I ask The Boyfriend if he wants to join me in the endeavor and he asks if we have some liquor that I've never heard of, I say "No" and he settles for a gin and tonic.

2:51 Melissa wakes up from her nap that began roughly eleven seconds after she finished her first drink and realizes that she hasn't made the two appetizers that she'd promised to. Feeling tremendous guilt, she labors into the kitchen, breaking up the flow of the other three (much more culinarily-inclined) women and makes her appetizers.

2:59 Feeling guilty that Melissa went to eight minutes of work, we all manage to slide three 'lil smokies down our throats and even crack a smile insodoing. They're delicious, but if we try to eat a fourth, either our hearts or our stomachs are going to explode instantly.

3:38 The turkey is out of the oven, and the males return from hunting game and fending off attacks from rival tribes and begin to circle the kitchen. We know that dinner isn't for 22 minutes, but if we position ourselves properly, our suddenly empty-feeling bellies may be lucky enough to grab the first bite of a meat so loaded with tryptophan it could make an Evangelical Christian sleep comfortably in a bath-house.

3:49 My father instructs me to open all of the wine. I did so about 30 minutes ago and The Boyfriend and I have been slamming down chardonnay like Gatorade, leaving us one taste of red wine away from completing the booze-pyramid and ensuring our livers will not outlast the leftovers.

4:07 Seven minutes late, we sit down at the table. My mom instructs me to give the blessing, which I stumble through without cursing.

4:08 Having prepared questions in advance, my mother takes this opportune moment to ask The Boyfriend what his family traditions were for "German Thanksgiving."

4:21 I'm settling into seconds and Melissa's family is realizing why my father and I passed on the "Lime Party Salad." (For those of you who weren't raised in an Armenian family--or a trailer-park--Lime Party Salad is like a lime Jell-o mold with fruit, but at somepoint in the elaborate preparation, cream cheese is mixed in. It has the consistency of cheesecake and tastes a lot like feet.)

(I'm writing this as a guess as to what will happen and am oddly feeling remorse and making plans as to how were' going to resolve the situation. It's fiction, Ian. Relax.)

4:42 Melissa's father unbuttons his top button and tosses his napkin on the table, signifying his surrender. I decide it is a good time to pour myself my 3rd glass of pinot noir, which splashes around the table setting a bit, but reaches the glass for the most part. One big gulp and I look at The Boyfriend and start grilling him, insisting that he grew up with Augustus Gloop. He has no idea what I'm talking about and Melissa reaches for the butter so she can permanently remove her engagement ring.

5:20 Melissa's dad and my dad team up on the dishes as I continue to down mid-priced wine like I'm having a blood-of-Christ transfusion.

5:36 Dishes complete, everyone retires to their bedroom. The Boyfriend and I are splitting the back bedroom, which is uncomfortable for two men with a combined age of 71. We have separate beds and everything, but there is no door on the bathroom. I'm excited to meet the guy, but I don't need to see that...

5:53 All excited to watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, a tradition that my mother always presents to company as though we're the only family that has ever seen it, my mom rushes out of her bedroom. No problem, except that she's changed into her leapord-print flannel pajamas. The Boyfriend looks at his watch and confirms that, yes, it is before six.

6:32 I have the hiccups, so my dad cuts me off. I tell him I'm fine. Melissa would be getting annoyed with me, but she left for the airport about ninety minutes ago in disgust.

6:49 After asking the entire room if they just saw the scene of a movie that we've all seen nine hundred twenty-six times, we give an obligatory laugh. She's been sober since three, but I'm the only person who knows that.

7:02 My mom is asleep in the floor and Melissa's dad's eyes are starting to close. Meanwhile, The Boyfriend is cooking sausages and doing the Chicken Dance.

7:10 Aretha proposes that we go into town and look at Christmas lights, but we're all far too intoxicated to drive and 3/4 asleep. Dissappointed, her and The Boyfriend go for a walk around the neighborhood and are attacked by a pack of coyotes.

7:28 My phone rings and Boris Becker (The Boyfriend's emergency contact) is on the phone. The hospital had phoned them after a neighbor called an ambulance after the coyote attack. With mom still asleep, my dad stays behind as the three of us (remember--Melissa is somewhere over Reno) drive to the ER.

7:48 They're fine, save a few scratches, but this is our third consecutive Thanksgiving with someone in the Emergency Room. Two years ago, Alaska Airlines almost made an emergency-landing with me continually vomiting and fainting during the flight. Keep in mind, this is during the Swine Flu scare, so needless to say, I was a popular seat-mate! An ambulance took me to the ER where I was pumped with fluids and anti-nausea meds. Turns out I'd eaten uncooked turkey. Three hours later, my friend Olin showed up at the ER to pick me up (having been called by my parents) and the doctor walked in at the same time as him.
Doctor: "Oh, you're looking much better!"
Olin: "HE IS?!?"
Last year, our friend Jessica had an allergic reaction during Meal One. We don't know what the reaction was to because a year later, she still hasn't had an allergy test and still won't admit that Barack Obama has been a terrible President.

9:04 Melissa lands in Seattle and calls her mom to tell her that she left her book on the counter. Her mom asks if she wants to talk to me. She says no. Can't blame her.

9:12 After a long day of introductions, alcohol, force-fed appetizers, awkward questions, early bedtimes and coyote attacks, we all fall asleep in our respective bedrooms.

9:19 I find out that The Boyfriend is a snorer. No problem...I'll just suffocate him with this pillow.

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process. In no way does it represent the outstanding character of my fiancee, her family and presumably her sister's new boyfriend. It does represent my parents' character, because they raised the jackass who wrote it.

2011-11-15T18:51:00.000-08:00

I travel quite a bit for work.

I guess "quite a bit" is entirely relative.

I am in 2-3 different cities most weeks.

Generally I stay in the Pacific Northwest (my sales territory), but occasionally I'm called elsewhere in the country for meetings and conferences.

I'm lucky. Despite a lot of plane trips, I'm normally only gone 3-4 nights/month, which is just enough to keep Melissa from forgetting who I am.

The funny thing about business-travel (particularly air-travel) is that people who have never done it assume a certain sense of glamour about it, as though meetings are conducted at famous tourist destinations and tour buses cart you from client to client. Melissa traveled as an actor for years, but gets a strange jealosy at times when I tell her I've just checked in to the Holiday Inn Express in Spokane!

But what people don't realize is that it doesn't matter what town I'm in. It's just another Holiday Inn. Another inauthentic Thai restaurant. Another conference room. Another Cab. Another Shuttlebus.

I've been to Washington DC, New York and Dallas...but I haven't really experienced any of them.

For example:
This is my sixth week that I've spent in "Boston" this year (as my company is based here) and I haven't spent a single solitary minute in Boston. I land at the airport. Cab to my hotel about 30 minutes outside of town. Sleep. Catch a shuttle to the office. Rinse and repeat.

In fact--I'd go so far as to say that business travelers are the least-informed travelers going. If they "see the sights" they see the most-cliched sites the city has to offer. They don't dress for the climate. They just live in their air-conditioned bubble of an existince. But when someone asks them what they think of St. Louis, they say, "Oh I love St. Louis...I've got a big client there. Go there all of the time..." God forbid someone asks the follow-up question, "Oh really? I'm headed there next week and need a restaurant reccommendation." (Let's see...which Outback/Applebees should I direct them to?)

My flight into Boston today was an hour early, which is a shade shy of a miracle, so I was able to get to my sterile hotel environment well ahead of the planned dinner at a restaurant I could best describe as "The Olive Garden". But because we landed so early, our gate wasn't quite ready for us and I had to listen to two dumbening conversations from business travelers about the Boston-area.

Conversation I:
Woman: "I'm going to sleep as soon as I get to the hotel."
Male coworker: "Oh come on! We're in Boston! We've got to go out for some chowder!" (Pauses---and I couldn't see him, but we can all picture him in that weird preparation-for-a-bad-impression-stance that people put on) "Or easssss they saaay heeea in Boo-ahston, 'CHOWDA!'." (Laughs uproriously at his own joke.) (And you know that if this exchange were done over text-message, this half-whit would have finished his statement with "LOL!!!!"...)

Conversation 2:
Woman: "Oh I know Boston sports well. My daughter, you know, the one who went to Tufts? Her boyfriend is a member of Red Sox Nation."
Really? Red Sox Nation? As though that's an actual organization that someone can be a part of?

And yes. We ALL remember your daughter who went to Tufts. You mean the one who plays softball and decided whether she was going to play at Colorado College or Tufts. Remember? You told that story in repititon for the first 45 minutes of the flight when I was trying to use the quart of Nyquil I drank as a means to fall asleep, but couldn't because of your endless stories? Her? Yes, I remember her.

(And oh by the way, Ma'am. Your daughter played SOFTBALL and decided between COLORADO COLLEGE and TUFTS. By "your daughter's boyfriend" do you mean, "Your daughter's girlfriend?")

Okay.

So in an attempt to save my brain from further bludgeoning, I began to think about the fact this these exact exchanges are going on in every airport in America, with business travelers offering a little friendly local knowledge, when their cultural experience in that town reaches the depth of a kiddie pool. Helen Keller could paint a better picture of life in these towns, but because Delta Flight 439 happens to land there to close the big Jacobson deal, suddenly we're experts??

Think about it:

In New York, Chet from Dallas is telling a coworker that they've got to "grab a slice" and he's doing so with loud, pronounced usage of the F-word.
That's right, business travelers believe that New York City is New Jersey.

In Chicago, (pardon me, "Chicaaaaaaaaaaaago") Jeff from Tampa is making his big plans to "grab an Old Style and a dog at Wrigley" because "my client and I are both HUGE Cubs fans."
Oh you are? Are you a member of Cubs Nation?

In San Francisco, Angela in Accounts Receivable from Westchester is "soooooo excited" to be staying in Fisherman's Wharf.
I've never lived in San Francisco, but I've quite easily spent a year of my life in the city over dozens upon dozens of trips. And do you know who stays in Fisherman's Wharf, Angela? Hicks. That's who stays there, Angela.
(Be happy you're seated next to Angela and not Doug on the same flight. Doug just made an inference that he "couldn't live in San Francisco", which is inadequate, straight male for a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure of gay slurs.)

In Baltimore, Eric from Albany just made a reference to Marlo Stanfield from The Wire.
Well...actually that was pretty sweet. I wish I was sitting next to Eric.

In San Antonio, Stefan from Portland hears "Dick's Last Resort on the River Walk is a great place."
Do you now, Stefan? In a city that is about 270,000 square miles, you chose the 1/2 mile that every conference-attendee in the world is thrust upon? And at that, you chose the cliched, obnoxious restaurant that is so exclusive that it is in the cliched part of a dozen towns beyond this one? Let me guess, your favorite Jimmy Buffet song is "Margaritaville"? And you're not big into Neil Diamond, but love "Sweet Caroline"?

So no, Honey. I'm not "having fun" on my trip to Eugene, Oregon. It's just work.

And if on your next trip, you're being guided around town by a guy who opens his laptop within 3 seconds of the 10,000 feet bell ringing on the plane, just remember that business travel is merely a means of getting the job done. (And allowing salesmen around the country to get 24 hour reprieves from their families whenever their favorite client has time to meet for lunch.)

2011-11-06T18:18:00.000-08:00

Facts:
-My fiancee was in New York for the weekend.
-I attended the opening game of the season for the University of Washington's basketball team Friday night.
-A friend of mine flew in for 24 hours to join me for the final football game at Husky Stadium, matching my beloved University of Washington and the hated (his beloved) University of Oregon.
-I had roughly 40 fifths of liquor in my liquor cabinet.
-This was potentially be the last weekend (save my bachelor party) that I'm on my own until I get married.

On the surface, this looks like the ultimate mess of a "bro-weekend".

But what is a "bro-weekend"?
It's odd that the model for "bro-dom" has become a character, Barney Stinson of How I Met Your Mother, that is played by a gay man. Now don't get me wrong--I love the gays. And the idea of a bro-weekend with a few of my favorite gays actually sounds fantastic. Some of you may be skeptical of that, but think about it. Eat at phenomenal restaurants all weekend, drink cocktails that actually taste good rather than just being "tough", not have to listen to a single story about a chick who one of your buddies "totally could have got with" but didn't, and then go out to a bar where you're instantly swarmed by dozens of beautiful women you've never met who hug you, kiss you and hang all over you because they know you're not a threat. Now THAT is a bro-weekend!

But I digress...

For as long as I can remember, but particularly since Barney Stinson entered our scope, guys are expected whenever they have a "hall pass" to eat garbage, drink gasoline-flavored beverages, watch sports and oggle women into the early hours of the morning.

But that's TV, not reality.
And this is my journal. My diary. My device for inputting my inner-most thoughts and sharing them with only me. (And anyone else that I can convince to read them.) So it is time to be honest.

I'm 31.

I go to bed at 9:15 and can't eat dairy.

I'm no longer the immune, invinsible, alcoholic superhero that I was in my early-twenties.

If this were TV...
The mantra for this weekend would have been "live every moment to its fullest."
In teality...
The mantra for the weekend was "live every moment."

If this were TV...
This weekend would have been running in parallel to those two guys who break off from a bachelor party from midnight until 9 AM and have a night that they'd tell you about if they remembered a moment of it.
In reality...
This weekend ran in parallel to those two guys who break off from a bachelor party from midnight until 9 AM and...sleep. And then get up early for 30 minutes on the elliptical machine and a mocha.

If this were TV...
Friday's basketball game would have been preceded by a burrito and 4 beers, and then followed by 11 more beers and a few Jager Bombs to ensure that we could make it all the way to last call.
In reality...
Friday's basketball game was preceded by a hearty salad and an iced tea, and then followed by a a few emails and a restful sleep. (I don't even know when last call is anymore? Are bars open past 10:30?)

If this were TV...
I would have awakened 30 minutes before Eddie's flight was due in, slammed down some Pepto Bismol with a Tylenol chaser and headed for the airport about 20 minutes late.
In reality...
I set my alarm for 6:15 and got my P90X Kenpo workout in, followed by a smoothie and a nice bowel movement. I made a quick stop at Starbucks where I was caught singing "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" in an opera voice by the guy in the car next to me, and then headed for the airport for a perfectly-timed pickup.

If this were TV...
I would have picked Eddie up at the airport Saturday morning with a flask on the passenger seat and headed straight to a bar for a greasy breakfast, 3 beers and 4-5 trips to the men's room.
In reality...
I picked up Eddie with a Starbucks, grande Pike Place Roast in the passenger seat and headed to the Sports Authority, because these evening football games can get chilly and we need some warm clothes!

If this were TV...
The morning-party would have continued to my place, where 5-7 dudes would be over to kill 4 cases of Bud Light as we flipped between 5-6 football in preparation for the game we're headed to later...
In reality...
The morning-party continued at my place where......the two of us enjoyed a delightful chicken breast sandwich that I put together, sipped on a scotch and then fell asleep on opposite ends of the couch about 6 minutes into a game we barely had a fleeting interest in.

If this were TV...
We'd have lined up beers to shotgun, and do so every time Vern Lundquist says, "WOW!" during the Alabama-LSU game.
In reality...
One of us told a story about one time where we shotgunned beers...and then we realized that the Alabama-LSU game is not in the traditional 12:30 Pacific Timeslot, but rather at 5:00 PM when we'll be tailgating for our game.

If this were TV...
I'd think my parents and their friends were weird for bringing red wine and caviar to a tailgate because THOSE AREN'T TAILGATING FOODS!
In reality...
I think my parents and their friends are weird for bringing red wine and caviar to a tailgate because RED WINE DOESN'T PAIR WITH CAVIAR!

If this were TV...
A 7:30 PM football game meant we had the whole day to prefunction.
In reality...
A 7:30 PM football game meant that my first nap came before 11:00 on Sunday.

If this were TV...
We would have been so drunk before the game that we would have been shirtless with our chests painted, and one of us would have been caught on TV by their inlaws.
In reality...
It was 38-degrees at gametime and I was wearing the more layers than Jeremy Renner wore in The Hurt Locker.

If this were TV...
I would have awakened with bloodstains on my carpet from some mystery injury I had acquired the night before.
In reality...
I awoke with five throw-pillows on the carpet. Five. Throw pillows.

And yes, they match the rest of the room.

WARNING TO WOMEN WHO ARE PREGNANT OR DESIRE TO BECOME PREGNANT:
The closing remarks of today's post are so repulsive to women that reading them may result in sterility.

Our only saving grace was after the game. We got home at about 11:45, and based on the way the rest of the weekend went, we would have high-fived about the clocks being set back and getting an extra hour of sleep.
But we finally bro'd out.

I poured us each a glass of scotch that was old enough to vote and we sat on the couch and played video games. And none of these new video games. We played NCAA Football 2005 for my Playstation 2. A game that has not left that console since I bought it.
And we even made it interesting. (Though...not interesting to women.)
Having played the game roughly 311,000 times in the 6 years I've owned the game, I had a decided advantage over Eddie. I was up 35-0 at halftime of the UW-Oregon rematch (he had 11 total yards) and we decided to reset. We conducted a socialization experiment and had Alcorn State play Harvard in a matchup of schools that EA Sports apparently believes are still operating under Jim Crowe. Again...I dominated. Up 28-0 at half.

But the final reset was the winner. I poured another round of scotch and he led the 2005 National Champion Texas Longhorns (with Vince Young, Cedric Benson and the like) to a 21-0 lead over me and......the Naval Academy...before I charged back and kicked a field goal with no time remaining to win 24-21.

We even stayed up until 2:00! (The clock said 1:00 because of Daylight Savings Time...but we knew better. We totally bro'd the hell out of that clock!)

This blog is my voice in the wedding planning process and the cursory view of the thoughts that every man goes through as he prepares for marriage. I appreciate your reading and sharing with others. Please search for my "Fan Page" on facebook at "A Groom's Diary" and follow me on Twitter @agroomsdiary.

2011-11-02T19:04:00.000-07:00

This little journal has become a meandering metaphor for my life.

What began as a well-intentioned chronicling of the joys and strains of the soon-to-be-married man has devolved into a sarcastic joke that one in ten people understand. Just like everything else I've ever done.

Well let this passage be a diversion from what has become that takes as back to what was intended.

It was a rough weekend.
Sometime late last week, Melissa started to get a dull headache and had terrible light-sensitivity. A trip to the doctor Friday and she thought things had improved. But by Saturday morning, what was a painful annoyance and spiraled into an all-consuming, crippling level of pain.

She couldn't handle the lights being on. The pain had turned from dull to throbbing. And now she was getting physically-ill.

Like most guys, with the exception of training my son to be the next great Major League outfielder, I didn't really fantasize about my life as a husband and father when I was young. And when I did give it a fleeting thought, it was us being at a party and showing off my hot, stripper wife and pointing to her left hand, saying, in the words of 20th-century philospher Homer Simpson, "You see this? It means that she is my property and I own her!"

I never imagined that the moments where the greatest sense of love are not the the grand entrances into a ballroom where everyone sits in awe of how great your life is, but instead moments like this, where you're watching my soon-to-be-wife in a pain and sickness so severe that she has been leveled to complete helplessness. And in a way that you'd never do for yourself, you know that you are going to do everything you possibly can to make the situation better.

But let's be honest: I'm just a dude.

I'm no hero--though I do enjoy wearing tights and entering rooms with my hands on my hips and chest/crotch thrust forward.

And I'm certainly no doctor--though I do have roughly 73 tubes of Neosporin, because in the rare event that I cut myself, I am never certain whether I have any in the medicine cabinet.

So like most mortal men, I did what i could--I got her a towel to cover her eyes from the low light of a Seattle winter and I drove her to the emergency room.

I think just being there, with doctors and nurses on the ready made things better.

For her.

I didn't know how to react. All I knew was that despite describing the pain in her head as a "10/10" and her nausea level at a "9/10", she was smiling and joking with the nurse who was checking her in. And I was sitting back in the periphery, thinking of the absolute worst.

And the doctor didn't help. (ME that is!)

Sure--he doped her up like a Taipai prostitute, but carefully laid out with me the absolute worst things that could be going on in her dome.

"TUMOR"? Seriously? It's just a headache!

"ANEURYSM"? No way...that doesn't seem right.

"SHE'S ACTUALLY A MUPPET"? My God they're making them life-like these days...

But Melissa was completely calm. "We're going to take you in for CT Scan." "No problem."
She let the nurse unplug a few chords (thankfully that didn't kill her!) and roll her drugged-up bones over to the room down the hall.

And I was left.
Alone.

Don't they realize who is really agonizing here? Sure--sure is in pain, but I'm freaking out. I finally have a glimpse of what those once-homeschooled-types who say ridiculous things like "we're pregnant" are feeling, because right now I feel like "we've" got a migraine! And potentially worse!

And now I've got a two-item to-do list that I'm not looking forward to:
1. Figure out what a CT Scan is. I know they do them on HOUSE a lot, but that doesn't exactly put me at ease.
Okay, thank you Google. It is basically an MRI for your head. Well...not really...but sort of. Whatever it is--it will give the doctor some pictures and hopefully he'll say she's okay, we can grab a prescription and head home.
2. And this is the difficult one...
Like any sane individual, I realize that there is virtually no chance that there is something seriously wrong with her, but like any individual who has seen way too many romantic comedies, I'm immediately wondering which type of widower I'm going to be. Will I be a cool, hardass widower like Tom Hanks in "Sleepless in Seattle"? Or will I be the sobbing, helpless widower like Liam Neeson in "Love Actually"?
I'd love to say the former, but I think we all know that I'd be going through Kleenex a 16-year-old girl trying to fill out a prom dress.

She's back.
That was fast.
And the CT Scan looks fine, so I can return to fantasizing about being "Star Wars" Liam Neeson, instead of his sobbing, melodramatic counterpart in "Love Actually."

And now she's out.
And when I say she's out, I mean, SHE. IS. OUT. I don't know what is flowing through that IV, but I'm guessing drinking down a pint of it and checking out a laser show would be absolutely bitchin.

An hour of checking college football scores on my phone silently, as she sits in a drug-induced cat-nap, and Melissa wakes up for a second. Feeling like I'm about to start eating my pants I'm so hungry, I tell her that I'm going to walk to one of the dozens of restaurants nearby and get lunch. (A conversation I'm 100% certain that she has no recollection of.)

Next door at the Thai place, I was relieved to finally get some food and feeling good about the fact that the worst of Melissa's pain seemed to be over. I tell the waitress that I'm in a hurry, so I give her my order and my credit card and off we go.

But I'm sitting there at the table, trying not to eavesdrop into the conversation of an old Asian man who is belching mid-sentence and another Asian man who seems to be his son and I hear it:

"What Sarah Said."

Now if you weren't a Peet's Coffee/Apple store hipster in the middle of the last decade and aren't familiar with the works of Death Cab for Cutie, "What Sarah Said" is a lovely song about sitting in the ICU, waiting for someone to die. I'd make an analogy, but it really doesn't do the lyrics justice. They are as follows:

And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time.
As I stared at my shoes in the ICU, that reeked of piss and 409.
And I rationed my breath as I said to myself that I'd already taken too much today.
As each descending peak of the LCD took you a little further away from me.
Away from me.

Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines, in a place where we only say goodbye.
It struck like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds.
But I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside it all.
And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground as the TV entertained itself.

'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room.
Just nervous faces bracing for bad news.
And then the nurse comes around and everyone lifts their heads.
But I'm thinking of what Sarah Said. That "love is watching someone die."

So who's going to watch you die?

Needless to say, the short-term enjoyment of my chicken pad thai (3*--didn't need to go overly spicey) had faded. Seriously Pandora? Shouldn't you create a pop-up that says, "NOTE: If your business is located within 2 miles of a hospital, do not select this playlist!"??

So as I was sprinting back to the Emergency Room, worried that Death Cab (as if their name wasn't a give-away) had foretold our fate.

But no.

Melissa was still there.

Drugged and uncomfortable.

But with the same beaming smile she had the day I met her. The smile I never want to be without.

Someday soon, Melissa will read this, and having gone through it, she'll achieve a range of emotions:

1. Eye-rolling: Normally when she reads these things she rolls her eyes at how funny I think I am...this time it will be for my unmatched melodrama.
2. Sympathy: "I didn't know you were so worried about me!! That's sweet."
3. Subconcious misunderstanding: And I want to clear this one up beforehand. Yes, I did my best to take care of you when you were in pain, but do not, under any circumstance, take this is an indication that every time you're feeling crappy, I'm going to be there. I'd rather spoon a Senora cactus than someone with a cold. I love you and everything, but I draw the line at snot.

This blog is my voice in the wedding-planning process. Your commentary is appreciated, but if you're going to write, "This one sucks--write about how much you hate Dr. Pepper or something.", it is already noted. I've got an immature post all ready for later this week...

2011-10-27T17:47:00.000-07:00

One year and counting until Wedding Day...

That seems like a really long way away. But after we made a list of about 130 things that need to be taken care of before then, I'm quite certain that that time will fly.

But that was just the list for wedding-planning.

I've got my own list.

Every old, married person I talk to waxes poetic (can you wax any other way?) about how important it is to "live life" while you're single, as it is the only way to prepare for marriage. I've certainly put in the years. I'm 31...so I've seen some stuff.

Unfortunately, my "stuff" isn't exactly the kind of "stuff" that you see segments of 60 Minutes on.

No war. No personal crisis. No depths of financial ruin. No identity in ruin.

But I did get a sunburn under my fingernails one time...that was miserable.

So with a year to sew the oats that need sewing, I've made a list of things that I feel like I need to accomplish before marriage to ensure that I am the best husband, father, role-model and citizen that I can be. Not a "Bucket List" necessarily. I mean--I'm not going to be dead...I'm just not going to be living anymore.

-Spend three months telling people that I'm "training for a marathon" and then fake an injury just before the race. (You know...how everyone else does?)

-Learn to curse in Korean.

-Go to a meat-market bar and use every pickup line I've ever wanted to use but didn't have the courage--just to see if they would have worked.

-Spit on a hippie.

-Figure out what or who Tibet is.

-Make friends with everyone I see at the airport checking a cooler.

-Take massive amounts of steroids.

-Superglue a novel to my hand, so I literally cannot put it down.

-Tell a client to "myspace me" if he wants to get ahold of me.

-Go through an entire work day with only half of my face shaven.

-Hug a Canadian.

-Set foot on every inhabited continent in the world. (Or visit Epcot Center. Either one.)

-Punch a horse in the side.

-Attend a women's basketball game.

-(Just kidding.)

-Eat a lemon like an apple.

-Memorize the names of each American President and then intentionally leave out Martin Van Buren when reciting them, because screw him.

-Sell Livestrong-style bracelets that do more to benefit me than the cause they're supposedly supporting. (Oh wait...Lance Armstrong already had that idea.)

-Slip a picture of Billy Dee Williams into a sales presentation.

-Start a "USA! USA!" chant during a yoga class.

-Make calls exclusively from pay phones.

-Put on an Ed Hardy T-Shirt with a straight face.

-Make sense of the rules of "RISK", start a game, and then quit halfway through out of boredom.

-Pose nude in Readers Digest.

-Halfway through viewing a Tyler Perry movie in the theater, loudly proclaim, "THIS WASN'T NEARLY AS GOOD AS THE BOOK!!"

-Establish clear boundaries for personal space with my future bride, to ensure peaceful, harmonious living and forthright communication.

-Slip into an alcohol-binge so deep that I'm drinking mouthwash to get my fix, my friends desert me and my band breaks up mid-tour.

-(I guess prior to that) Start a band.

-Brag in an elevator about hanging out at a party with Heath Ledger the night before.

-Go to a Seattle Mariner's game in Seattle against the Red Sox and ask every person in a Red Sox hat to name me 10 Red Sox players that were on the team prior to 2002.

-Get a personalized license plate that says "JACKASS". (Oh wait...in a metaphoric sense, all non-business-related personalized license plates say that.)

-Drug a panda.

-Resist the urge to stab people who have idiotic nicknames for cities like "Spokompton", "Spovegas", "Spokane-istan"

-Create a theme park that is just a house where everything is gigantic so you feel like a baby.

-Go to an MMA fight on mushrooms.

-Force a waiter to put olives on all of my fingers.

That really ought to be enough.

2011-10-25T19:10:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned before that I'm fairly certain that I've been to more weddings than any straight, 31-year-old male in the world. Since graduating college 8 years ago, I'm estimating that I've been to about fifty weddings.

It isn't necessarily that I'm popular, it is just that I've been single for so long that people realize that $400/plate dinner X 1 Person = A lot lost less than it would for two. So for the past decade, I've made a social-living off of being the 198th person invited to a 200-person wedding.

And with that experience, I've built a pretty strong opinion about the elements that make up a wedding. It's embarassing at times, but for a straight dude, I've got some pretty strong opinions about bridesmaids dresses and floral arrangements. I've eaten everything from hamburgers to a surf-and-turf that was so fresh that if you put your ear down to the salmon, you could still hear it screaming. I've heard amazing speeches and horrendous limericks. I've flown to Hawaii and this year took a city bus directly to the wedding site. I've seen tuxedos that channeled Miami Vice and bridesmaids dresses that were so loud that they actually picked up UHF signals of Miami Vice. I've thrown-up cheap scotch and I've thrown up expensive tequila.

But throughout my journey, I can say with honesty that I've taken something positive away from every wedding that I've been to. And this year--knowing that a proposal was imminent--and then the last two knowing that a wedding was imminent--I was paying particular attention.

WEDDING SEASON 2011: What I learned.

---Publisher-approved sidebar---
Today is October 25. Two months until Christmas day, or as most people know it "Tuesday". But for me, it is the official beginning of the Christmas season, when I admittedly obnoxiously begin listening to Christmas music full-time. I generally have to do it alone until after Thanksgiving--but I think it makes sense. Two months is 16.6% of my year. I have roughly 350 Christmas songs in my iTunes folder out of 2000 songs. The math works.
Why do I mention this? Because as I'm typing this, with my Christmas music on random, Neil Diamond just came on singing "Amazing Grace."
I fully recognize that most people can't get behind listening to Christmas music on October 25th, but ANYONE can get behind a jew singing Amazing Grace.
--End Publisher-approved sidebar---

Wedding One
April, 2011
San Francisco, CA

Lesson: Set the Tone Early
Looking for a certain feel for your wedding reception? Don't give people a chance to develop their own image as to what the reception is going to be like.
Want a formal occasion? Waiters circling with caviar ought to do the trick.
Want a country hoedown? Probably not a great idea to have Sinatra and Nat King Cole as your background music.
Want people to drink their faces off, get blackout-drunk-and-show-up-at-the-next-day's-events-in-the-same-clothes-they-wore-the-night-before? Do like this couple did and have the father of the bride forcing a shot of Pimms down your throat if you want to get into the only entry.

Wedding Two
Half Moon Bay, CA
July, 2011

Lesson: Honesty is in Fact the Best Policy
People are finally realizing that a long, drawn-out ceremony is miserable for the wedding party, but absolute hell for attendees. Even in a few years, I've seen ceremonies shrink from 75-minute marathons to 15-minute drag-races. (Or maybe it is just that the pendulum of my marrying friends has adequately swung from "A Glorious Union Before God" to "Should She Really be Wearing White?")

Regardless, the major negative in the short ceremony is that they can be really forgettable. I absolutely agree that the ceremony is for the bride and groom and the rest of the night is for the guests...so you have to have something unique. Something memorable, that you, your bride and your guests can take with you forever.

I'd say the officiant describing marriage as "a prison" would qualify, wouldn't you?

Wedding Three
Parts Unknown, WA
July, 2011

Lesson: Want to Eat Dinner? Hire Security.

What could be more charming than the "Sweethearts Table", where the bride and groom sitting at a private table in the center of a room filled with all of their closest friends and family?

Oh I know! A MEAL!

I was flattered to be sitting with wedding party, at the table closest to the bride and groom, but every time I looked up, someone was interrupting them from eating. I guess I understand the thinking of the interruptors, "I'm in the buffet line that doesn't seem to be moving...good time to kiss the bride and shake the groom's hand. I'm sure it won't bother them."

Except it might bother them if 200 people do that at once.

I ate roughly 6,000 calories that night, but actually felt hungry because I watched them sit with plates full of food they'd spent months picking out but couldn't actually eat. It was like the food-equivalent of a mirage in the desert--and worse yet because you could see 24 tables of people you bought dinner eating the exact same meal and enjoying every morsel. I sincerely hope they were able to hit a Burger King on the way home...

Wedding Four
Seattle, WA
October, 2011

Lesson: Girly Drinks are More Wonderful than Life Itself

I really wanted to give points to the custom-made University of Washington cufflinks that the bride had all of the groomsmen wearing, but the fact that I'm overlooking that should probably be evidence as to precisely how delicious their peach martinis were.

I don't drink clear liquor. And I certainly don't drink peach martinis. But there they were, calling to me like the sirens to Odysseus and five or six later when I lost feeling in my left foot, I finally realized why girls enjoy these things so much:

They're the fluid-equivalent of Enya. (Perfect in every way, but you'll never tell your friends how much you like it.)

Wedding Five
Sterling, KS
October, 2011

Lesson: There are Simple Rules to Giving a Wedding Toast, and For Once Everyone Followed Them

Every toast is different. Obviously the best man and the father of the bride and the maid of honor are all going to say something different, but if you avoid a few simple pitfalls you can have three amazing toasts like we saw Saturday night.
Fathers of the Bride
1. Don't forget that there are two families at this wedding. (Seen it...in fact saw it get to the point of the mother of the groom standing up and leaving.)
2. Don't mention how much the wedding is costing you. (Heard it...down to the penny.)
3. Whatever you do, don't make the focus of your speech the groom's ex-girlfriend and true love. (I wish I hadn't seen it.)

(This wedding actually featured the best opening line of a toast I've ever heard from a father, "I just spoke to the caterer and apparently there was some sort of refrigeration problem, so this father of the bride who has spent his entire career caring for and raising cattle will be serving you... ... chicken.")

Maids/Matrons of Honor
1. If you write something that you think is going to make you start crying and snotting all over the place, it may be time for some editing. (Come on...we've all seen it.)
2. Uh...say...SOMETHING! (Seen it...or rather...didn't see it?)
3. Whatever you do, DON'T SING A SONG! (I actually saw this work...ONCE...when the looney-tunes sister of the bride, without being called to give her toast just started singing "Crazy for You", kissed her sister and then walked off. Can't be replicated. So don't try.)

Best Man
1. The roast is Friday night. The TOAST is tonight. (Seen it too many times...but get a strange rush out of watching a guy absolutely bomb.)
2. If you're going to read a poem, do some research into the rules on rhythm and rhyming. (Honestly heard someone read a poem that's first line was roughly six words and whose second line was roughly sixty. Halfway through the poem, a friend looked at me and said, "What would be more offensive to this audience? If he keeps reading this poem or if I shoot him?")
3. And whatever you do, don't mention how many women the groom was with before the bride. (Oh yeah...saw it.) (And yes...same toast as the poem.)

Here's to Wedding Season 2012, where I hopefully don't include the following entry:

Wedding One
Indian Wells, CA
October, 2012

Lesson: Don't Invite Good-looking Male Friends Whom the Bride May be Tempted to Run-away With

This blog is my voice in the wedding process. I appreciate your reading and sharing with friends. Please feel free to contact me if you ever have questions or comments. AND FOR GOD'S SAKE, follow me on twitter @agroomsdiary and on facebook search: "A Groom's Diary".

2011-10-13T17:58:00.000-07:00

I cannot to tell you how much I appreciate my fiancee, Melissa.

Yes--there are weeks like this one, where we have been so busy that we haven't seen one another, and we miss our interactions. And she's nice and cute and whatever...but that's not what I'm referring to this time either.

No--where I really appreciate her is when I'm reminded how painful being single was.
And that's not to imply that we're settling. Absolutely not the case. In fact--I wouldn't have gone out with every woman in Western Washington if I wasn't looking for someone specific. Now I've found her and I never have to deal with the single fiasco again.

That's not to say that the road to finding her was a smooth one. Far from it. I've been on more bad dates than a fallen palm frond. (You know...because dates grow on palm trees?) (And the ones on the ground would presumably be bad?) (And the fronds would have fallen on top of them?) (Dates.) (You know--DATES!) (The fruit that looks like it is dehydrated, that isn't actually dehydrated, and instead is just gross?) (Dates man! Come on!) (That was a great joke and you missed it, jerk.)

So in an odd celebration of how wonderful my future bride is, I offer you my six favorite Ms. Wrongs before I met Ms. Right...
(Why six? Because five doesn't tell the story.)

6. The One that Didn't Show (Denver, CO--2004)
I'd known this girl--clearly not very well--for a little while, and we finally decided to have dinner. Feeling daring, I decided to cook. So like any straight man's man, I set a full table--napkin rings, salad forks and all, and cooked a--I don't mind saying--fantastic rack of lamb and and risotto. I think I even had garnish on the plate.
And I ate it alone.
Cold.

Three days later, I got a call that went something like this:
"Hey. Sorry I didn't call you. (STRIKE ONE!) I got in a big yelling match with my baby-daddy (STEEEEEEEERIKE TWO!) about something and had to go over to his place. When I got there, his girlfriend jumped me, but I totally kicked that b****'s a**. Even ripped out her extensions!" (STRIKE THREE! YOU'RE OUTTA THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

5. Don't Drink and Text (Seattle, WA--2009)
I'll spare you the setup story, because they are all ridiculous and this story is long enough. This time a coworker had lined me up with someone, and it took about 3 months for it to come together. So we met. For dinner.

And it went amazingly well.

Fun conversation. Lingered. Was honestly one of the better setups I'd been on. (And at this point--I'd been on A LOT of them.) I walk her to her car and realize that I had tickets to the Lion King (on stage) and didn't have a date. Very suavely, I lead the following exchange:

Me: "Do you have plans next Friday?"
Her: "I work until seven, but no."
Me: "Okay. I'll pick you up at seven. Dress about like you are dressed now...and maybe grab something to eat, because we probably won't have time."
Her: "Mysterious--I love it!"

That was Friday.

Saturday, she sends me a text or two. I respond. This goes on here and there for the remainder of the day.

I'd planned to call her Tuesday, but I realized that we were going to be tight on time to get there by 8:00, so I called Monday.

No call back.

Tuesday? No call back.

Wednesday night I'd decided that I didn't have a choice but to call her again (these tickets weren't cheap!) and just before I was going to, I get a text from her that read:
"Hey--I had fun the other night, but I don't think there was much chemistry, so I won't be able to make it Friday."

Well poop.

I went about my night, knowing I'd be crawling over to a female friend of mine and begging her to go so I wouldn't have to a) go alone or b) take a dude (who probably wouldn't makeout with me anyway...)

Then it hit me.

Flashback to Saturday when I'd drank way too many beers, way too early in the day and mentioned that I was boldly taking a second date to such a big event. My friend Nick said, "Shoot--if you're going that far, you may as well send flowers as well!"

And I did.

I've never dialed so frantically. I get "Proflowers" on the phone and the conversation goes like this:

Me: "I ordered some flowers on Saturday for Friday delivery and I need to cancel."
Woman on phone: "No problem." (Two minutes of hold time.) "Sir, these are set for February 13 delivery. We can't cancel anything within 3 days of Valentine's Day."
Me: "Okay--just change the address--I'll send them to my mom."
Woman: "I'm sorry sir--we can't do that either."
Me: "Okay--just charge me for them and don't send them."
Woman: "No sir--you don't understand. This is the only week that we ship instead of have local florists deliver. They've already been sent."

Which led to the following text exchange between the cancelled-date and I:
Me: "You're going to receive flowers on Friday that I can't cancel. If you'd be so kind as to throw away the card, you can do what you like with them."
Her: "That was sweet, you didn't have to do that."
Me: "Yeah...no s***."

4. Creative Photography (Seattle, WA--2009)
Online dating is a weird animal. There is true strategy and science to it, and I did it for a long-enough period of time that I became pretty good at it. What to look for, what to avoid, etc.

There was only one time where I was truly duped.

No need to get into detail, but our email (and then text) exchanges went on much longer than I normally like. (A lot of people fall victim to 50-email exchanges, so your kids have names before you've even met!) And in these exchanges, I realized that her pictures--while seemingly good--were always taken at weird angles.

And then we finally met. And I understood why.

Her head was roughly the size of an Oldsmobile.

I've got a big head. A VERY big head. And next to her's mine would have looked like a jelly bean.

It was enormous.

Indiana Jones outran it in the Temple of Doom.

Three ballooners tried to attach baskets to it and float it around the world.

I saw Neil Armstrong walking on her forehead.

So what I'm trying to say.

Is that her head.

Was gigantic.

3. The Fortune Teller (Denver, CO--2003)
It was literally my first night out after moving to Denver after college and I got a girl's phone number. Now--keep in mind that I had no idea what she looked like--but I had a phone number.

And when I say that I had no idea what she looked like, I mean you could have lined her up with Serena Williams, a Storm Trooper and Papa Smurf and I couldn't have told you which one she was.

But I'm new to town, why not?

We meet for drinks and apps at a place that she suggested.

Not cute. But her head was at least proportionate.

I'm looking over the drink menu and trying to convince myself that she's good-looking enough and the waitress asks for her drink order. She orders wine.

A BOTTLE of wine.

I'm no cheapskate--but that's bold.

I went along with it, but as I'm taking my first sip, she says, "You're a Libra, aren't you?" She was somehow correct in the pre-facebook-era and continued, "You're very much about things being in balance. We really need to work on that."

And on my first post-college date I did something I never had the courage to do again.

I picked up the winelist and checked the price of the bottle. I then filled my glass all the way to the top and drank the whole thing down in one swig. She sat shocked and was even more shocked when I reached into my pocket, threw down the appropriate amount of cash for the wine/tip and walked out of the restaurant.

Quite easily the toughest thing I've ever done. (Which is why I don't go looking for bar-fights on most weekends...)

2. My Shortest Relationship (Seattle, WA--2008)
This girl I've subsequently become friendly with--so I'll protect her identity and call her...I don't know...how about "Tephanie"? That will work.

I'd just moved back from southern California, and I when I say "just moved back", I mean that I'd literally just driven 1200 miles in fifteen hours, parked my car, taken a shower and headed to a bar to meet up with my friend Brett, who'd thrown a party that night and was out with a few people for a few dozen post-game drinks.
Well--he wasn't with a few "people", it was him and about 9 of his wife's sorority sisters. Great ratio--but we hadn't seen each other in such a long time, we barely spoke to anyone but each other.

Despite that, I got an email from Brett's wife two days later, saying that her friend..."Tephanie"...met me and apparently wanted the two of us to be set-up.

Like a doctor's mallet to the knee, my immediate reflex was to email Brett an email that could have been shortened to three words: "Is. She. Hot?"

He responds "For sure. Broke up with a guy about six months ago and hasn't been out since. Go for it." And I agree to call her.

I do a day or two later. She doesn't answer. I leave a message.

The next day, she calls back at about 2:00 in the afternoon---clearly trying to get my voicemail--but I'm in sales, so if the phone rings, I answer. The conversation went something like this:

Tephanie: "Oh...hi...this is Tephanie."
Me: "Oh hey, how are ya?"
(3-5 minutes of uncomfortable back and forth...pretty normal.)
Me: "So--free at all this weekend?"
Tephanie: "I could meet up Saturday night?"
Me: "Okay, dinner it is. Meet me at ______."
Tephanie: "Okay, sounds good."
(We start working out the details and then she pauses.)
Tephanie: "You know...I haven't done this in a while. Sorry...dinner seems kind of "datey" to me. Could we just meet for drinks?"
Me: (Thinking---woohoo! Just saved $40!) "Sure, yeah...whatever, that's fine. Want to do the same place?"
Tephanie: "Yeah, that's perfect."
(A pause.)
Tephanie: "Actually...maybe not drinks. Could we meet for coffee instead?"
Me: (Now feeling a little strange about the whole thing) "Yeah...I guess? If that makes you more comfortable. That afternoon maybe?"
Tephanie: "Sure, that would be perfect. Thanks for being so understanding. Again--I haven't done this in a while."
Me: (Laughing) "No problem...this can be stressful."
(Silence.)
(More silence.)
(A bit more silence.)
Tephanie: "I'm sorry, I'm not ready for this. I feel like I'd be cheating."
Me: (Silence.)
Tephanie: "I'm sorry...I've got to go. Bye."

What is most-amazing about that story--despite being an introduction and break-up all wrapped into one, it somehow wasn't the last time it happened. Am I really that bad over the phone? 18 months later it happened again. That time I drew tears from the girl...for some reason the second time isn't nearly as laughable...

1. Armageddon (Seattle, WA--2010)
My last online date. Actually--my last first date before I met my bride-to-be...and fittingly so.

It began innocently enough. We'd emailed four or five times and decided to meet for a beer. Perfect.

Me being me, I got there about 45 minutes early and cell phone Tetris just wasn't going to kill the time. So I decided to go for a walk that I will never forget.

It was only 3 blocks between my car and a drug store (where I needed a couple of things anyway). Little did I know that it was 3 of the most terror-filled, plague-ridden blocks a warrior has ever trodden.

But off I went.

"Hey look--a new Thai place!" "Why are there so many Volvos in this neighborhood?" "Better get under the awnings...it is starting to rain."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Blowing right by me without noticing was a girl I'd dated years before and hadn't spoken to since. I'm not saying she was a drama-queen, but her post-alcohol tears actually shift the tides.

If a black cat is bad luck, seeing her moments before a blind date would be like a swarm of black cats kidnapping you and throwing you under a ladder, directly into a shattering mirror.

But like a ninja, I ducked into the bank next to me. Phew.

Cold-sweat was overtaking me. So I took in the deep breaths of the gloriously air-conditioned community bank.

Remember in Top Gun when Maverick and Goose are goofing off and then realize that someone has "missile lock" on them? It kind of felt like that. My eyes darted across the bank to the other entry and I spotted a girl I'd gone out with about six months before and conveniently forgot to call.

I'm not certain that I actually hit the deck, but my moment of relief in the bank's cool air was over and I was back to the sidewalk. I glanced back, breathing heavily and am pretty sure she spotted me. So I kept moving down the sidewalk.

Feeling safe, I stopped at a deli and grab a bottle of water to calm myself down. Keep in mind--it is only about 65 degrees out, but I'm sweating as though I've just done P90X on the surface of the sun.

The water hit my lips and trickled down my throat. My body absorbed the cold, wet relief as if it had never tasted something so sweet.

I'm safe.

But I need to compose myself.

And I'm running out of time.

I've got fifteen minutes to walk another block (yes--this happened in about a 200 ft.-stretch.) to the drug store, walk back to my car without being spotted, and then meet the potential girl-of-my-dreams for a beer? IMPOSSIBLE YOU SAY! But I wasn't about to back down now.

Breath calmed, sweat stopped, nerves quelled, I take my first steps onto the sidewalk. Step one, clear. Step two, clear. Now I was moving. I could feel the tiny muscles in my feet firing to keep me moving forward and the strength was returning to me. But the moment I began to relax, directly in front of the drug store, staring directly at me is...

TEPHANIE.

The first bullet had struck my abdomen and the next my left-thigh. This was a kill-shot, directly to the forehead. It left me lying on the sidewalk, bleeding as I let out my final breaths. A cold end to a man that just wanted to meet a girl who was sane...

My body made it to that date, but my mind was nowhere near. Any hope for success in that relationship had died bravely on that sidewalk moments before.

Thankfully, a month later, I met the girl of my dreams. No violent baby-daddy. No run-away texts. No palm-reading. No mid-call break-ups. So what if her head is slightly larger than normal? It's mostly hair! And compared to my dome, it looks tiny.

Thank you Melissa for never making me go through this hell again.

This blog is my voice in the wedding planning process. If you ever have questions, comments or complaints, please don't hesitate to contact me.

2011-10-10T18:00:00.000-07:00

We finally found a venue.

And set a date.

You can begin your mourning now, because you only have 13 more months of me before I graduate from "Groom" to "Helpless"...

So with that, we're finally able to do a few things--most notably select our wedding parties (now that we know we have a venue big enough that I don't only have my brother and Emilio Estevez standing next to me on my wedding day.)

We're going big. Why not? Seven a side. Sure--there are plenty of people who we'd like to include in even that large number, but seven it is and we're going forward.
In Melissa deciding that seven was the number and me making that fit, I realized that I really only know her sister and one other person in her wedding party. I know who all of them are, and am even facebook friends with the majority of them, but the fact remains--I don't know these women.
Why is that? Sure--most of them are on the eastcoast, and one is in London, but there has to be more to the story.
I recalled something my father used to say to me in high school when our house was never the height of the social scene.

He'd say, "If you're children aren't inviting their friends to the house, they're either ashamed of their friends or ashamed of their family." (My father of course overlooked option C: Your son is a social pariah and would gladly invite over his friends if he had any.)
What I do know of Melissa's friends is that she's crazy about them. So it isn't the former. Which regrettably means that she's clearly ashamed of me in every way.

Okay. That's not true either. I think the truth lies somewhere between "Very few of them are nearby" and "You're a weird dude and I am not sure they're going to like you."

Well, fair enough. But I want to help, as I truly want her friends to be part of our lives.
And in reality, you're really just introducing me to their significant others, so we can occupy each other while you two have girl-time.

With that in mind, I've created a little cheatsheet of sorts, so she can quickly dissiminate who she should introduce and who she shouldn't. We'll call it:

THE LIST OF SIGNS YOUR FRIENDS' HUSBAND AND I ARE PROBABLY NOT GOING TO BE VERY CLOSE FRIENDS.

No hard and fast rules. Many people I like violate one of these. (In fact my friend Tobin violates nearly every one of them and I've tolerated him for about 25 years now...) So as with any guideline, they are just a rough boundary for your info, my darling wife-to-be.

1. He has one of those stickers on his car where Calvin is peeing on another brand of car-maker.

What is the thinking here? "I own Car X and therefore, I hate everyone who drives Car Y. In fact, I now hate them so much that I'm going to buy a sticker of a cartoon urinating on the logo of Car Y. That will teach those bastards with different tastes!!"

2. You "LIKE" generic stuff on facebook.

I understand hitting "LIKE" on the occasional fanpage. Your friend Becky owns a nail salon and wants publicity--so you click a button and pow! you've done her a solid.
Or your favorite movie is "Gross Pointe Blank" and you want to add that logo to your bio to tell the world that you are a Cusack Super Freak! Fine.
But when you're surfing America's greatest time-waster and clicking "LIKE" on things like "Taking naps", or "Traveling" or any other item in the list of generic things that EVERYONE likes, it is probably time to reconsider your relationship with facebook.

3. You have a tattoo that you don't at least partially regret.

I have no problem with ink, but the reason I've never had a tattoo (aside from the copious-amounts-of-body-hair thing) is that I can't think of anything that I want on my body for eternity.
Maybe you regret the size. Maybe you regret the color. Maybe you regret the placement. But if you can tell me honestly that in a private moment, alone with your thoughts, that you don't at least regret 1% of that rainbow-colored, smiling sun with the words "Carpe Diem" that you plastered on your lower back for eternity, I don't think we're going to be texting much in the near future. (And yes...I know someone.) (And yes...it's a dude.) (And yes...we give him endless amounts of crap.) (And yes...he is much taller, smarter and more-athletic than I am and I'm thrilled that I have one thing to forever hold over his head.)

4. (Back to car-decor...) You put one of those "26.2" stickers on your car.

It's bad enough we had to listen to you yammer for 8 months about how you are "so busy" because you were training for a marathon, now we have to ride in your Camry with this ridiculous hipster emblem on the back?
Running a marathon is a great accomplishment (and one that I will undoubtedly never complete.) But lots of people do it. People with truly unique accomplishments rarely flaunt them. I don't know any personally, but I'm guessing there aren't a lot of Nobel Prize winners who suddenly adorn an "NP" sticker on their car to let people know how special they are. No, instead they let their accomplishments speak for themselves.
5. (And this is the biggest one...) You're openly-straight.

I am not one to bash anyone for who they choose as a makeout buddy, but if there were a group that outwardly picketed, harassed and occasionally injured straight-men-who-won't-shut-up-about-how-much-they-like-women, I'd be the first onboard to start chucking AA batteries at these moderately-evolved dufuses.
Have you ever been around one of these a-holes?
Come on. You know the type: They say pointless, inconsequential things like, "Dude, the chicks in Oklahoma are hot!" They use moronic acronyms like "MILF." And if you're really lucky, they will pull you aside at work to tell you how nice the secretary's rack is.
You know openly-straight guys! Your buddy who makes a point of TiVOing the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show so he can turn it on when other dudes are over as a not-so-subtle reminder that he is into women and not afraid to waste an hour of your time proving it to you!
Not ringing a bell? Maybe you know his girlfriend. She dresses like a hooker, likes to go to strip clubs with cars full of dudes and has a pink jersey from the local NFL team.
Still not coming clear? Just picture the worst person you know. I'm sure he's openly-straight and you just haven't figured out why you dislike him so much.

This blog is my voice in the wedding process. If any of you have questions for a male with an opinion, please don't hesitate to ask.

2011-09-28T18:04:00.000-07:00

Twice this week I've been surprised with the news that my close friends are having kids.

Well. To be precise. They aren't having kids. Their wives are having kids.
______________________________________________________________________________
Sidebar:
Time to eliminate two and a half ridiculous practices while I've raised the subject.

1. "WE" are not pregnant. "SHE" is pregnant. "WE" can drink a gallon of scotch while stuffing our faces with a platter of seafood and "WE" will be just fine...well...unless "SHE" kills you for it.

2. Unless the "baby-alert" calls are from my brother or my wife's sister, I am not going to be an "uncle". The widespread use of "uncle" and "aunt" as a contrived nickname is so overblown that it has lost any and all meaning.
And beyond that, it is downright baffling for a child who is trying to learn their first words. "Okay...Mom and Dad's brothers and sisters are my aunts and uncles....but so is this guy Steve who sleeps on our couch and smells like the recycling bin. Are all adults my aunts and uncles? Does that mean that the milkman is my uncle? Oh nevermind...he's my father..."
And to go on an even more ridiculous rant, how about these people that introduce you to their kids with a title attached to your first name? "This is Mr. Jeff! This is Ms. Michelle!" What is that? What are we, camp counselors? When I was a kid, there were about three male adults I could call by their first name (and zero female!), and I did, without a Mr. or Mrs. attached to it. Every other person was Mr./Mrs. and their LAST name...you know, how it is supposed to be?
Mr. Jeff and Ms. Michelle is not polite. It is stupid.

______________________________________________________________________________

Okay....and I'm back!

Did you miss me?
Back to babies.

I'm just shy of 31. I'm at a point where these types of phone calls aren't necessarily commonplace, but are by no means shocking. Melissa and I were looking at the guestlist to our wedding and there could literally be 20 women on the invite list who are nursing at our wedding. (That horrendous image will leave me about 3 minutes before I die on November 2, 2088.) Biologically, it is time to start receiving these calls.
And in the past, I've always been excited to hear baby news. Who cares if I'll never see my friends again, I'm really happy for them, and in a totally non-creepy way, I love kids. They're fun. And way more interesting than their parents!

But these two were different. Why? Because they were the first baby-alerts since Melissa and I got engaged.

Before, I could celebrate.

Now I realize that I'm only a couple of years away of being in charge of another human life; a task that I'm by no means prepared for. There are literally hundreds of reasons that I'm in no way equipped for fatherhood right now. I offer you a few:

-I have some things that I'm not ready to baby-proof. Like my six-inch-plastic-Tiger-Woods-figurine-I-found-at-TJ-Maxx-after-Tiger's-meltdown-and-figured-it-was-the-last-Tiger-Woods-toy-that-would-ever-be-produced-and-therefore-bought-and-now-display-on-the-mantle-as-an-amazing-half-ironic-half-awesome-piece-of-art. It is very fragile!

-Do you realize how expensive babies are? To hell with the ridiculousness of wedding expenses, babies make them look like a bargain! Want proof?? Go to Baby Gap. Look at their sizes. You have to buy the little poop-machines a new wardrobe every fifteen minutes or they will outgrow them!

-I really like to sleep. And am terrible at it. You know the sound of an insect landing on a pillow three rooms away? No? I do. And it wakes me up. Imagine how terrible a screaming baby is going to be--particularly when absent-minded parents choose to amplify that horrendous noise with a bedside baby monitor!

-You know when you get a blister on your foot and it is full of fluid and you just kind of push on it because it feels cool and you want to see what happens? I sincerely hope that soft-spots don't feel the same way.

-Twins are everywhere these days. Is this really what we need: parents who can't handle one child having to learn to handle two? That's God's equivalent of the dad who finds out his kid is smoking and makes him smoke an entire carton until he throws up.
(Not to mention that twins lead to bunkbeds. And do I really need another means to bump my enormous head on things?)

-What if he looks like me? I'd never forgive myself!

-And what if he is a she? God help us...

But it could be worse. We could be talking about getting a dog...

(Please address your dog-loving hatemail to: agroomsdiary@gmail.com Thank you!)

This blog is my voice in the wedding process. If any of you have questions for a male with an opinion, please don't hesitate to ask.

2011-09-26T18:14:00.000-07:00

We spent the weekend in Seattle with two of my favorite people, a couple that flew up from Sacramento for the full-blown Seattle experience.

Friday night--Oktoberfest. (You know...because when you think "Oktoberfest", you think "Seattle!")

Sidebar: A word on Oktoberfest:
I'm no expert on German culture, but whomever plans these American Oktoberfest celebrations is undoubtedly a) racist and b) an alcoholic.
It's just beer. That's it. Someone please correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't there more to it than that? Aren't there bratwursts and parades with giant floats of Dirk Nowitski and Einstein? Something!

Saturday--A glorious result to a glorious football game on a glorious day in Seattle. (Washington 31-California 23.)

Throughout the weekend though, the "wedding" subject kept arising. No surprise I guess, it was the first time we'd seen them since becoming engaged, and because they've been married for five years, they're about as close to Yoda as we will find at this stage of our lives.
Funny though--and this is normally a former-groom trait--every person you speak to about the process of wedding-planning has "one thing." As in, "If I could tell you 'one thing' it would be choose carnations over roses" or "If I could tell you one thing, it would be to not sit your drunk, racist uncle near the stage where the R&B group will be performing."

And every "one thing" is different.

So it isn't "one thing".

It is, at last count, one hundred thirteen things.

Some are great advice. Some are self-serving. Some are absolutely ridiculous. I offer you a sample:

"If I could tell you one thing, it would be to make sure you get something to eat."
Fine point. There are countless stories of the bride and groom never getting a single morsel of the food they agonized over selecting, and they're left hungry, exhausted and pee-your-pants drunk.
I've seen it dozens of times, but I really don't have much sympathy. In most cases, it is entirely their fault. A few tips to ensure you eat:
-Avoid The Sweethearts Table: You think "Oh look how charming that is when the bride and groom are alone, in the center of the room, with everyone they love around them looking on." They think: "Well my meal hasn't arrived--what a perfect time to talk to the bride and groom!" Don't even think of picking up a fork without your offensive line (immediate family and/or wedding party) surrounding you!
-Do Pictures before the Wedding: Oh please. You know damn well that you shouldn't be wearing white. Does it really matter if you see each other before the wedding? Do yourself a favor, get dressed two hours early and be able to grab some delicious coconut prawns during cocktail hour.
-Skip The Salad: Give yourself a head-start on the rest of the populous by going straight to the main course at the head table. A few bites of steak and fingerling potatoes will get you through the night much better than a few scraps of lettuce, dummy.

"If I could tell you one thing, it would be to stop and take mental snapshots of your wedding day."
Oh come on! You stole that from The Office and it was a stupid idea when they did it.

"If I could tell you one thing, it would be to be careful who you let speak at the wedding."
Great idea. In fact--this is an entire entry in and of itself (that I'll write in about 3 days when I'm out of ideas.)
I tend to think this applies more to the Maids of Honor than anyone. (Sure, there is the occasional half-whitted Best Man who doesn't realize that the ROAST is Friday night and the TOAST is Saturday...but beyond that, even poor best man's toasts are usually okay.)
I have seen some disasters on the female side, most of which begin with a small sniffle and then turns into a snotty, sobbing mess.
Maids of Honor--if you write something down and you think it might make you cry, WRITE SOMETHING ELSE DOWN! There is nothing more pathetic than Maid of Honor blowing her nose in her fingers and nothing more gross than her hugging the bride and groom immediately after.
Brides--Who says your Maid of Honor has to do the toast? We're getting married in an era where online ordainment, in-wedding photo booths and bins of candy in lieu of cake are such commonplace that they're almost becoming cliched. Pick someone who can get through it. For all of our sake.

"If I could tell you one thing, it would be to hire a wedding planner---even if it is only for the day of the wedding."
This is one of the rare topics I don't have a strong opinion on. On the one hand--I see it. I see why they are there and I see why they're so heavily compensated. On the other, holy mother of all that is good they are expensive.
I'm leaving this up to my bride and her mother. There is one thing I can tell you for certain though--if we do in fact have a wedding planner, you better believe they will be wearing a massive headset (complete with an 8-foot antenna!) and will be required to talk to all of the vendors like she's talking on a CB-Radio.
"Breaker! Breaker! We're ready for the Flower Girl. Over."
"10-4. That's affirmative. We are go for the Flower Girl at 1632 hours."

"If I could tell you one thing, it would be to not use my photographer."
With the exception of "Realtor", I can't think of a service-provider that is more universally loathed by their clients than wedding photographers. Check out your facebook page--you know eleven of them and had no idea.
But you are going to hire one. And you are going to pay through the nose for hundreds of really nice-looking pictures of people and things that were in no way what you were hoping for.

"If I could tell you one thing, it would be to register for an authentic Indiana Jones whip."
Brilliant. Not only a great gift (for any occasion) but will come in really useful for disciplining the neighbors' kids.

This blog is my personal voice in the wedding planning process...but is by no means meant to be private. If you enjoyed it, don't be afraid to press the "SHARE" button on the facebook link, or the "RETWEET" button on the twitter link...or just forward it on to your friends and family.
And if you didn't like it, you are clearly a black-hearted social devient with no taste. (But share it anyway, I need the help.)

If you have questions about weddings, sports, pop-culture or life in general that you'd like me to answer in the blog, just hit the email button on my profile and I'm happy to include it in an upcoming entry.

Thanks for reading,

The Groom

2011-09-22T17:32:00.000-07:00

Just because I don't have anything specific to write about doesn't mean that I won't further victimize you with my opinions.

A few quick-hitters. Some of them are even wedding-related.

-We're quickly realizing that the only negotiable pieces of a wedding reception are chairs and alcohol. Beyond that, you're pretty much dead where you stand.
And the question is really dealing with an inverse relationship between the two, namely "Can we get our guests drunk enough to know that we're cheaping-out on chairs?"

-I've found myself in a tweeting-circle with a bunch of established wedding bloggers, planners, etc. on Twitter and am constantly surprised how nice they are to one another despite being direct competitors. It's like my real job except the exact opposite in every way. They're too nice! Not that any of them deserve it, but just once I'd like to see a tweet that says:

These ideas are stupid. Try harder. RT @anonymousweddingblogger Check out these fun new napkin folding ideas! http://tinyurl.com/akjf8

-Some of my new peeps are worth a look. Here is a great collection of Groom-centered links from the Man Registry. And the ultimate database of bro-centered wedding tips from Grooms Online.

-Starbucks' Apple Fritters look like your lower-intestines. Which is appropriate because that is the part of your body they're going to do murderous damage to. (Now only if they could make their coffee look like your brain...)

-You know how your fiancee has a 19-year-old friend named Stephanie whom you've never met but you're in touch with every 3 or 4 days? No. Yeah me neither. Totally don't know what you're talking about.

-The Hampton Inn in Missoula, MT has a readerboard outside that says, "Come as a stranger and leave as family." Translation: the bellboy intends to knock you up.
Even if you're male.

-I have a great dry cleaner, but he doesn't really speak English. So I get really frustrated when he asks me questions that require an explanation. Today's exchange was:
Him: Hey! We don't see you lately!
Me: Yeah, I work from home now, so don't do as much dry-cleaning.
Him: Oh, you take cleaning somewhere else?
Me: No, I just don't wear dress shirts anymore.
Him: Oh, you bring shirts somewhere else?
Me: (Stepping into traffic.)

-I saw a wedding venue online that was setup like "theater-in-the-round." Note to bridesmaids--you may want to increase the normal "one week of exercise and a crash-diet" model for wedding preparation.

-Behind the United States, my biggest blog following is in Chile. That's right--all twelve people in Chile are reading this steaming pile of turd.

-Oh you're still upset about the bridesmaids joke and missed the hilarity of the Chile joke? Don't worry...I wasn't talking about you.

-Just overheard in the bar at Famous Dave's BBQ in Missoula:
Woman: "What types of cabernet do you have?"
Bartender: "We have Kendall Jackson, 14 Hands, Sutter Home...I think that's it."
Woman: "Oh...none of those are from the Sonoma Coast, are they?"
Bartender: "I don't know...but don't think so."
Woman: "Okay. I'll just have a white zin."

-I heard a guy in ?Georgia maybe? got two DUIs in a night. Consider the new standard set.

-I've noticed a lot of wedding blogs are about invitations. Is this really important? I mean--do people really have a tough time convincing others to let them buy them a $300/plate dinner and grant them access an open bar?
And has anyone in history looked at a wedding invitation and said, "These colors are not complimentary. I'm not going to the wedding of my step-sister Elaine."?

-If you enjoy these mindless, ridiculous short statements, you'll love wasting your time on my twitter account: @agroomsdiary

We have our first two reader questions!!

What's your problem with Bon Jovi?
-John, San Francisco, CA

It's not that I have a problem with him personally...I just get a negative physical reaction to his music.

(And if you're wondering what part of my body is physically-affected by Bon Jovi, it would be the "entire" part.)

My fiancee's wedding shower is next week and I'm supposed to go. And I'm the only guy. What do I do?
Eric, Trenton, NJ
Draw a lukewarm bubble bath.
Hold plugged-in toaster in hands.
Step into bathtub, submerging the toaster.

This blog is my personal voice in the wedding planning process...but is by no means meant to be private. If you enjoyed it, don't be afraid to press the "SHARE" button on the facebook link, or the "RETWEET" button on the twitter link...or just forward it on to your friends and family.
And if you didn't like it, you are clearly a black-hearted social devient with no taste. (But share it anyway, I need the help.)

If you have questions about weddings, sports, pop-culture or life in general that you'd like me to answer in the blog, just hit the email button on my profile and I'm happy to include it in an upcoming entry.

Thanks for reading,

The Groom

2011-09-19T17:25:00.000-07:00

Saturday was my Gettysburg.

A battle of attrition, where on the surface everyone should love one another, but in reality, it is a bloody battle to see who can die slower.

That's right--Saturday we looked at five wedding venues in a single day.

Five.

I know many of you have never had the pleasure of visiting a wedding venue, but that is really beside the point. How many things can you do five times in a day and actually enjoy them?

Well yeah...there's that. But other than that.

Five appointments.

-Five times asking "So this 'all-inclusive package' doesn't include ____?"
-Five times looking at a completely blank conference room, hearing your tour guide say, "Isn't this a great space?" and resisting the urge to say, "It is four blank walls with a carpet that looks like ceiling if the Sistine Chapel if it were painted by blind four-year-olds."
-Five times listening to someone who got married in a Kansas City courthouse tell you that $7.50 is a completely appropriate price for a Bud Light.

All told it was a productive trip. Two great sites. Two good sites that just don't fit. And one site where we resisted the urge to urinate on the desk of their wedding coordinator.

No need to bash one site or rave about another, because we haven't exactly put together a legal team here on this unpaid blogging site...but there is a rare opportunity to contrast men and women, as it became abundantly clear to me that my future bride and I were looking at these venues through dramatically differently-shaded lenses.

Here are a few examples:

What she saw:
A blank canvas, where with the right angle of sunlight, right flower arrangements, the right lighting and right chairs, she could make the Princess of Wales blush.
What I saw:
Grass. A bunch of grass.

What she saw:
Palm trees whose shadow would cast perfectly over an alter, giving the audience a view of sunlight and the bride the luxury of natural shade.
What I saw:
A chick at the adjacent pool who decided to tattoo an alligator on her right boob.

What she saw:
A beautiful modern spa that could be completely blocked off for the bridal party for hair styling, manicures, pedicures and spa treatments the day of the wedding.
What I saw...or rather "heard":
CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING!

What she saw:
A menu that "looks good."
What I saw:
A menu that for some reason asks you to pay 40% more for apps, salad and dinner than you would if you bought them individually.

What she saw:
Mimosas and Key Lime Pie tarts to greet us to begin our tour of the facility.
What I saw:
A wedding coordinator who knew exactly how to butter-up the person who wears the pants in our relationship.

What she saw:
An unattractive bridal suite in an otherwise beautiful resort.
What I saw:
An unattractive bridal suite in an otherwise beautiful resort. That thing was hideous.

What she saw:
A dining area that could really "pop" with white lights running zig-zag across the space.
What I saw:
Nebraska take advantage of a BS call to take a commanding lead over my beloved University of Washington Husky football team.

What she saw:
A beautiful ficus.
What I saw:
A great place for my friend Ryan to puke up twelve $7.50 Bud Lights.

Did we find a place? Maybe.

Do I expect to have another marathon of site viewings before this thing is over? Yes.

Will I go through with it out of the fear of what might happen to me if I don't? Absolutely.

This blog is my personal voice in the wedding planning process...but is by no means meant to be private. If you enjoyed it, don't be afraid to press the "SHARE" button on the facebook link, or the "RETWEET" button on the twitter link...or just forward it on to your friends and family.
And if you didn't like it, you are clearly a black-hearted social devient with no taste. (But share it anyway, I need the readers.)

If you have questions about weddings, sports, pop-culture or life in general that you'd like me to answer in the blog, just hit the email button on my profile and I'm happy to include it in an upcoming entry.

Thanks for reading,

The Groom

2011-09-12T06:08:00.000-07:00

Friday, Melissa and I finally saw "Crazy Stupid Love".

And I say "finally" because at this pathetic stage of my mandom, when a romantic comedy actually features someone I like (Steve Carell) it becomes as high on the "Must See" List as a new Star Wars movie, the best new restaraunt in town or a doctor after a week of eating in Mazatlan.

I have no intention of writing a review of the movie, or even supplying spoilers for those of you whipped men who will eventually be dragged to it, but the early premise of the movie is a topic worth exploring.

In short, in attempting to assuage his woes/move-on from a surprising divorce, Steve Carell mopes at the bar of a local hot-spot, observing Ryan Gosling continually pursuing and leaving with a new, beautiful woman every night. Eventually, tired of being depressed by the sight of Carell, Gosling does a "Miyagi" on Carell, changing his wordrobe and demeanor, turning him into a ladies man himself.

It is certainly no secret that every unmarried man, in a quiet moment in the mirror, fantasizes that he has the looks, style and bravado to approach and receive the affection of whatever beautiful woman he comes in contact with. (Any guy that says he hasn't thought about this is either lying or has actually been successful in this endeavor and doesn't have the time to day-dream...)

What is less-known is that, much in the manner that Gosling does in "Crazy Stupid Love", that every man also dreams of being the guy that is so smooth, handsome and charming that he can convince any woman he comes across to go home with...his single friend.

Sounds ridiculous, I realize.

But there are a few factors working here:

1. Men--no matter how married and how deeply-committed/loyal they may be, will never grow tired of being liked and appreciated by beautiful women. We may have no intention of cheating, but we absolutely noticed her and really want her to like us. (Women are exactly the same in this regard. They love good-looking members of the opposite sex the same way we do, and I have no fear of telling you all this....via an anonymous print source.)

2. Much in the same way that grown men attempt to play tackle football on Thanksgiving with their high-school friends, married and engaged men like to dust off the ol' cleats every once and a while to convince ourselves that we've still got it when it comes to attracting a woman. (And much in the same way, we wake up the next morning feeling like they just got run over by a dumptruck.)

3. I don't know if a better analogy is "superhero" or "Robin Hood", but the badge of honor that we feel they've earned by giving one of their buddies what they wanted and were unable to gain on their own is a trememendously prideful opportunity for a man. Whether it is helping them move a heavy object or picking up a woman, the other guy doesn't forget, and you have a badge of manhood on your Cub Scout Uniform of life.

All of these combined lead to the simple premise:

Most committed men believe that they can pick up women for their friends. Of course most men also believe that they were one bad break away from playing shortstop for the Dodgers.
Call it "wingman" or "sidekick" or "Scottie Pippen" or whatever you like. Married and engaged men think that because we convinced one short-sighted, ill-fated woman to spend the rest of her life with us that we can convince a whole generation of unsuspecting women to spend at least the latter part of the evening with the buddy we walked into the bar with.

Pay no attention to the fact that we never once succeeded in that endeavor for ourselves.

Pay no attention to the fact that when we were single we didn't even approach women in public settings. Instead, we'd just decide between one of our two go-to options: A) walk around a bar, spilling drinks on every woman in sight, hoping that the goodwill achieved from your apologies outweighs the number of slaps and drycleaning bills you receive. Or B) spend 4 hours of every weekday fondling papayas in the produce section, hoping that some woman will invite you back to her place to...well...do the same thing there...

And finally, pay no attention to the fact that our single friends have been doing the equivalent of living in Barcelona for the past 12 years while we're relying on high school Spanish to communicate with this foreign race of long hair and flowery perfume.

So a message from me to those affected by this ridiculous dillusion that afflicts so many of us:

To our Wives/Fiancees,

We need this. Allow us to go along. Allow us to brag about the minimal favor we did for our friends who never asked us to perform it. We're not going to cheat...we're not even going to think about cheating. We just need the strange, warped ego-stroke here and there.

(But let's be honest--you know that we don't have the courage or wherewithall to ever be unfaithful. Because we love you, cherish you and saw what Elin did to Tiger with that pitching wedge...)

Hugs and Kisses,
Us

To our Friends,

We need this. Allow us to come along. Allow us to brag about our skills. It's really all we have.

(But I'd continue to go after thee same women on your own...we're really not going to help you.)

Fist-pounds and Chest-bumps,
Us

2011-09-08T17:19:00.000-07:00

Ever walk into your doctor's office, check-in, sit down and then pick up a magazine that you've never seen before?

And I'm not referring to "HIGHLIGHTS", the magazine for kids that only exists in doctors offices...I'm talking anything.

Example:
One of my doctor's subscribes to a monthly magazine featuring only $1,000,000+ yachts. First thought--how many readers can this magazine have? Second thought--how are there enough boats over that price to write about every month? Third thought--I'd better digest this information while I have the chance!!

The fact is that if I have nothing to do and there is a magazine in front of me, I may not read it--but I will absolutely pick it up and look at the pictures.

Normally, that's fine. The only magazine on my coffee table (under normal circumstances) is a TV Guide from March of 1987 that I place there to see if people will actually pick it up to figure out what time they can watch ALF...

But this normally hilariously sanctified space has been invaded by a bevy of thick, ad-laden magazines that could strike fear into any man:

Bridal magazines.

Within their 485 pages, you'll find 212 wedding dresses, 23 honeymoon destinations that Oprah couldn't afford and at least 44 adorable ways to decorate a place-setting.

For a man more-focused on important things like Office reruns, video games and Cheez-Its, these would just act as giant coasters, but as we've established--if there is a magazine in front of me, I'll look at it.

So now I'm finding myself with an opinion on color schemes, bridesmaids dresses, Save The Date cards and flower arrangements.

Excuse me while I punch myself in the crotch for the next eleven minutes.

2011-09-02T07:45:00.000-07:00

Today is the day before Labor Day. A day when nobody works until 5. A day when grocery stores are selling out of cold, girly alcoholic drinks, and selling watermelon with huge signs--to give the appearance of a sale--that show a price that is 20% higher than it was yesterday.

It is the subtle, understated opening to the weekend that signifies the packing of our beach gear and the pondering of our rain jackets.

But more than anything it is the day before college football makes its glorious return to the male landscape.

When I was single...which would, for the most part, be the period that stretches from birth until last August, it was just another chapter of the year.

Of course I’m going to get up at 7:00 to watch College Gameday on ESPN---how else am I going to know what Iowa’s 5th-year-senior quarterback thinks about their annual meeting with Minnesota?

And of course I’m going to throw on purple head to toe (like a real man) and be the first person to our tailgate to mentally and digestively prepare for the University of Washington’s opening game.

And of course I’m going to drink all morning, recharge during the game (no alcohol in NCAA events, kiddies!) and then drink all night.

I mean--it’s football season right?

Well there are occasional not-so-subtle changes to lifestyle when you gain a "+1". Among them is the inability to say (with a straight face) that you’re going to be busy every Saturday between Labor Day and the middle of April. (Let’s not forget about college basketball and The Masters!).

That part I was prepared for.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the reality of the overplayed television plot between man and wife/girlfriend/whatever for making plans during these sacred events. I guess I just always assumed that the person I married would be like my mother (who lived in a house of all men for the majority of her married life) and go along with it. But apparently, that isn’t the case...

I’m lucky. Melissa enjoys sports, and is entirely understanding of my obsession with them...but she isn’t a "fan" per say. She’s just tolerant. And when I’m honest, I guess that’s what I want, as I realize that the female sports fan has suddenly become broken into several very distinctly undesirable groups.

Allow me to articulate, making gross-generalizations that I hope several people take personally:

"Don’t-even-think-about-its": The name pretty well explains it. She doesn’t like sports. She doesn’t tolerate sports. And she certainly isn’t going to give you a free pass to bail on plans with her to watch them yourself.

Ironically, if you ask any of these women what their ideal man is, "athletic" will be in their first three descriptors.

(You may also know these women as "Controllers", "Killjoys", "Shoppers", or "Hellspun Devil Witches".)

Positives: You married a woman. You can be certain she will never leave you for her doubles-partner. And you’re going to look great in that pink shirt she has you trying on.
Negatives: I hope you have the Internet on your phone--because your days of watching sports are officially over. Poor a glass of pinot grigio out for your homies...

"Posers": You know her--when a big sporting event is on the horizon, she has big plans for "the game". When a season is approaching, or a local team is suddenly in 1st place, she won’t shut up about how she’s a "die-hard fan". She says moronic things like, "I’m so glad we won!" (Really? "We"? I don’t recall seeing a lot of women playing in that NFL game. I must have missed you...) She has one t-shirt or hat of whatever her go-to pretend favorite team is. She'll actually argue that she is a bigger fan than you, despite knowing no more than 30% of the players on that team at any given time.

My best friend Bill lived in a disgusting garage our junior year in college. In September though, it was actually a pretty good place to hang out and have a few beers because it stayed so much cooler than the rest of the house. One random Tuesday night, five guys and one girl (who was hopelessly trying to sleep with one of Bill’s roommates) were watching Sportscenter and having a couple Busch Lights. At some point, the guy she’s trying to sleep with pops in a dump-truck-sized wad of Copenhagen, and she says, "Man--there’s nothing like having a chew and watching Sportscenter."

Needless to say, we murdered her.

(You may also know these women as "Annoying", "Eternally single", "The Office Slut", or "Uggh...it’s ____")

Positives: She will sleep with you if you take her to a game on a first date, she will never complain about you watching sports, and there is an outside chance that she still looks 3% feminine.
Negatives: You have to listen to her when she uses her two descriptors to describe teams. They either "suck" or "are awesome", depending upon whatever the last person she talked to said about them.

"Lesbians": She has seven jerseys. She actually makes sports bets. She doesn’t really know anything about what is going on on a football field, but she has three fantasy teams, and one of those leagues is with nine of her lesbian friends.

But she isn’t actually a lesbian. Or so she thinks.

She dates men--and often marries them. And for some reason, on sports-radio and terrible television, she’s thought of as a sex-symbol. How many times have you heard an iteration of "And she loves the Broncos! She’s perfect!"? Countless.

Well--the reason she’s perfect for loving the Broncos is because you actually love men. Or more-likely, she actually loves women.

(You may also know her as: "Your local LPGA Golf Pro.")

Positives: Season tickets are the first line-item in the family budget.
Negatives: Your wife pees standing up.

And finally...

"Tolerators": I’ll spare you the belabouring, as I’m using the common editorial tactic of dancing around the concluding statement to deliver a summation statement that amounts to "and I wouldn’t have it any other way."

But essentially, The Tolerator doesn’t care one way or another about sports. She puts up with them because we love them. Or because our kids love them. In my case, Melissa realizes that for the three hours once-a-week that the University of Washington is playing football or basketball, she could tell me that a family of spitting cobras has taken up residence in the bathtub and probably couldn’t grab my attention.

Sometimes she watches. Normally when a friend’s wife, normally a "Poser" or another "Tolerator" is around.

But most of the time she just schedules a lunch with her mom, or a shopping date with a friend, or one of those naked pillow fights that every man believes exist but do not actually.

And she just tolerates my habit.

(You may also know her as: "Television wife", "Soccer Mom", or "Person So Great That Even Though I Know She Doesn’t Read the Garbage I Write, I Know Some of Her Friends Do and I Don’t Want to Take the Risk of Implying That I’d Rather Be With Someone from the Lesbian Group at Times")

Positives: Napkins suddenly appear mystically whenever you pull out chips and dip, the kids always have a ride to games, and there is an outside chance that your daughter will not have a tongue-ring.
Negatives: None, honey. You’re perfect in every way. Especially when we’re just talking and I have a game on in the background on mute and you don’t even know it is on and you say, "Can we watch something else?" That’s adorable and totally not ridiculous.

P.S. I mentioned the "we" issue when discussing "Posers". If there are any single women out there, don’t date "We" Guys. The guys that only refer to the local team--which they probably don’t know a thing about--as "we". "We won". "We need better blocking." "We are going to win the division this year." There are so-called sports fans out there yelling "we" more than a French porn star.

(You know...because the French word for "yes" sounds like "we"?)

(And the fabricated porn stars they put on network television yell, "Yes", during their fake sex-sessions?)

(And I assume that’s the case in France as well?)

We Guys are the lowest possible rung of man.

I know that there is a certain sense of loyalty and pride when the local team succeeds, but people who take credit for the actions of others are not to be tolerated.

"We" didn’t win that game. "They" did.

"We" don’t needbetter pitching, "They" do.

"We" are simply fans. And you aren’t a very good one, We Guy.

Seriously though--how is this possibly acceptable behavior? Does this turd go to a concert of his favorite band, then come home and when someone asks how the concert went, says, "WE had a great set last night."??

I need to stop.

Sorry...I'm not done.

For those of you who are using BS excuses like, "I went to college there, I can say we!", "I’ve been a fan my whole life", or my favorite, "I’m a season-ticket holder--I’ve earned it!", just stop. Please. Before you look any more ridiculous.

You may have gone to college there. But you didn’t play football or basketball or even something femmy like tennis there. You just went there.

I don’t remember seeing you running stairs in the heat of summer preparing for the season when the guys who can actually say "we" were. I know you’re disappointed after a loss, but "we" don’t get trashed in the media the next morning, "They" do.

(I’m pretty sure I stopped addressing the women who date We Guy and began scolding We Guy himself at some point in that rant. But you’re smart. I’m sure you can figure it out...)

2011-08-29T06:43:00.000-07:00

Sorry it has been a while since I’ve written, but the fact is that this journal is supposed to be about a man’s thoughts on the process of getting married/putting on a wedding and the simple fact is that nothing is happening right now.

We’ve made a few appointments to view some sites--but until that happens, there really isn’t to much to complain about.

But here are a few quick observations I’ve made about weddings over the past few weeks that are worth mentioning:

-Dresses should be rented. I know this is not a new statement but it is worth reiterating. Men can and will wear tuxes again. I mean--not often--but it is a possibility. And we still rent.

There is a zero percent chance that you will ever try on that dress again, except to in some way prove to yourself that you’re still in wedding-day-shape because you happened to be able to zip it up.

-Men could not give one heaping, steaming pile of crap about the colors of a wedding, provided they aren’t something that makes them look gay. (And pink and purple can be done properly if you decided what your wedding should look like when you were 8. I will not wear a pink suit, but a pink tie is fine provided I don’t have a moustache.)

-Never abbreviate "Save The Date". Ever. Women, you don't want your future husband to see your to-do list that reads, "Drop-off Dry Cleaning, Get Haircut, Pick-up a Gallon of Milk, Check on STDs."

-I have an enormous invite list for this wedding. ENORMOUS. And I’m not inviting a ton of family. It doesn’t mean I have a decision-making problem, it means that I am a popular mother f*****.

And most important:

-A wedding has nothing to do with a marriage. I barely see how the two are related anymore. It’s like those college girls who tried to sound less slutty by saying they were "making love". No they weren’t. They were experimenting just like every other drunk, horny girl in their sorority.

A wedding is a complete ME!ME!ME! fiasco that is supposed to mark the beginning of a marriage but is actually just a strange backlash against all of your friends that made you go to their ME!ME!ME! parties and a weird taunting of everyone you know who hasn’t got to throw their own.

Not to say I don’t want a big, obnoxious, in-your-face wedding. I’m just saying that I’m aware of my self-centered nature...

2011-08-17T21:11:00.000-07:00

I got an email from my friend Adam the other day. It opened as follows:

"Congrats on the wedding. When is the date? What is the date? What day are you getting married? On what day is the wedding? What day is the wedding occurring?"

And God bless him.

I have little doubt that I’ve been the one asking these ridiculous questions and bringing up the minutiae-of-the-experience-that-caters-to-me-as-a-guest-but-does-nothing-for-the-marrying-parties, BUT THAT WAS ME!

It was fine when it was me!

Of course you’re going to invite me to your wedding! I’m delightful!

But in the meantime, we’re going to go ahead and plan the wedding we want and you’re either going to come or not come. And frankly we don’t give a damn either way. The purpose here is to get married---not to appease you, Oh Uninvited One!

(Sorry to confuse, Mom. You’re still invited. I really do appreciate the effort...let’s just wait until the bride makes a decision before we start worrying about detail #323...)

It’s absolutely maddening how people believe that in the Era of the Overblown Wedding that such an event can be scheduled (much less planned) in two weeks. Clearly--he’s been through it.

The best part however is that people aren’t concerned with helping you find a venue or helping you choose a date--they’re just worried about their invitation and what inconsequential thing you can do to please them in the process of building this event. "Oh that’s great--it will be so nice to sip brandy after dinner on the veranda there."

A) You’re not going to be invited.
B) We’re not serving liquor.
C) If we were, we sure as cat-turds wouldn’t be serving brandy after dinner (you know--because it isn’t 1957)
D) You’re not going to be invited.

But this is where there is an element of fun in trimming the guestlist. It is really the only time in a persons life that they get to feel like the Grim Reaper...

Even the people on the inner-circle play their little campaigning games. My mom would be happy for us even if we got married in a lab that was doing poorly-executed experiments on puppies...so outwardly, she isn’t campaigning for one place or another. But in hints that are about as subtle as nitroglycerine, she would not be upset if we decided to get married in the Palm Springs/Palm Desert-area, which just so happens to be where their vacation home is.

Funny how that works out.

It isn’t just that she pays 3x more attention when we’re talking about that as a locale compared to other places, but she has far more blatant pokes-to-the-side as well. Yesterday, I opened my mail to find two photographs she had printed of the cars of two of their friends in the desert, indicating that we could use one of them as our "ride away from the wedding" car...

Obviously, I’m blessed to have a mother who would take the time to print these pictures out, but I immediately threw them away, as the getaway car is the last thing we should be considering when deciding on the place we’ll make the biggest commitment of our lives!

2011-08-10T06:40:00.000-07:00

We’re five days into this and I’m considering either eloping or sticking my head in the oven.

I think the next time I tell the story of how I proposed, I’m going to slit my wrists with a battle-axe. I actually resent the happiest moment of my life. Is that wrong?

And that’s not enough. People want to know when and where too!

Why do the people that are going to be eternally designated to the B-list for wedding invitations seem to be the ones who are most curious as to when it will take place and where? They seem to care more than I do.

The average call goes something like this:

Them: "HEY MAN! CONGRATS!"

Me: "Thank you."

Them: "I (and a date!) deserve to have 16 drinks on your future-wife’s parents’ and sneak into every picture because of this anecdote about the two of us from 8 years ago...that I’m about to tell you...that wasn’t so much meaningful as it was tedious. … … … Man we couldn’t be happier for you. Just let us know if we can do anything!"

Of course I’m paraphrasing...

2011-08-07T08:11:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning with a fiancee. It’s kind of like waking up with a sore throat where it is on your mind the entire night, but you’re not really sure if it is true until you get out of bed.

(Though--I don’t think I could get that ring away from her with a shotgun, much less by gargling salt-water.)

Here are the highlights:

9:58 AM

We arrive at a friend’s place, as he’s moving to San Francisco and wants to rent out his condo. Nice place and Melissa likes it. That’s good...we can check that off the to-do list.

(Why am I mentioning this? You’ll see.)

1:11 PM

The marine layer hasn’t lifted and we’ve pretty well decided that we’re going to waste a summer day indoors, watching TNT movies. Note to guys: Don’t watch "Definitely, Maybe" on the day you’re going to propose. (Who am I kidding? It isn’t appropriate on the day your going to shoot up a Kinkos either...but a movie where a guy gets rejected on two proposals is bad for your mojo.)

3:42 PM

The weather has broken a bit. We have a 6 PM reservation (because we’re 147 years old!) so she decides that we should go for a walk...

3:53 PM

Have I mentioned how well Melissa and I get along? It’s really amazing. I was thinking about it two days previous thinking, "With the exception of when she had oral surgery and couldn’t eat for four days, we’ve never once had a disagreement where she cried." Normally it is 2-3 dates before I make a girl cry. Here we are, a year in to the day and not a tear.

Or so I thought.

She laid one of the most divinely serendipitous guilt-trips in the history of relationships on me. Gave me the "I-just-signed-another-12-month-lease. I’m-not-saying-we-have-to-get-married-right-away...I’m-not-even-saying-we-have-to-move-in-right-away...but-you-didn’t-even-make-mention-of-it. I-need-you-to-start-thinking-about-that...because-if-this-lease-ends-and-we’re-still-not-on-that-track, that’s-probably-the-end-of-the-track."

JACKPOT!

You’ve heard of the term "milking"? I squeezed every drop out of this metaphorical udder.

A few of my favorite quotes:

"I’m getting there...I mean--that’s where I want to be--I’m just not there yet."

"I don’t want to be pressured."

and the cous de gras:

"What if we got a storage unit together?"

4:58 PM

Walk ends and I shower up for dinner. I put on a pair of cargo shorts because I figure that that is the only way to get the ring around without her noticing.

"What are you going to sneak out with some dinner rolls? Change."

I almost retorted before realizing that she doesn’t know that I have a platinum, circular, get-out-of-anything-bad-I’ve-ever-done in my pocket.

So I change.

And bring a coat.

(The coat has a ring in it.)

(An engagement ring.)

(The engagement ring I’m going to propose with.)

7:10 PM

We’ve finished an unsurprisingly fantastic dinner at the absolutely delicious yet horrendously overpriced restaurant of my choosing and are milling post-dinner options. I suggest, "What if we went down to the bench where we had our first kiss and watch the sunset?" to which she responds, "It’s 7:10. We’d just be watching the sun. Unless you want to sit there for two hours! AND THAT’S NOT HAPPENING!"

Awesome.

Meanwhile, I’d brought Melissa’s favorite wine to dinner and paid the corkage fee, but there was about a glass left. We were both half-full, so when the waitress inquired whether or not we’d be having dessert, the following exchange occurs:

Me: "No, I actually baked" (key lime pie--Melissa’s favorite) "so we’ll be eating dessert at home. If you just want to finish off that wine we’ll just take the check" as I motion to our two half-full glasses.

Waitress: "Well thank you, Waters Rose is one of my favorites." About three beats... "Oh...you didn’t mean for me, did you?"

I’m quite certain you had to be there to realize precisely how out of line she was...but as you’ll read, it’s likely the only charming moment of our engagement (or our entire wedding-planning-process) so I’m including it.

7:38 PM

Having arrived at the bench where we first kissed, which is a lovely, lakeside bench that looks out over Lake Washington and the Seattle skyline, I realize that it is Seafair (Seattle’s fleet-week) and there are roughly 20,000 drunk boaters trying to get their parents’ boats onto a trailer within 30’ of the spot I’d decided to propose. Now I’m not one for sentiment, but the idea of my proposal being drowned out by a guy yelling, "Timbo! You get those empties out of the boat? My dad’s gonna be pissed!" just doesn’t strike me as a moment to remember.

7:49 PM

Thinking quickly, I realize that about 100 yards away, there is a quiet, secluded hill in a park with a similar view...we’re headed that way.

7:51 PM

Apparently an ugly family knows of the hill. And has invited all of their relatives for a picnic.

8:07 PM

We drove about two miles north to a less-populated park along the lake that we go to frequently on summer days to watch first-time mothers’ breasts fall out of their hopelessly small bathing suits and listen to pre-diabetic children scream at their 2nd-generation, illegitimate hispanic fathers for not buying them a snowcone. (They’re legitimately hispanic. Just haven’t married their baby mama. Try to keep up.)

Truth be told, it is a great viewpoint for a sunset. And voila! There are 5 open benches.

Exhale.

I’m going to pee...we’ll reconvene shortly.

8:12 PM

It was a long pee. Sue me.

8:13 PM

I walk out of the restroom expecting to see Melissa outside the door or seated on one of the five wide-open benches on the shoreline.

But she’s not there.

She’s on the dock.

That’s a problem.

Why?

Well if a dock were over land, it would be called a "porch", and I’d be fine with it. But unfortunately, they’re over water, and shaky-handed balding men after 3 glasses of effeminate rose are known for dropping expensive rings into water.

8:32 PM

She thinks I’m insane, but I’ve lured her to the shore. She probably thinks that I really like the jacket I’m carrying at my side with the stranglehold of a boa constrictor.

8:49 PM

Having waited for a very loud, very fat 14-year-old girl to finish chasing around the kids that hangout with her now, but will avoid her like the Ebola Virus when they start high school in a month to clear out, everything kind of went blank.

I wasn’t nervous.

I didn’t tremble.

I just dropped to a knee and said...

Well neither of us has any idea what I said. (And I’m not holding out, I genuinely don’t remember. I think it was something about "like a dinosaur to a tar pit, I’m drawn to you"...but about a ten minute period is completely blank.)

Though she did cry. And laugh. And there was a snort or two...which I’m totally into.

2011-08-06T07:12:00.000-07:00

Good morning.

Apparently I’m proposing today.

As of now it just feels like another Saturday.

If it doesn’t workout, oh well...it is just marriage. It isn’t permanent.

2011-08-04T18:50:00.000-07:00

Four days ago, I successfully waited for, and then completed what I--at the time--considered the most-stressful portion of the engagement process: I asked her parents for their blessing.

I can’t say that it went as designed.

I picked that particular day because Melissa works on Sundays and it was one of the rare weekends that her sister (who lives in Los Angeles) was in town. Seeing as how I go home to my parents’ house (which is about ¼ mile of private road away from her parents’) every Sunday, I figured that i could quite easily "just swing by" and smoothly ask her entire family for their permission.

Turns out they made plans without my permission.

Finding out that I had about a 20-minute window where they were a) dressed and b) still home, I rushed over there.

No stress to this point.

But about half way through this 80-second drive, I got a feeling in my stomach that felt like a cross between nerves and instantaneous and aggressive diarrhea.

Hobbling to their front door, I pulled her sister outside, showed her the ring and then had her lead me into the house.

Now I’m trembling like a gummy bear on a paint-shaker and I just blurt out "I’m here to ask your permission to marry your daughter!"

Well let that tactlessness be a theme.

I told her parents the same thing I told my own--that my plan was to propose about six weeks from that point; on a trip that I gave her for her birthday. But after the pure trepidation that was asking permission, I’ve realized that going two days into a vacation with a ring in my bag is going to make the stress of the moment seem relatively minuscule.

So in an email exchange with her sister, I start brainstorming ideas only to realize that the only Friday or Saturday evening that we have available between now and October is Saturday night.

That’s two days from now.

So here I sit, in an airport in Boston, having slept about 12 hours in three nights that stretched Seattle--New York--Boston--and now I’m waiting to go back to Seattle and I’m realizing that my nerves have created only one certainty about my flight:

I am going to vomit a vomit so violent that Jesus will refuse to hold my hair as I do so.

Amazing how my complete lack of patience and maturity can shape perhaps the biggest decision of my life.