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 a magazine that makes you believe that it was made exclusively for your doctor.

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! This is an entire magazine about million-dollar yachts!"


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.

Today is the day before Labor Day Weekend. 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 percent 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 "plus 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 ____")

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.
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.

"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."  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 need better 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...)

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 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 things I have managed to learn about weddings over the past few weeks:

-Dresses should be rented. I know this isn't 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 the girl will wear that dress again, unless she happens to earn a role in a Paul Rudd movie.

-Still not entirely certain that my mom believes me that I'm straight. She adores my fiancee, but occasionally gives me a look that says, "Oh right, I forgot...you're 'IN LOVE' with her! hehe...its okay sweetie, I know you like dudes."

-Someone told us not to skimp on food, as people associate chicken with "cheap." What if we made our vows all about how much we like chicken? Maybe they'd associate chicken with "two people who really like chicken."

-Men could not give one steaming pile of crap about the colors of a wedding, provided they don't look gay.  (And girls: pink and purple can be done properly if you decided what your wedding should look like when you were eight.  I will not wear a pink suit, but a pink tie is fine provided I don’t have a mustache or a sequined tuxedo.)

-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 beloved to Pope-levels.  I'm looking forward to the day I have to axe a bunch of the people on the list. I'm going to invite all of my groomsmen over and do an NCAA Basketball Selection Show, except with wedding invites. "And on the strength of a few key late-season wins, the #13 seed in the West is Peter."  "Shame that Aunt Lorraine didn't make the field. A strong season, but found herself on the wrong side of The Bubble."

And most importantly:

-A wedding has nothing to do with a marriage. I barely see how the two are related anymore.   One is about eternal devotion and the strength we gain in submitting our lives to another.  The other is about melon wrapped in prosciutto. 

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 the taunting of the lonely people who haven't had a ME!ME!ME! party of their own.

 

Now that's not to say that we've learned from all of this and are going to have a simple ceremony.  I'm just telling you that I'm aware of how ridiculous it is. 

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 as if hearing the story of the proposal isn't enough, people are presumptuous enough to want to know when and where we're getting married!  You know what??? SO DO I! 

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.  Is there anything we can do?"

Of course I’m paraphrasing.  But what if we did ask them to do something? 

"You know--now that you mention it--we're moving this weekend and I could really use a hand."
"Actually, you could do something.  Would you mind learning the entire Swedish language? We have some cousins coming in for the wedding and want them to feel comfortable."
"Yes, there is something you can do.  Could you come by once an hour for the rest of my life and tell me what time it is? I really don't like using clocks."
"That's so nice of you.  Would you mind handing out programs and building a floating church for us to get married in?"
"Oh yeah, that would be great. Could you write 2,000 words on how Google Plus works?" 

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 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, 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 are in fact legitimately hispanic. Their birth has not been legitimized via marriage. 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 pink girl wine 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.

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.

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 plucked all of my nosehair.

And then I asked her parents for permission.

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 the 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 diarrhea.

Hobbling to their front door, I pulled the sister outside and showed her the ring.  I think I accidentally proposed to her. But she's alright.  So it isn't a complete loss...

So she leads me into the house. 
They walk around the corner, and I'm trembling like a gummy bear on a paint-shaker and just blurt out "I’m here to ask your permission to marry Melissa!"


This is the first step of what I hope will be the story of our wedding. I say "hope" because there's always an outside shot that he says no. 
Didn't see that one coming, did you?  That's right, Melissa is a dude.  A big, 6'4", 260 pound dude. He looks like the guy in the Brawny ads.

That's a lie. Melissa is 6'2", tops.

　

So I've got permission, but now I've got to propose.  And once again, a well-intentioned, well-thought-out plan goes tragically awry...

I told her parents the same thing I told my own: that my plan was to propose about six weeks from that day, on a trip that I gave her for her birthday.  But after the pure trepidation I felt while 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.  

In an email exchange with her sister, I started 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 upcoming flight:

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

God help us...