Until they help me out and get the ticker actually ticking, the day we are counting down to is:
SATURDAY, AUGUST 7th 2010
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Countdown Begins ... Officially Part 2
A giant storm-cloud blocked the ray of sun shining on my ticker. This one doesn't work either. Let's be honest, it probably does, I just can't get it to. I'm quickly regretting calling my future brother-in-laws "(annoyingly) computer literate". Hopefully the comparison to Shakespeare makes up for it.
The Countdown Begins ... Officially
Yes, we have picked a date. More on all of this process later. For now, just enjoy the not so nifty ticker on the right side of the page. I've been very excited about installing this since the countdown sort of began many months ago. I had some ideas of grandeur for the layout: shooting stars, exploding fireworks, maybe a champagne bottle uncorking. But alas, I am computer technology illiterate. It's taken me four frustrating internet sessions hunting down a "countdown plugin" that actually works, or more truthfully, that I can get to work. This is what I've come up with. Well, for now anyway, until I consult with either of my two future brother-in-laws. They are both (annoyingly) computer literate, like Shakespeare literate, and one of them is an artist. I'm sure the pedestrian, half-baked excuse for a countdown display is grating every esthetic sensibility in his soul right now. If I weren't so proud of the fact that there is an actual ticker in my blog that is ticking I'd be scowling at it too. But I'm not. In fact, I'm half convinced I see a golden glow around the damn thing - the sun shining on my tech-savvy moment.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Hunting the Hunter Part II
Where was I? Right...
THE TIGER CUB
Just past the main drag where the ritzier realty establishments house themselves we found a place specializing in lake front rentals. The woman behind the desk was an outdoorsy type in her mid-thirties; warm as fresh baked pie. She arrived in Tahoe from SoCal eighteen years ago and never left. She loved skiing and hated all the road bikers that clog the single lane highway that wraps around the lake. We gleaned this information within five minutes.
After a few earlier mishaps, stutters, blank looks and what not, we were far more confident this time around. The irony being that we probably didn't have to be.
ME: We're having a family reunion here next summer, and we're looking for a place on the lake that can house 12-15, but accommodate a lot of people coming and going.
She knew. They all do. But instead of trying to pry, she just smiled, pulled out a couple keys, and said:
TIGER CUB: I've got time to show you one. It's an unbelievable property. And I'll give you keys to a few more you can check out on your own.
We followed her down the highway . It was slow going for seemingly no reason until we passed a gaggle of bikers on a charity ride. New light was shed on the Tiger Cub's random tirade about road bikers.
We pulled into a paved driveway. It was long enough to park a good 20-25 cars - something to consider when throwing a party. The property was magnificent in an understated, "this is how Tahoe should be" kind of way. The house sat a good hundred yards back and up from the lake and was on over an acre of land. It had a sprawling deck, a pool to the side, a paved volleyball/basketball court with a horseshoe pit next to it, and a stone fire pit/grill of sorts with the largest built-in Lazy Susan I've ever seen.
Before us, basically, was an ideal we were searching for and never expected to find. Sure, it was a little rustic. Sure, one of our friends would probably get drunk and nearly drown in the pool. Sure, the "aisle" was a steep and treacherous dirt path from the house to the lake. But man, the idea of a week in this house with family and friends; swimming, bbqing horse-shoeing, tanning on the two docks, and finally, at the end of it all, throwing a festivus-maximus of a wedding.
The Tiger cub could sense our excitement. With undeniable good will, but a certain underlying killer instinct apparently intrinsic in all tigers, she smiled and purred:
TIGER CUB: Don't tell the owner, but I've rented it and thrown a couple parties here myself. We had like 60 or 70 people here for my husbands 40th; it's such a great party house.
THE TIGER CUB
Just past the main drag where the ritzier realty establishments house themselves we found a place specializing in lake front rentals. The woman behind the desk was an outdoorsy type in her mid-thirties; warm as fresh baked pie. She arrived in Tahoe from SoCal eighteen years ago and never left. She loved skiing and hated all the road bikers that clog the single lane highway that wraps around the lake. We gleaned this information within five minutes.
After a few earlier mishaps, stutters, blank looks and what not, we were far more confident this time around. The irony being that we probably didn't have to be.
ME: We're having a family reunion here next summer, and we're looking for a place on the lake that can house 12-15, but accommodate a lot of people coming and going.
She knew. They all do. But instead of trying to pry, she just smiled, pulled out a couple keys, and said:
TIGER CUB: I've got time to show you one. It's an unbelievable property. And I'll give you keys to a few more you can check out on your own.
We followed her down the highway . It was slow going for seemingly no reason until we passed a gaggle of bikers on a charity ride. New light was shed on the Tiger Cub's random tirade about road bikers.
We pulled into a paved driveway. It was long enough to park a good 20-25 cars - something to consider when throwing a party. The property was magnificent in an understated, "this is how Tahoe should be" kind of way. The house sat a good hundred yards back and up from the lake and was on over an acre of land. It had a sprawling deck, a pool to the side, a paved volleyball/basketball court with a horseshoe pit next to it, and a stone fire pit/grill of sorts with the largest built-in Lazy Susan I've ever seen.
Before us, basically, was an ideal we were searching for and never expected to find. Sure, it was a little rustic. Sure, one of our friends would probably get drunk and nearly drown in the pool. Sure, the "aisle" was a steep and treacherous dirt path from the house to the lake. But man, the idea of a week in this house with family and friends; swimming, bbqing horse-shoeing, tanning on the two docks, and finally, at the end of it all, throwing a festivus-maximus of a wedding.
The Tiger cub could sense our excitement. With undeniable good will, but a certain underlying killer instinct apparently intrinsic in all tigers, she smiled and purred:
TIGER CUB: Don't tell the owner, but I've rented it and thrown a couple parties here myself. We had like 60 or 70 people here for my husbands 40th; it's such a great party house.
This was code for: I don't care. Do whatever you want here. As long as the owners don't know, I won't have to charge you an "event fee." (I will speak more on this "event fee" later)
ANDREW/MICHELLE: Yeah. Wow! It really is! This place is amazing, etc...
TIGER CUB: I've got some work to do back at the office. I'll leave you guys here to look around some more. Just lock up on your way out.
For at least another half hour we pretended we just won the lottery and splurged on a lake house. We perused our new property, relaxed on the dock, dipped our feet in the icy water and discussed what renovations were in order. What can I say, the place spoke to us.
We drove up the long driveway counting imaginary parking spaces.
MICHELLE: Maybe we could squeeze 27 or 28 cars.
ANDREW: We'll probably have to bus people in.
There were a few other minor problems with the place, but nothing insurmountable. We headed back into Tahoe City feeling just a little bit lighter about our location situation. At last, we had an option. Yes, just one, but at this point it was a long journey from none.
THE SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN
With no interest in finding my bank account stripped, my credit frozen or a waking to a silenced-Glock pressed to my forehead, I won't post the advertised picture of the lake house I speak of next. I have little doubt that the glitzy, high profile real estate agency could and would seek retribution through one of the various back channels they have on speed dial. Having a general idea of what the picture looked like, however, is important to understanding the beast we were dealing with.
On their website full of professionally photographed cabins, houses but mostly mansions for rent we came across a red farmhouse with a sprawling mint green lawn. To one side there was a gazebo with a hot tub, and meandering through the lawn was a rock-laden path leading to the lake and to a picturesque dock that extended far out into the blue Tahoe water. Paradise.
To rent the place for the week wasn't cheap, but if it would house family and friends and also act as our wedding ceremony and reception location it seemed like a fair deal. So, after a couple cocktails at the Bridgetender to warm up our negotiating tongues we sauntered in to the real estate agency. There were two well-dressed agents busy with clients. They hardly batted an eye at the smell of fresh meat, but we certainly didn't go unnoticed. A kind smile and a finger - one minute - from the fellow nearest to us. We pretended to seem interested in a folder full of eight-figure mansions for sale until he finished up.
A few minutes later we were comfortably perched around this slick assassins work station, a flat-panel display in front of us with various shots of the lake front farmhouse that piqued out interest.
SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: It's a spectacular property. The pictures don't do it justice.
Hard to believe, but whatever. There was a soft, sweet bourbon tone in this guys delivery that made you want to drink the kool-aid.
ME: Really? Wow! Can we take a look at it?
SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: Unfortunately...(pause)... there's no one that can take you there today. Hmmm...(looks at his schedule)... How's tomorrow morning work?
We nod. Yeah, that works fine. He smiles. Then, because he's a Saber-Toothed Assassin and not just some over-fed zoo cat, he lunges straight for the elephant in the room - fangs bared.
SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: You two are really going to love it. It's one of the only wedding friendly private rentals on the lake. Most won't do them.
So smooth that it took a minute...did we mention anything about a wedding? Huh, I don't think we did. But cool, they're wedding friendly. That's GREAT!
I will concede that there are many interpretations of wedding friendly. Mine is by no means the platinum standard, and apparently, when dealing with death-machine of this caliber, you have to be prepared for anything.
SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: The love it when guests throw weddings on their property. How couldn't they, right.
It guess it did make sense. If I owned a place like this (which I don't, so I can't really verify what I'm about to say, but...), I suppose I'd want happy couples (like Michelle and me) to have the opportunity to experience their special day in the version of paradise I owned and rented. If you've got it, share it. Right?
SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: Now, there is an event fee. It's (insert the weekly summer rate for the house).
ANDREW: I thought that was the price to rent the place for the week.
SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: Yes, and then the fee is to hold an event there.
He smiled like it was worth every hard-earned penny. I imagine this is the part in the script where he hopes that either I or Michelle has fallen so ass-over-teakettle for the place that all rational neurons have gone bat-shit crazy. That we'd whip out a suitcase full of green backs, sign on the dotted line and offer our jugulars without so much as a cat-fight.
Not the case. Michelle and I looked at each other and let out a mutual sigh about as aggressively passive-aggressive as you can make. The assassin didn't miss a punch.
SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: I could talk to the owners if you like. They're good people. Maybe I could get the fee down to around (insert 45% less than before).
While the whole notion of renting a house for a week and then paying a large additional fee to basically have some people over seems insane, he was at least trying to sweeten up the insanity a bit. Pander to our quickly waning interest.
I can't remember exactly how we left it with him. Probably that we'd call to set up a time to look at the property the next day. We were glad to escape, and despite our near death by mauling, still somewhat intrigued by this property. We put off the much needed hot tub and beer waiting for us back at the cabin and went on a scouting mission. It was the best idea we had all day.
From the pictures, the "farmhouse" appeared to be on a decent plot of land and remote enough to have a party with no worry. In fact, when viewing the house from the road, it was nothing like that. It was practically attached to the houses on either side, and located on a narrow road with no parking whatsoever. The side of the house we were looking at was not red, and had no apparent features that you'd expect from a traditional "farmhouse". Literally it was as if we were staring at the backside of a movie set - just stilts and framing holding up the pseudo American dream on the other side. Annoying at first, but then I felt like I wanted to pat the assassin on the back (and hire his photographer for our wedding). Perfect trap, my friend, perfect trap.
Had the assassin accompanied us, I'm sure he'd have tried to hypnotize us with kaleidoscope eyes. Maybe even offer some LCD laced bubbly to seal the deal. Or, more likely, tried to sell us on something more suitable, a.k.a. more expensive, for our wedding location. Luckily we circumvented his devious ways. The answer was simple - not interested.
Not the case. Michelle and I looked at each other and let out a mutual sigh about as aggressively passive-aggressive as you can make. The assassin didn't miss a punch.
SABER-TOOTHED ASSASSIN: I could talk to the owners if you like. They're good people. Maybe I could get the fee down to around (insert 45% less than before).
While the whole notion of renting a house for a week and then paying a large additional fee to basically have some people over seems insane, he was at least trying to sweeten up the insanity a bit. Pander to our quickly waning interest.
I can't remember exactly how we left it with him. Probably that we'd call to set up a time to look at the property the next day. We were glad to escape, and despite our near death by mauling, still somewhat intrigued by this property. We put off the much needed hot tub and beer waiting for us back at the cabin and went on a scouting mission. It was the best idea we had all day.
From the pictures, the "farmhouse" appeared to be on a decent plot of land and remote enough to have a party with no worry. In fact, when viewing the house from the road, it was nothing like that. It was practically attached to the houses on either side, and located on a narrow road with no parking whatsoever. The side of the house we were looking at was not red, and had no apparent features that you'd expect from a traditional "farmhouse". Literally it was as if we were staring at the backside of a movie set - just stilts and framing holding up the pseudo American dream on the other side. Annoying at first, but then I felt like I wanted to pat the assassin on the back (and hire his photographer for our wedding). Perfect trap, my friend, perfect trap.
Had the assassin accompanied us, I'm sure he'd have tried to hypnotize us with kaleidoscope eyes. Maybe even offer some LCD laced bubbly to seal the deal. Or, more likely, tried to sell us on something more suitable, a.k.a. more expensive, for our wedding location. Luckily we circumvented his devious ways. The answer was simple - not interested.
Complications ensued when we really got into the nitty-gritty of throwing an on-the-sly wedding at a private residence. As excited as we were to tussle with the Tiger Cub, we recognized that we were still playing with tigers and there was good chance of getting scratched. There was another location that we had been considering all along, one that I didn't mention so far because it didn't require real estate agents or banquet facility coordinators.
We found a place free of any hunters. We actually had to hunt them down for information and a way to secure the deal. Sure, they want some money for the location, but a friendly amount. Sure, they have someone in charge of weddings (I can't even call her a coordinator), but she's not there to badger, push and up-sell us into anything. Really, she's just there to collect that paperwork and answer questions . And what's even better, it's an entity that we both support and frequently enjoy - California State Parks. We may come across a bear or two, but one thing I'm certain, we're safe from the Saber-Toothed Tigers.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Hunting the Hunter
Say, for instance, you're hunting in India. Suddenly, fifty yards separates you and the Bengal Tiger you've come for. Even at this distance her warm breath prickles the fur on your back; somehow you smell she's hungry. This beast, this creature of the wild that eats ninety pounds of flesh in one sitting locks eyes with you. Strange, she doesn't look quite as you remember. The picture, that one from National Geographic a year and a half ago? You know, the one that got you excited enough to book this adventure across the globe to a mysterious land to hunt a large and oft starved cat? Yeah, well, news to you, there is a certain visceral quality missing from that photograph that isn't apparent until now. Until the Bengal Tiger is actually in front of you, so close that the glean off her damp coat shimmers hypnotically. Your knees knock at the thought of those sabers (much larger and sharper in real life) digging into your sculpted torso. Mauling the body you've worked so hard on these last six months while preparing for this - The Hunt.
You thought you'd be tough. You thought you'd take steady aim, fire before the Tiger even noticed your existence. You pictured yourself laying in front of a crackling fire on your tiger skin rug admiring the head of your spoils stuffed and mounted above the mantle. The hunted on the wall of the hunter.
But now, again, back in this rugged and foreign land, with your rifle aimed square at this imposing beast as she charges towards you - the delight of fatty American flesh on her mind you're sure - you question your role in this scenario. Out of the corner of your eye you swear two more tigers emerge from the brush. Maybe it's coincidence. Maybe they're just out for a stroll. Or maybe, the horn's been sounded and they're here for the hunt; here to hunt the hunter. And then those two tigers you think you saw, well, you did. And they're charging at you too. It all comes together in one split second of fear-inspired enlightenment. This is the land of the Saber Toothed Tiger. You don't belong here unless you're ready. Unless you're skilled. Unless you're wise to their aggressive ways. In this land, their land, you are always the hunted. Never the hunter. Period.
Michelle and I have never hunted Bengal Tigers in India, but over a rainy weekend in June we did hunt for wedding locations in Lake Tahoe. While I can't say for certain which is more dangerous, I can tell you with a great amount of assurance that the hunt of the illusive wedding location is a precarious activity. We marched in with the confidence of General Zarroff, but quickly realized in this version of The Most Dangerous Game, even poor old Sanger Rainsford had us in spades.
Our grand plan was to rent out a house on the lake for week and just throw the wedding there. Sounds simple, right? About as simple as hunting a Bengal tiger sounds to someone that doesn't hunt. Just point your gun and shoot. What's the big deal? It's an over-sized cat.
Before our trip we perused online to get a lay of the land. We didn't look too hard though, so when we arrived we had some serious pavement to pound. Many real estate offices line the main drag in Tahoe City. With the exception of one, the lair of the Saber-Toothed Assassin which I will get to later, none stood out above the others. So, we just started popping in at random. Luckily, our first stop was an easy cat to handle.
THE ZOO TIGER
We walked into the first Real Estate Agent's office. It was a low-key place - seemed to deal with properties on the low to middle end of the spectrum. The Agent noticed us immediately, eyed us up and down, then gave a docile smile. Oh, the smell of fresh meat.
She was smoker and a little overweight. She wheezed up every set of stairs we climbed. It wasn't hard to tell she led a sedentary life. She'd been a real estate agent in North Lake for over twenty years - at this point, the rental business practically ran itself. The same people rent the same place for the same week every summer. She just does the paperwork. She may once have roamed free with other killer cats, but through one twist of fate or another, she ended up in the zoo. Yes, she was a caged and domesticated tiger. Fed on routine by the zookeeper, and in no real danger of extinction.
She didn't have much to offer. But, in her defense, she gave it her best shot. We were like two monkeys that somehow escaped the rain forest exhibit and accidentally fell into her world. Sure, if she could catch us we'd be a nice meal, but she'd be fed either way, so there was no reason to tire herself in a prolonged hunt. So...
She went straight for the kill.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: I've got the perfect lake front house for you guys. They're renovating it right now, but lets just swing by so you can get a feel for it.
We followed her downstairs. Through her passenger window I could see fast food wrappers and empty Winston cartons littering the inside of her car.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: Why don't ...(weaze)...you two...(weaze)...follow me.
Good idea. Five minutes later we arrived at a mansion wedged between other mansions on the lake. F-150's, table-saws, lumber and extension cords littered the slate driveway.
The agent got out of her car. She looked peppy again, or as peppy as she could muster. Probably hacked down a cigarette on the drive over for a little nicotine burst. She needed help.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: So, what's the occasion?
Michelle and I had been warned about this question. For good reason, and I'll get to that in Part Two, we lied.
MICHELLE OR ME: Family reunion.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: Oh, perfect. How fun! You know, I don't know how many people you'll be having...
Her eyes probed our faces for a tell. We gave nothing.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: ... but I've got this place across the street, too. In case you need more space. Let's take a look?
And without a response she trudged across the street and up the driveway of a ramshackle, 70's retro, semi A-frame kind of thing. You could see the inch-long shag carpet through the window from fifty yards out. In its defense, it had a big deck and a few separate apartments which apparently, "are good...(cough)...for the relatives...(weaze)...with kids".
The place was a dump-hole and she knew it. But this dump-hole was also an added bonus, and she knew that too. What she was really saying when she was wheezing about a good place to put relatives with kids was,"this is a perfect place to house all the idiot drunk friends you guys are inviting to the wedding you're not telling me about." Every seasoned Saber Tooth has a method of hunt, and hers, while fairly simple in nature, was effective nonetheless. This was step one: Sweeten the meat.
Michelle winked at me behind the Zoo tiger's back --
MICHELLE: Yeah, this would be a great place to..."put the relatives with kids."
ME: There's a lot of 'em*. And they're really loud and obnoxious. This is...perfect.
Zoo Tiger could hardly keep the saliva in her mouth as she loped down the driveway to the big kahuna lake front mansion. With the meat sweetened, she was giddy to lay it out for bait.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: Careful...(hack)...of all the...(weaze)...extension cords.
We watched our step and entered.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: Stunning, isn't it?
It was only half-remodeled, but enough was done to imagine a QVC millionaire relaxing on a leopard print couch, sipping an apple martini and basking in every ostentatious last detail of his dream house. I turned the corner into the bathroom half-expecting a tub supported by four gold paws and 18 carat rendition of Aslan for a faucet. No such luck. The tub was still in Italy.
Unfamiliar with the tone of young and wild animals, I'm fairly certain that the Zoo Tiger misinterpreted the meaning of the "Wows" that kept slipping from our mouths like little scoff daggers. Tipped by what she perceived as our excitement, she chose this moment for the final step in the hunt - The Big Kill. And when I say big...
REAL ESTATE AGENT: I have to talk to the owner, but I can probably do (insert the price of a Prius) for a week. And, of course, that comes with use of the slip out front.
MICHELLE AND ANDREW: WOW!
The Zoo Tiger's keen ears easily picked up on the change of tone. The "holy shit that's astonishing" WOW! when spoken in close proximity to the scoffish, "I can't believe people call this taste" WOW! really highlights the differing intentions of the same word.
She had obviously hoped that either Michelle or I would fall head over heals for the place. So much so that any rational thoughts about our financial future would seem inconsequential in the face of the perfect wedding location. But we didn't bite the bait.
Zoo Tiger's dinner: Fresh meat out. Zoo scrum in.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: I've got to get back to the office. Think it over. If you want me to call the owner, here's my card.
We left the encounter unscathed. But this was only the Zoo Tiger.
Coming Soon: Part II: The Tiger Cub and the Saber-Toothed Assassin.
*Idiot drunk friends. Not annoying relatives.
You thought you'd be tough. You thought you'd take steady aim, fire before the Tiger even noticed your existence. You pictured yourself laying in front of a crackling fire on your tiger skin rug admiring the head of your spoils stuffed and mounted above the mantle. The hunted on the wall of the hunter.
But now, again, back in this rugged and foreign land, with your rifle aimed square at this imposing beast as she charges towards you - the delight of fatty American flesh on her mind you're sure - you question your role in this scenario. Out of the corner of your eye you swear two more tigers emerge from the brush. Maybe it's coincidence. Maybe they're just out for a stroll. Or maybe, the horn's been sounded and they're here for the hunt; here to hunt the hunter. And then those two tigers you think you saw, well, you did. And they're charging at you too. It all comes together in one split second of fear-inspired enlightenment. This is the land of the Saber Toothed Tiger. You don't belong here unless you're ready. Unless you're skilled. Unless you're wise to their aggressive ways. In this land, their land, you are always the hunted. Never the hunter. Period.
Michelle and I have never hunted Bengal Tigers in India, but over a rainy weekend in June we did hunt for wedding locations in Lake Tahoe. While I can't say for certain which is more dangerous, I can tell you with a great amount of assurance that the hunt of the illusive wedding location is a precarious activity. We marched in with the confidence of General Zarroff, but quickly realized in this version of The Most Dangerous Game, even poor old Sanger Rainsford had us in spades.
Our grand plan was to rent out a house on the lake for week and just throw the wedding there. Sounds simple, right? About as simple as hunting a Bengal tiger sounds to someone that doesn't hunt. Just point your gun and shoot. What's the big deal? It's an over-sized cat.
Before our trip we perused online to get a lay of the land. We didn't look too hard though, so when we arrived we had some serious pavement to pound. Many real estate offices line the main drag in Tahoe City. With the exception of one, the lair of the Saber-Toothed Assassin which I will get to later, none stood out above the others. So, we just started popping in at random. Luckily, our first stop was an easy cat to handle.
THE ZOO TIGER
We walked into the first Real Estate Agent's office. It was a low-key place - seemed to deal with properties on the low to middle end of the spectrum. The Agent noticed us immediately, eyed us up and down, then gave a docile smile. Oh, the smell of fresh meat.
She was smoker and a little overweight. She wheezed up every set of stairs we climbed. It wasn't hard to tell she led a sedentary life. She'd been a real estate agent in North Lake for over twenty years - at this point, the rental business practically ran itself. The same people rent the same place for the same week every summer. She just does the paperwork. She may once have roamed free with other killer cats, but through one twist of fate or another, she ended up in the zoo. Yes, she was a caged and domesticated tiger. Fed on routine by the zookeeper, and in no real danger of extinction.
She didn't have much to offer. But, in her defense, she gave it her best shot. We were like two monkeys that somehow escaped the rain forest exhibit and accidentally fell into her world. Sure, if she could catch us we'd be a nice meal, but she'd be fed either way, so there was no reason to tire herself in a prolonged hunt. So...
She went straight for the kill.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: I've got the perfect lake front house for you guys. They're renovating it right now, but lets just swing by so you can get a feel for it.
We followed her downstairs. Through her passenger window I could see fast food wrappers and empty Winston cartons littering the inside of her car.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: Why don't ...(weaze)...you two...(weaze)...follow me.
Good idea. Five minutes later we arrived at a mansion wedged between other mansions on the lake. F-150's, table-saws, lumber and extension cords littered the slate driveway.
The agent got out of her car. She looked peppy again, or as peppy as she could muster. Probably hacked down a cigarette on the drive over for a little nicotine burst. She needed help.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: So, what's the occasion?
Michelle and I had been warned about this question. For good reason, and I'll get to that in Part Two, we lied.
MICHELLE OR ME: Family reunion.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: Oh, perfect. How fun! You know, I don't know how many people you'll be having...
Her eyes probed our faces for a tell. We gave nothing.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: ... but I've got this place across the street, too. In case you need more space. Let's take a look?
And without a response she trudged across the street and up the driveway of a ramshackle, 70's retro, semi A-frame kind of thing. You could see the inch-long shag carpet through the window from fifty yards out. In its defense, it had a big deck and a few separate apartments which apparently, "are good...(cough)...for the relatives...(weaze)...with kids".
The place was a dump-hole and she knew it. But this dump-hole was also an added bonus, and she knew that too. What she was really saying when she was wheezing about a good place to put relatives with kids was,"this is a perfect place to house all the idiot drunk friends you guys are inviting to the wedding you're not telling me about." Every seasoned Saber Tooth has a method of hunt, and hers, while fairly simple in nature, was effective nonetheless. This was step one: Sweeten the meat.
Michelle winked at me behind the Zoo tiger's back --
MICHELLE: Yeah, this would be a great place to..."put the relatives with kids."
ME: There's a lot of 'em*. And they're really loud and obnoxious. This is...perfect.
Zoo Tiger could hardly keep the saliva in her mouth as she loped down the driveway to the big kahuna lake front mansion. With the meat sweetened, she was giddy to lay it out for bait.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: Careful...(hack)...of all the...(weaze)...extension cords.
We watched our step and entered.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: Stunning, isn't it?
It was only half-remodeled, but enough was done to imagine a QVC millionaire relaxing on a leopard print couch, sipping an apple martini and basking in every ostentatious last detail of his dream house. I turned the corner into the bathroom half-expecting a tub supported by four gold paws and 18 carat rendition of Aslan for a faucet. No such luck. The tub was still in Italy.
Unfamiliar with the tone of young and wild animals, I'm fairly certain that the Zoo Tiger misinterpreted the meaning of the "Wows" that kept slipping from our mouths like little scoff daggers. Tipped by what she perceived as our excitement, she chose this moment for the final step in the hunt - The Big Kill. And when I say big...
REAL ESTATE AGENT: I have to talk to the owner, but I can probably do (insert the price of a Prius) for a week. And, of course, that comes with use of the slip out front.
MICHELLE AND ANDREW: WOW!
The Zoo Tiger's keen ears easily picked up on the change of tone. The "holy shit that's astonishing" WOW! when spoken in close proximity to the scoffish, "I can't believe people call this taste" WOW! really highlights the differing intentions of the same word.
She had obviously hoped that either Michelle or I would fall head over heals for the place. So much so that any rational thoughts about our financial future would seem inconsequential in the face of the perfect wedding location. But we didn't bite the bait.
Zoo Tiger's dinner: Fresh meat out. Zoo scrum in.
REAL ESTATE AGENT: I've got to get back to the office. Think it over. If you want me to call the owner, here's my card.
We left the encounter unscathed. But this was only the Zoo Tiger.
Coming Soon: Part II: The Tiger Cub and the Saber-Toothed Assassin.
*Idiot drunk friends. Not annoying relatives.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Letting Loose in the Great Wide Open
Eight or nine years ago I was living in a little box of a duplex. There were four of us crammed into a two-bedroom not much over a thousand square feet; off-campus housing at its best. We had a yard large enough for a Beirut table - great for college - but it didn't quite compare to the acreage I'd grown up with on the dirt road in New Hampshire or at high school in northern Vermont. Not only was it small, generally muddy and littered with shards of plywood and Beast Light empties, the yard was also very public. We shared it with the girls living above us in the duplex, and across the parking lot a 16 unit apartment building glared at us day and night. Not that I cared. Not usually, anyway. It was college.
Every once in awhile, though, I'd get nostalgic. It would manifest in different ways - most need no mention - but on a late (we'll call it Tuesday) night, I penned an essay for my Wednesday presentation in Prose Writing. It was more a manifesto than an essay. I wish I still had it. I don't. But the gist of it was this:
I found a tee-shirt at a chainsaw festival in Northern Vermont. It was a plain old thing with simple block writing that said, "You ain't livin' unless you can piss in your front yard."There were other funnier, dirtier, and dumber variations of tee-shirt truisms on sale, but this one had one of those heaven-sent golden rays beaming on it. Why? Well, for context let's rewind a bit...
... to the first day of sophomore year, high school. My roommate was a newbie, a transfer from another school. We had briefly spoken on the phone, but never met in person. A quick reintroduction/introduction was made, and then, like any self-consumed teenager I bolted off to find all the friends I'd missed for three long summer months - and left Gary behind. I don't know what he did with his day, he was pretty shy back then, but I didn't see him. Not until the following morning, actually, at four A.M. I shuffled in bed and noticed Gary across the room, standing in his boxers in front of our window, gazing out at pre-dawn in the North East Kingdom. This was the view - nearest I could find on the Internet - that he was looking at:
Sure, beautiful. Pre-dawn? Kinda weird.
Our friendship grew, and about a month into school we had one of those conversations that usually resides in the history of most great man-panions. The 'I thought you were really strange when I first met you and now we're almost best friends' kind if conversation. While we were talking I brought up the moment. The pre-dawn moment. The moment that still stood between me accepting him as a normal enough dude to qualify for best friend status. He laughed, then said, "I was taking a piss, man."
I went over to the window. Sure enough, a healthy-sized spot of dead, brown grass below. Apparently this hadn't been a onetime occurrence. I was relieved that Gary wasn't a closet nut bag, and equally intrigued by his casual disinterest in modern plumbing. So intrigued, in fact, that the next time my bladder called, instead of heading downstairs to the loo, I whipped open the sill and let loose in the great wide open. Pissed right out the window into the front yard of our dorm house.
Let me tell you, liberation never felt so good.
The patch of dead grass grew beneath our window. It was not as much an adolescent act of defiance as it was an embrace of the rustic freedom the sparsely inhabited yet wondrously beautiful N.E.K. inspired. The opportunity to do what you want without scrutiny from the rest of the world. Even if your neighbor's last name is Jones, they live so far down the dirt road that you don't know what kind of baby stroller or bicycle you're trying to keep up with. No billboards telling you where to eat, sleep, drink, socialize and find your match. All of this space, this rugged, majestic, unadulterated land at your fingertips. Encouraging you to be yourself. To be authentic. To live bold, wild and free.
The characters that inhabited this northern New England community were an eclectic bunch. There was Mike, the poma liftie (lift attendant) at Burke Mountain, who'd spend days off in the summer hiking the trails, probably harvesting his personal stash of homegrown while cutting secret back-country ski runs for the winter ahead. When the snow would fall heavy Mike would disappear for a few days, probably enjoying his personal stash of herb, and definitely poaching his personal stash of powder. Sure, this way of life isn't everyone's ideal. But it was Mike's. And he didn't really give a hoot what city-slickers in their weekend Range Rovers thought of it. This was the way he wanted to live. Then there was George, the retired Type-A lawyer that set to hiking the same mountain, Burke, daily. Over time he logged well over a million vertical feet hiking tirelessly through spring, summer and fall. In the winter he would trade his boots for skis, and in various neon suits, always at fifty-plus mph, rip down the mountain yowling at the top of his lungs at the sheer greatness of, well, life I guess. Just the chance to see the loud-mouthed, madman senior-citizen bombing ski runs in neon was worth the price of a lift ticket.
So, back to college and that duplex I was living in. Every so often, like any practicing Irishman in their youth, I'd wander down to the bar for a pint. On those nights when one pint became more, I would stumble home late in the evening, perhaps singing an Irish fight song or two. My little duplex, with its six by eight patch of mud, and the giant slab of paved parking lot a stone's throw from the 'rural highway' that runs through Durham, would never cease to turn my Irish spirit into something more ornery.
"This isn't livin'," I'd slur to no one in particular. And then, sometimes, for old time's sake and a sense of counterbalance, I'd pee in the yard. Of course, while peeing I'd slur with greater conviction, "This is livin', this is livin'!"...
And then my neighbor's window would fling open:
Cheryl: Hey, shut the fu ... Dude!
Me: Hey Cheryl.
Cheryl: You're peeing in our yard.
Me: I am?
Cherly: Again!
The window slams shut. Pause. I'd gather my surroundings...
Me: So I am. Sorry.
... and make my way inside. I'd scavenge around my room until I found it - my favorite tee-shirt - then conk out with some delusional sense of accomplishment.
For many of us that ever harbored Thoreau-inspired ideals, you get older and your big-city goals instigate compromise. Michelle and I live in Los Angeles. We don't have something that even resembles a yard, and I certainly don't come home and pee on our concrete porch when I'm feeling too cosmopolitan. You settle for getting into nature when you can. When you can't, you attempt to live with the same joie de vivre that you would if you could pee in your front yard. You settle for wearing the tee-shirt, not necessarily in public, and doing your best to let its sentiment guide you.
Michelle and I got engaged up in Lake Tahoe. On that same weekend we pretty much decided we wanted to get married there too. For some people, choosing a general location is probably a nightmare. For us, it was the one if the easiest decisions yet. While the lake certainly has its share of million dollar homes dotting its shore and the surrounding mountains, they hardly trivialize the rugged, natural mystique. Whenever we're there hiking, skiing, floating the river or whatever, not a day goes by that we don't look at each other and go, "this is livin'."
Due to his small bladder and Irish proclivity for a drink or two, I imagine that Gary may be the first to unzip his trousers and find a tree or open patch of grass at our wedding reception. He won't be the only one, that I'm sure of. In fact, it's one of the better reasons that we decided on an outdoorsy, nature wedding. No, not for easy access, but to get our family and friends together for a fresh breath what life is all about. To kick off our shoes; let the cool grass tickle our feet, shiver our spines, and clear our minds. To eat, drink and rock out under a star lit sky. For Michelle and I to celebrate the commitment to adventure life together, and to have that celebration in a place that inspires us to make our adventure bold, wild and free. Yes, to get married and let loose in the great wide open.
Every once in awhile, though, I'd get nostalgic. It would manifest in different ways - most need no mention - but on a late (we'll call it Tuesday) night, I penned an essay for my Wednesday presentation in Prose Writing. It was more a manifesto than an essay. I wish I still had it. I don't. But the gist of it was this:
I found a tee-shirt at a chainsaw festival in Northern Vermont. It was a plain old thing with simple block writing that said, "You ain't livin' unless you can piss in your front yard."There were other funnier, dirtier, and dumber variations of tee-shirt truisms on sale, but this one had one of those heaven-sent golden rays beaming on it. Why? Well, for context let's rewind a bit...
... to the first day of sophomore year, high school. My roommate was a newbie, a transfer from another school. We had briefly spoken on the phone, but never met in person. A quick reintroduction/introduction was made, and then, like any self-consumed teenager I bolted off to find all the friends I'd missed for three long summer months - and left Gary behind. I don't know what he did with his day, he was pretty shy back then, but I didn't see him. Not until the following morning, actually, at four A.M. I shuffled in bed and noticed Gary across the room, standing in his boxers in front of our window, gazing out at pre-dawn in the North East Kingdom. This was the view - nearest I could find on the Internet - that he was looking at:
Sure, beautiful. Pre-dawn? Kinda weird.
Our friendship grew, and about a month into school we had one of those conversations that usually resides in the history of most great man-panions. The 'I thought you were really strange when I first met you and now we're almost best friends' kind if conversation. While we were talking I brought up the moment. The pre-dawn moment. The moment that still stood between me accepting him as a normal enough dude to qualify for best friend status. He laughed, then said, "I was taking a piss, man."
I went over to the window. Sure enough, a healthy-sized spot of dead, brown grass below. Apparently this hadn't been a onetime occurrence. I was relieved that Gary wasn't a closet nut bag, and equally intrigued by his casual disinterest in modern plumbing. So intrigued, in fact, that the next time my bladder called, instead of heading downstairs to the loo, I whipped open the sill and let loose in the great wide open. Pissed right out the window into the front yard of our dorm house.
Let me tell you, liberation never felt so good.
The patch of dead grass grew beneath our window. It was not as much an adolescent act of defiance as it was an embrace of the rustic freedom the sparsely inhabited yet wondrously beautiful N.E.K. inspired. The opportunity to do what you want without scrutiny from the rest of the world. Even if your neighbor's last name is Jones, they live so far down the dirt road that you don't know what kind of baby stroller or bicycle you're trying to keep up with. No billboards telling you where to eat, sleep, drink, socialize and find your match. All of this space, this rugged, majestic, unadulterated land at your fingertips. Encouraging you to be yourself. To be authentic. To live bold, wild and free.
The characters that inhabited this northern New England community were an eclectic bunch. There was Mike, the poma liftie (lift attendant) at Burke Mountain, who'd spend days off in the summer hiking the trails, probably harvesting his personal stash of homegrown while cutting secret back-country ski runs for the winter ahead. When the snow would fall heavy Mike would disappear for a few days, probably enjoying his personal stash of herb, and definitely poaching his personal stash of powder. Sure, this way of life isn't everyone's ideal. But it was Mike's. And he didn't really give a hoot what city-slickers in their weekend Range Rovers thought of it. This was the way he wanted to live. Then there was George, the retired Type-A lawyer that set to hiking the same mountain, Burke, daily. Over time he logged well over a million vertical feet hiking tirelessly through spring, summer and fall. In the winter he would trade his boots for skis, and in various neon suits, always at fifty-plus mph, rip down the mountain yowling at the top of his lungs at the sheer greatness of, well, life I guess. Just the chance to see the loud-mouthed, madman senior-citizen bombing ski runs in neon was worth the price of a lift ticket.
So, back to college and that duplex I was living in. Every so often, like any practicing Irishman in their youth, I'd wander down to the bar for a pint. On those nights when one pint became more, I would stumble home late in the evening, perhaps singing an Irish fight song or two. My little duplex, with its six by eight patch of mud, and the giant slab of paved parking lot a stone's throw from the 'rural highway' that runs through Durham, would never cease to turn my Irish spirit into something more ornery.
"This isn't livin'," I'd slur to no one in particular. And then, sometimes, for old time's sake and a sense of counterbalance, I'd pee in the yard. Of course, while peeing I'd slur with greater conviction, "This is livin', this is livin'!"...
And then my neighbor's window would fling open:
Cheryl: Hey, shut the fu ... Dude!
Me: Hey Cheryl.
Cheryl: You're peeing in our yard.
Me: I am?
Cherly: Again!
The window slams shut. Pause. I'd gather my surroundings...
Me: So I am. Sorry.
... and make my way inside. I'd scavenge around my room until I found it - my favorite tee-shirt - then conk out with some delusional sense of accomplishment.
For many of us that ever harbored Thoreau-inspired ideals, you get older and your big-city goals instigate compromise. Michelle and I live in Los Angeles. We don't have something that even resembles a yard, and I certainly don't come home and pee on our concrete porch when I'm feeling too cosmopolitan. You settle for getting into nature when you can. When you can't, you attempt to live with the same joie de vivre that you would if you could pee in your front yard. You settle for wearing the tee-shirt, not necessarily in public, and doing your best to let its sentiment guide you.
Michelle and I got engaged up in Lake Tahoe. On that same weekend we pretty much decided we wanted to get married there too. For some people, choosing a general location is probably a nightmare. For us, it was the one if the easiest decisions yet. While the lake certainly has its share of million dollar homes dotting its shore and the surrounding mountains, they hardly trivialize the rugged, natural mystique. Whenever we're there hiking, skiing, floating the river or whatever, not a day goes by that we don't look at each other and go, "this is livin'."
Due to his small bladder and Irish proclivity for a drink or two, I imagine that Gary may be the first to unzip his trousers and find a tree or open patch of grass at our wedding reception. He won't be the only one, that I'm sure of. In fact, it's one of the better reasons that we decided on an outdoorsy, nature wedding. No, not for easy access, but to get our family and friends together for a fresh breath what life is all about. To kick off our shoes; let the cool grass tickle our feet, shiver our spines, and clear our minds. To eat, drink and rock out under a star lit sky. For Michelle and I to celebrate the commitment to adventure life together, and to have that celebration in a place that inspires us to make our adventure bold, wild and free. Yes, to get married and let loose in the great wide open.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Meta-Cheesy Party To End All Parties Recap
We have a subscription to US Magazine. I could point to a certain best friend of Michelle's and label her The Culprit for getting us said subscription, but, truth be told, we were celebrity smut rag junkies well before they started arriving at our door weekly.
To share a little further: I read the articles. Yeah, that's right. Cover to cover, baby.
In tabloid-glossy world this is akin to admitting you look at the pictures in Playboy. Actually, it's probably worse. I haven't kept up since college, and I spent most of every Women's Lit. class dodging invisible flaming arrows and generally trying to disappear into my chair, but I vaguely remember discussions about being in a neo-liberal post modern feminist era ... or something of that nature. Translated loosely, I think it means that it's PC for men to admit they get Playboy for the articles and the pictures. It's some new kind of sociably acceptable and preferred norm.
Disclaimer: I could be dead wrong on this. Remember, I was preoccupied with invisible flaming arrows and such ... which, come to think of it, may have to do with the above interpretation ... maybe.
Anyway, back to the point:
With celebrity gossip glossies, no one gets them for the articles. No One.
I mean, they do, they just don't admit it. If you actually find someone that cops to a tabloid habit, they'll insist it's only for the pictures. Apparently it's still taboo to admit that you actually spend intellectual man-hours on what equates to literary smut.
I don't know why I read the articles. To venture a psychoanalytic guess it probably has something to do with ego and self-worth in the sometimes grim world of being a writer. You can always turn to tabloids for comfort and say, "at least I don't write this bad most of the time*."
They really are just awful - stick your face in a cave full of porcupines awful. And because of them, with a post-party hangover and an inner lit. critic wrestling me to the mat every time I dared to even think about writing a recap of The Party to End All Parties, a serious bout of blog-block ensued.
A party recap? I can't write that. It's so, you know, US Magazine. It makes me prickle to even entertain the idea of something that might turn out like...
The V.I.P. Party Scene
Michelle and Andrew's Engagement Bash - May 29th
It was guest-list only for Michelle and Andrew's exclusive fete at underground celebrity hot-spot, Equator Books. Doors opened at nine and the party was in full swing by the ten-o-clock hour.
Bold and beautiful revelers sipped on Che Lager and Angel City IPA as well as an assortment of (semi-crappy) tannin delights from Bevmo! They rocked out to the likes of Datarock, Santigold and Crystal Castles off Michelle's Engagement Party Playlist and grooved to a live performance by LA rock n' roll phenoms Tom with the Weather.
(Ryan, Tom, Beej and Daniel of Tom with the Weather)
Band groupie, JK, cozied up to Tony Spatafora (minister to the stars) while her on-again off-again flame and Tom with the Weather guitarist, Ryan Nosker, jammed on his Stratocaster.
(JK getting hot and scandalous with the Minister, natch)
The strictly-liquid menu caused many a make-out session as happy-go-lucky party people caved to their hedonistic urges. Namely, my future wife...
(Michelle noshing on Andrew's face in lieu of dinner)
Many a guest took pause from the bacchanal delights to pose for revered shutterbug, Tertius Bune. He deftly captured the party, the players and the frolicking mood of this Midsummer Night's Dream.
(A-listers strike a pose)
(Sans children, the Gogolewski/Wyffels crew exercise their celebratory gene)
After the last drops of lager poured, hugs all around, and a bum rush for cabs on Abbot Kinney, the doors were finally locked near 3 a.m.
(Zoe 'I don't get hangovers' Maas bids adieu)
The other guy in the picture - that's me. Pointing at you, saying thank you for tuning in.
For those that couldn't make it. We missed you. Now you have an abridged and saccharine understanding of what went down.
For those that attended. Thank you. It was a special evening, indeed.
And now, I'm done. It's all the tabloid recap I can take.
*Unless someone is paying me. Then I will write anything. Good or bad - don't care. Anything.
To share a little further: I read the articles. Yeah, that's right. Cover to cover, baby.
In tabloid-glossy world this is akin to admitting you look at the pictures in Playboy. Actually, it's probably worse. I haven't kept up since college, and I spent most of every Women's Lit. class dodging invisible flaming arrows and generally trying to disappear into my chair, but I vaguely remember discussions about being in a neo-liberal post modern feminist era ... or something of that nature. Translated loosely, I think it means that it's PC for men to admit they get Playboy for the articles and the pictures. It's some new kind of sociably acceptable and preferred norm.
Disclaimer: I could be dead wrong on this. Remember, I was preoccupied with invisible flaming arrows and such ... which, come to think of it, may have to do with the above interpretation ... maybe.
Anyway, back to the point:
With celebrity gossip glossies, no one gets them for the articles. No One.
I mean, they do, they just don't admit it. If you actually find someone that cops to a tabloid habit, they'll insist it's only for the pictures. Apparently it's still taboo to admit that you actually spend intellectual man-hours on what equates to literary smut.
I don't know why I read the articles. To venture a psychoanalytic guess it probably has something to do with ego and self-worth in the sometimes grim world of being a writer. You can always turn to tabloids for comfort and say, "at least I don't write this bad most of the time*."
They really are just awful - stick your face in a cave full of porcupines awful. And because of them, with a post-party hangover and an inner lit. critic wrestling me to the mat every time I dared to even think about writing a recap of The Party to End All Parties, a serious bout of blog-block ensued.
A party recap? I can't write that. It's so, you know, US Magazine. It makes me prickle to even entertain the idea of something that might turn out like...
The V.I.P. Party Scene
Michelle and Andrew's Engagement Bash - May 29th
It was guest-list only for Michelle and Andrew's exclusive fete at underground celebrity hot-spot, Equator Books. Doors opened at nine and the party was in full swing by the ten-o-clock hour.
Bold and beautiful revelers sipped on Che Lager and Angel City IPA as well as an assortment of (semi-crappy) tannin delights from Bevmo! They rocked out to the likes of Datarock, Santigold and Crystal Castles off Michelle's Engagement Party Playlist and grooved to a live performance by LA rock n' roll phenoms Tom with the Weather.
(Ryan, Tom, Beej and Daniel of Tom with the Weather)Band groupie, JK, cozied up to Tony Spatafora (minister to the stars) while her on-again off-again flame and Tom with the Weather guitarist, Ryan Nosker, jammed on his Stratocaster.
(JK getting hot and scandalous with the Minister, natch)The strictly-liquid menu caused many a make-out session as happy-go-lucky party people caved to their hedonistic urges. Namely, my future wife...
(Michelle noshing on Andrew's face in lieu of dinner)Many a guest took pause from the bacchanal delights to pose for revered shutterbug, Tertius Bune. He deftly captured the party, the players and the frolicking mood of this Midsummer Night's Dream.
(A-listers strike a pose)
(Sans children, the Gogolewski/Wyffels crew exercise their celebratory gene)After the last drops of lager poured, hugs all around, and a bum rush for cabs on Abbot Kinney, the doors were finally locked near 3 a.m.
(Zoe 'I don't get hangovers' Maas bids adieu)The other guy in the picture - that's me. Pointing at you, saying thank you for tuning in.
For those that couldn't make it. We missed you. Now you have an abridged and saccharine understanding of what went down.
For those that attended. Thank you. It was a special evening, indeed.
And now, I'm done. It's all the tabloid recap I can take.
*Unless someone is paying me. Then I will write anything. Good or bad - don't care. Anything.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Couple Seeking Minister
About a month ago I traded my "go to" procrastination outlet - Internet vacation hunting - for something more concrete and tangible - wedding hunting. Fantasy Googling island rentals off Santorini has its place, but scouring the web for wedding ideas manages to hit the much sought after activity called productive procrastination. And, despite the risk of self-emasculation, I'll admit it, it's kinda fun.
It hasn't actually produced much ... yet, but one of the interesting things that I keep stumbling upon is the "wedding package". For one small/medium/large or gargantuan fee, a one-stop shop will provide everything: caterer, DJ, florist, cake, other stuff you have at a wedding, and minister.
At first, this seemed too good to be true:
Andrew: Michelle! Look at this.
Michelle: The DJ looks creepy.
Andrew: Just one click and we're done. With everything.
Michelle: So does the minister. Wait, is that...
Andrew: They provide a minister? That's weird.
Michelle: I think it's the same guy.
Andrew: No. One has a ... oh, yeah.
Michelle: Definitely same guy.
There were other more enticing versions. One offered a Tahoe lake-front mansion, string quartet, multi-tiered cake, minister, and if you asked nice I bet they could come up with a couple cute kids to carry the rings. It required a six-figure retainer. This, frighteningly enough, didn't stick out to me nearly as much as the included minister.
While patiently waiting for ceremonies to end and cocktail hour to begin, I've just kind of assumed that the bride and groom knew the guy/gal up there marrying them. They're all huddled together talking in hushed tones about important things like lifelong vows - you just figure, right?
It's an intimate moment. You're like two samurai warriors about to embark on the journey of a lifetime, you kinda want the 'til death thing to be blessed by a feudal lord you know, trust and believe in. You don't want to get all geared up, sabers blazing ready to take on the world then have Minister Mo from Sparks show up and ask to be pointed to the bride and groom. Maybe he'd do a great job, or maybe he'd insert your names into his summer wedding spiel, regurgitate it with the same monotone your grandpa used for prayer before supper, get drunk at cocktail hour then disappear into the sunset never to be seen or heard from again.
On your big day you want to know you're in good hands:
Meet Anthony Spatafora - the man that fits the bill.
You might be thinking, oh, I don't know, is this man ordained?
Yes. He assured us of this. From the Universal Life Church if any one's asking.
And then this might slip from your lips: Really?
Yes. He provided us a link to the website that granted him this privilege. He's the real deal with paper to prove it.
At which point, you might then pry: has anyone ever let him...ahem, I mean, has he ever married anyone before?
He provided his minister stats - think batting average but insert successful unions into the "batting" part of the equation. Let me tell you, Major League material. Tony's a slugger with a golden bat.
Aside from his ministerial duties Tony is also an actor. And Tony is Italian. To put simply, Tony can do our entire wedding. From catering to decorating, Master of Ceremonies to Minister, Tony can do it all. He could have his own one-stop wedding shop. At a party he recently catered, Michelle, mouth full of his mango crab salad, excitedly burst out, "Tony! You should marry us and cater the wedding!"
"There are many things I should do, Michelle. I choose my engagements wisely," Tony retorted.
Apparently we will have to settle. But like his friend in the picture, we couldn't be happier. Tony is a great treasure in our life - kind, generous and funny - a true friend. If Tony were a feudal lord, we would both don samurai gear and thrash villages to protect his land and honor. And Michelle is a particularly good samurai. Her swordsmanship is excellent. Not to brag, just to put context to our claim of loyalty.
He was the first decision we made about our wedding. We were driving home from Lake Tahoe after our engagement weekend, a little frazzled from all the champagne and celebration, and Michelle turns to me with this dreamy look in her eyes. It's the look like she's about to ask something big - let's rent out the Shah's palace in Dubai for our wedding big - but then she simply said, "Do you think Tony can marry us?"
If you keep your eyes open and remember to look I imagine there will always be moments, tidbits of life that seem inconsequential from the exterior, but to you they act as reinforcement. They remind you that you've made at least one good choice in your life; that you didn't let the good one get away; that somehow and who knows why you're one lucky sonofabitch. I turned to Michelle -
"I love Tony," I said.
She smiled back at me. I5 passed by at 80 MPH and the sun's parting rays cast some b.s. Hollywood glow on us like, well, like it was one of those moments.
"Me too," she replied.
And it was settled. Tony was our guy, our feudal lord, our Minister.
It hasn't actually produced much ... yet, but one of the interesting things that I keep stumbling upon is the "wedding package". For one small/medium/large or gargantuan fee, a one-stop shop will provide everything: caterer, DJ, florist, cake, other stuff you have at a wedding, and minister.
At first, this seemed too good to be true:
Andrew: Michelle! Look at this.
Michelle: The DJ looks creepy.
Andrew: Just one click and we're done. With everything.
Michelle: So does the minister. Wait, is that...
Andrew: They provide a minister? That's weird.
Michelle: I think it's the same guy.
Andrew: No. One has a ... oh, yeah.
Michelle: Definitely same guy.
There were other more enticing versions. One offered a Tahoe lake-front mansion, string quartet, multi-tiered cake, minister, and if you asked nice I bet they could come up with a couple cute kids to carry the rings. It required a six-figure retainer. This, frighteningly enough, didn't stick out to me nearly as much as the included minister.
While patiently waiting for ceremonies to end and cocktail hour to begin, I've just kind of assumed that the bride and groom knew the guy/gal up there marrying them. They're all huddled together talking in hushed tones about important things like lifelong vows - you just figure, right?
It's an intimate moment. You're like two samurai warriors about to embark on the journey of a lifetime, you kinda want the 'til death thing to be blessed by a feudal lord you know, trust and believe in. You don't want to get all geared up, sabers blazing ready to take on the world then have Minister Mo from Sparks show up and ask to be pointed to the bride and groom. Maybe he'd do a great job, or maybe he'd insert your names into his summer wedding spiel, regurgitate it with the same monotone your grandpa used for prayer before supper, get drunk at cocktail hour then disappear into the sunset never to be seen or heard from again.
On your big day you want to know you're in good hands:
Meet Anthony Spatafora - the man that fits the bill.
You might be thinking, oh, I don't know, is this man ordained?
Yes. He assured us of this. From the Universal Life Church if any one's asking.
And then this might slip from your lips: Really?
Yes. He provided us a link to the website that granted him this privilege. He's the real deal with paper to prove it.
At which point, you might then pry: has anyone ever let him...ahem, I mean, has he ever married anyone before?
He provided his minister stats - think batting average but insert successful unions into the "batting" part of the equation. Let me tell you, Major League material. Tony's a slugger with a golden bat.
Aside from his ministerial duties Tony is also an actor. And Tony is Italian. To put simply, Tony can do our entire wedding. From catering to decorating, Master of Ceremonies to Minister, Tony can do it all. He could have his own one-stop wedding shop. At a party he recently catered, Michelle, mouth full of his mango crab salad, excitedly burst out, "Tony! You should marry us and cater the wedding!"
"There are many things I should do, Michelle. I choose my engagements wisely," Tony retorted.
Apparently we will have to settle. But like his friend in the picture, we couldn't be happier. Tony is a great treasure in our life - kind, generous and funny - a true friend. If Tony were a feudal lord, we would both don samurai gear and thrash villages to protect his land and honor. And Michelle is a particularly good samurai. Her swordsmanship is excellent. Not to brag, just to put context to our claim of loyalty.
He was the first decision we made about our wedding. We were driving home from Lake Tahoe after our engagement weekend, a little frazzled from all the champagne and celebration, and Michelle turns to me with this dreamy look in her eyes. It's the look like she's about to ask something big - let's rent out the Shah's palace in Dubai for our wedding big - but then she simply said, "Do you think Tony can marry us?"
If you keep your eyes open and remember to look I imagine there will always be moments, tidbits of life that seem inconsequential from the exterior, but to you they act as reinforcement. They remind you that you've made at least one good choice in your life; that you didn't let the good one get away; that somehow and who knows why you're one lucky sonofabitch. I turned to Michelle -
"I love Tony," I said.
She smiled back at me. I5 passed by at 80 MPH and the sun's parting rays cast some b.s. Hollywood glow on us like, well, like it was one of those moments.
"Me too," she replied.
And it was settled. Tony was our guy, our feudal lord, our Minister.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Champagne Heartburn Must End ... Eventually
I'm not sure how many bottles of champagne we slugged the day we got engaged. There is a "celebratory" gene that runs in the Gogolewski bloodline. We were in Lake Tahoe, staying with Mark and Liz (Gogolewski - for those of you that don't know), and we really just went for it. For a time there, under those twinkling Tahoe stars, sitting in that bubbly hot tub, drinking those bubbly cocktails and talking about bubbly things like weddings, family and love, we forgot that we were, well, not nineteen. We celebrated the night away without fear of the morning to come.
And so the celebration began.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
You see, when you get engaged, everyone that you know wants to celebrate. Even people you don't know want to celebrate. Don't get me wrong, this is great. We are a couple that likes to celebrate. But eventually, your body starts to get annoyed with your complete lack of regard for its frailty. About two weeks into our engagement I felt like I'd swallowed a cactus. I was choking down Dom Perignon's sweetest nectars like they were firewater. My esophagus could've doubled as a medical study on road rash. But, when you're a couple that likes to celebrate, it just doesn't make sense to let a little setback like champagne heartburn get in your way. And, for quite some time, it didn't.
Continue (ouch). Continue (ouch). Continue (ouch).
The following conversation never actually happened in our house. Eventually though, it might have:
Andrew: Ugh, more champagne, my liver's gonna resign.
Michelle, still in her twenties, just looks at me. Confused. I continue to moan -
Andrew: The bubbles are like a million little ninja-daggers stabbing my throat.
Michelle: We should throw a party.
Andrew: A pa... are you even listening to...
Michelle: An engagement party. And invite everyone. A party to end all parties.
I pause, letting the genius of this statement fully sink in. Then -
Andrew: Done. Where?
Equator Books is the kind of place Dan Brown might find himself after a self loathing-induced bender in search of his literary soul. He'd enter all drunk and repentant, slurring something about salvation and thinking he'd finally found it. The ghost of Charles Bukowski would stumble over with a twinkle in his eye and a smile all friendly like ... and kick Dan's teeth in, throw him to the curb then pour himself another drink.
Needless to say, I like the place. And they like my future wife ... and me. Not quite as much, but they like me too. You see, Michelle is cooler than I am, and at an establishment who sometimes uses the motto, "We're cool so you you don't have to be," that apparently counts for something. Actually, in this case, it counts for a lot. Living by the aforementioned motto, they will be closing their doors to the public and opening it to us on the night of May 29th for the engagement party to end all parties. Very cool.
Smash your Kindles, people. Buy at Equator.
They also scored us a bartender, a doorman and a crew to clean up after the mayhem ensues. Very, very cool.
And I'm serious. Smash those Kindles. Buy at Equator.
And then they said, "The place is yours. Don't ask, just do what ever you want."
So we got a band...
Tom With The Weather signed on to play our party - in classic friend, ahem, Rock Star form - for a handle of bourbon and all the beer they can drink. Seriously. I know they are bringing at least one groupie, but really, I just hope they come dressed like the dudes (?) in the picture above.
It appears that the moral of this story is: we are grateful to have awesome and generous friends. If our wedding is as easy to put together as this engagement party, this blog is really going to suck. Bridezilla can only handle so many rematches with Michelle.
So, to wrap things up, and to try and deliver just a little bit on the "trial and error guide to amateur wedding planning" part of this blog, I will say this:
If you get engaged, and you really like to celebrate, then stretch out the time between said engagement and your engagement party. It gives you plenty of time to celebrate individually with all of your friends. A lot. And then it brings them all together in a kind of engagement celebration finale.*
If you aren't such a celebrator - throw a party quick. Your friends will want to toast your big news. Hold a bash right off the bat and you can knock it all out in one fell swoop.
Note: This is only conjecture. Michelle and I milked this baby for two months.
Next week's Teaser:
We have made a decision about something! Finally! And yes, it has something to do with our wedding.
*My heartburn-withered body wanted me to highlight the word finale. I said no. I had to. I'm a realist, and already have my doubts about how final this finale will be.
And so the celebration began.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
You see, when you get engaged, everyone that you know wants to celebrate. Even people you don't know want to celebrate. Don't get me wrong, this is great. We are a couple that likes to celebrate. But eventually, your body starts to get annoyed with your complete lack of regard for its frailty. About two weeks into our engagement I felt like I'd swallowed a cactus. I was choking down Dom Perignon's sweetest nectars like they were firewater. My esophagus could've doubled as a medical study on road rash. But, when you're a couple that likes to celebrate, it just doesn't make sense to let a little setback like champagne heartburn get in your way. And, for quite some time, it didn't.
Continue (ouch). Continue (ouch). Continue (ouch).
The following conversation never actually happened in our house. Eventually though, it might have:
Andrew: Ugh, more champagne, my liver's gonna resign.
Michelle, still in her twenties, just looks at me. Confused. I continue to moan -
Andrew: The bubbles are like a million little ninja-daggers stabbing my throat.
Michelle: We should throw a party.
Andrew: A pa... are you even listening to...
Michelle: An engagement party. And invite everyone. A party to end all parties.
I pause, letting the genius of this statement fully sink in. Then -
Andrew: Done. Where?
Equator Books is the kind of place Dan Brown might find himself after a self loathing-induced bender in search of his literary soul. He'd enter all drunk and repentant, slurring something about salvation and thinking he'd finally found it. The ghost of Charles Bukowski would stumble over with a twinkle in his eye and a smile all friendly like ... and kick Dan's teeth in, throw him to the curb then pour himself another drink.
Needless to say, I like the place. And they like my future wife ... and me. Not quite as much, but they like me too. You see, Michelle is cooler than I am, and at an establishment who sometimes uses the motto, "We're cool so you you don't have to be," that apparently counts for something. Actually, in this case, it counts for a lot. Living by the aforementioned motto, they will be closing their doors to the public and opening it to us on the night of May 29th for the engagement party to end all parties. Very cool.
Smash your Kindles, people. Buy at Equator.
They also scored us a bartender, a doorman and a crew to clean up after the mayhem ensues. Very, very cool.
And I'm serious. Smash those Kindles. Buy at Equator.
And then they said, "The place is yours. Don't ask, just do what ever you want."
So we got a band...
Tom With The Weather signed on to play our party - in classic friend, ahem, Rock Star form - for a handle of bourbon and all the beer they can drink. Seriously. I know they are bringing at least one groupie, but really, I just hope they come dressed like the dudes (?) in the picture above.It appears that the moral of this story is: we are grateful to have awesome and generous friends. If our wedding is as easy to put together as this engagement party, this blog is really going to suck. Bridezilla can only handle so many rematches with Michelle.
So, to wrap things up, and to try and deliver just a little bit on the "trial and error guide to amateur wedding planning" part of this blog, I will say this:
If you get engaged, and you really like to celebrate, then stretch out the time between said engagement and your engagement party. It gives you plenty of time to celebrate individually with all of your friends. A lot. And then it brings them all together in a kind of engagement celebration finale.*
If you aren't such a celebrator - throw a party quick. Your friends will want to toast your big news. Hold a bash right off the bat and you can knock it all out in one fell swoop.
Note: This is only conjecture. Michelle and I milked this baby for two months.
Next week's Teaser:
We have made a decision about something! Finally! And yes, it has something to do with our wedding.
*My heartburn-withered body wanted me to highlight the word finale. I said no. I had to. I'm a realist, and already have my doubts about how final this finale will be.
Monday, April 27, 2009
MY FUTURE WIFE vs. BRIDEZILLA: The Cage Match
In lieu of laundry, aimless Internet surfing, refrigerator scavenging or productive writing of any kind, I thought I'd do something novel with my afternoon and stage a mock* ultimate fighting cage match between MY FUTURE WIFE and BRIDEZILLA. Yes, procrastination is a hobby of mine. And yes, you might wonder, could this post start an actual cage match between me and my future wife? Somehow, I highly doubt it.
With no further ado, it might start something like this:
The steel cage door swings open. MICHELLE (28 but looks 23), enters. The ultimate manifestation of a man-crush - glistening, toned and prowling like a lioness on the hunt.
She pounds her chest. Flex's for the adoring crowd.
In the far corner, BRIDEZILLA, cracks her knuckles. Eye-daggers zing.
ANNOUNCER: In the right corner, weighing in at one hundred and perfect-perfect pounds, Michelle Gogolewskiiiii!!!!
The cage rattles with the deafening roar of the crowd.
ANNOUNCER: And in the left corner, weighing in at three hundred and evil-evil pounds, BRIDEZILLAAAAA!!!!
Yeah, she's got a few kindred spirits out there. They cheer.
ANNOUNCER: Ladies and Gentleman, let's get ready to rummmmblllle!!!!(or is that boxing? I don't really know. Anyway...)
The women circle each other, muscles taught, ready to lunge on a twitch.
And so the match begins. Now, there are a multitude of reasons why my future wife would kick Bridezilla's ass in a cage match. What gets tricky is assigning each reason with a particular fighting move, kill-shot, death blow or whatever they're called in Ultimate Fighting. For instance, Michelle wants pudding cake instead of an elaborate 8-tiered, marbled, bedazzled, 18 carat tower of pastry chef sweat and tears. Is that equivalent to a Roundhouse Uppercut combo, a Reverse Hay Maker, or a leaping Body-Slam? I don't know. The best I can do is just guess. So please bear with me and enjoy, it's only a cage match after all.
We'll start with a familiar one --
Michelle wants pudding cake instead of an elaborate 8-tiered, marbled, bedazzled, 18-carat tower of pastry chef sweat and tears:
Bridezilla lunges for Michelle's throat. Michelle Jujitsu's to the side. Lets out a mighty "high-yah", and connects a swift chop to Bridezilla's spine.
Bam. She hits the mat hard. Her eyes ignite.
Michelle would rather get married outdoors surrounded by the decadence of nature than in The Ritz. Yes, she wears a suit to work, and work is in a stately building in the financial district downtown. Wolfgang Puck caters an occasional lunch. They have free bubbly water and ergonomic work stations. She sits in meetings all day where they hash about, "subordinated unsecured creditors," and "collateralized bond obligations," while their blackberries accumulate ping's in silent mode. She is a pedigreed corporate vixen. But don't let this fool you. Lurking just beneath the surface of this ostensible urban poster child is a yogafied, farmers market friendly, nature loving, hike enthusiast - a bonafide Santa Monica hippy. It is this sensibility that has already begun to infuse itself in our wedding plans. And so:
Bridezilla whirls with a roundabout kick. Grazes Michelle's face. A drop of blood falls.
Michelle scales the cage wall like a tarantula. Double-back flips off it Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon style. Lands in a double leg-lock around Bridezilla's neck.
They crash to the floor - Bridezilla caught in Michelle's deadly vice grip. Veins pulse. Bridezilla claws. Michelle clamps harder.
At our reception Michelle wants a barbeque; albeit with wild salmon, an assortment of organic vegetables (probably from sustainable farms), a variety of salad options (also organic and probably sustainable) and, of course, the pudding cake. She doesn't care if Mario Batali is working the grill or Martha Stewart frosts the cake. In fact, it's more than likely that I will be a Groomzilla in this department. I'm not a fanatic, but I'm a fan of food. If I could get Mario behind the grill, I probably would. But this isn't my cage match. So:
Wily as ever, Bridezilla slithers loose from Michelle's clutches. Rebounds off the cage. Charges.
Michelle ducks, grapples Zilla's legs. Punishes her headfirst into the mat - the perfect Reverse Piledriver.
Animated stars circle Bridezilla's noggin.
There's been no mention of riding into the ceremony on a white stallion. Or arriving via yacht. Or anything more extravagant than our feet at this point. Of course, Michelle would look great cantering up to the ceremony on a glistening steed. Her bridesmaids in tow on a line of ponies as trumpeters herald the event with resounding notes. Or maybe I've had too much coffee. Yes, indeed I have. No horses, yachts or ponies on the list. So we go to:
Michelle leaps off the cage wall. Crushes an elbow-first body slam into Zilla's dazed frame. Wraps her in the headlock-of-death. Bridezilla gasps for breath...
In an excited conversation about the wedding dress I offered to call Oscar and Vera**. Michelle shrugged and tossed out her trademark "eh". She has a very clear idea of what the dress will look like, but doesn't seem concerned by whose fingers stitch the seems. From the limits imposed on my brain by my maleness regarding visualizing wedding dresses, I can only tell you that it sounds nice, and then defer you to her for the specifics. Back to:
Bridezilla's eyes roll back. Michelle lets up...
WHAM! Michelle's airborne. Nails the cage roof. Drops to the floor in shock.
Ahh, Bridezilla. You sneaky devil. Alive and well, she cackles and leaps to her feet. Darts at Michelle.
But a lightning jab to the throat catches her. Bam! Bridezilla hits the mat hard.
Michelle tosses her over one shoulder and... SMACK! Crushes Zilla with an Inverted Haymaker.
I could literally go on for pages, but it's fair to say Bridezilla's taken enough drubbing for one cage match.
In the end, I know my future wife cares about many things involving our wedding. I certainly do, too. Some of those things Michelle might care about a lot, but none of them she cares about too much. Well, maybe the pudding cake. If you've tasted the pudding cake we speak of, you'd get it. I do. I get warm and Tootsie Roll chewy when I think about that cake, and when I think about my future wife ... and how she might end this cage match:
Bridezilla sprawled out - down but not out. Michelle straddled on top, knees pinned to Zilla's shoulders.
BRIDEZILLA: Damn you. Damn you and everything you stand for you low-maintenance bi...
SLAM. Bridezilla's face meets the bloodied mat.
SLAM -- SLAM -- SLAM. Michelle doesn't let up --
MICHELLE: I (slam) JUST (slam) WANT (slam) TO (slam) GET (slam) MARRIED (slam) IN (slam) MY (slam) BARE (slam) FEET!
And one big, final SLAM!
The thought of getting married in anything other than Louboutin's or Choo's knocks Bridezilla unconscious.
The Ref pulls Michelle from Zilla's limp frame. Raises her arm in the air.
A Champion is crowned.
Like I said, warm and Tootsie Roll chewy all over. Bridezilla's excluded, who couldn't love my future wife?
*I pitched an actual cage match featuring MY FUTURE WIFE vs. BRIDEZILLA to the folks over at Pay per View. I thought it would be a nice way to pay for our honeymoon. They didn't agree.
** It was a fairly safe offer since I know neither designer personally. Since you can't Google my net worth, I doubt they'd take my call.
With no further ado, it might start something like this:
The steel cage door swings open. MICHELLE (28 but looks 23), enters. The ultimate manifestation of a man-crush - glistening, toned and prowling like a lioness on the hunt.
She pounds her chest. Flex's for the adoring crowd.
In the far corner, BRIDEZILLA, cracks her knuckles. Eye-daggers zing.
ANNOUNCER: In the right corner, weighing in at one hundred and perfect-perfect pounds, Michelle Gogolewskiiiii!!!!
The cage rattles with the deafening roar of the crowd.
ANNOUNCER: And in the left corner, weighing in at three hundred and evil-evil pounds, BRIDEZILLAAAAA!!!!
Yeah, she's got a few kindred spirits out there. They cheer.
ANNOUNCER: Ladies and Gentleman, let's get ready to rummmmblllle!!!!(or is that boxing? I don't really know. Anyway...)
The women circle each other, muscles taught, ready to lunge on a twitch.
And so the match begins. Now, there are a multitude of reasons why my future wife would kick Bridezilla's ass in a cage match. What gets tricky is assigning each reason with a particular fighting move, kill-shot, death blow or whatever they're called in Ultimate Fighting. For instance, Michelle wants pudding cake instead of an elaborate 8-tiered, marbled, bedazzled, 18 carat tower of pastry chef sweat and tears. Is that equivalent to a Roundhouse Uppercut combo, a Reverse Hay Maker, or a leaping Body-Slam? I don't know. The best I can do is just guess. So please bear with me and enjoy, it's only a cage match after all.
We'll start with a familiar one --
Michelle wants pudding cake instead of an elaborate 8-tiered, marbled, bedazzled, 18-carat tower of pastry chef sweat and tears:
Bridezilla lunges for Michelle's throat. Michelle Jujitsu's to the side. Lets out a mighty "high-yah", and connects a swift chop to Bridezilla's spine.
Bam. She hits the mat hard. Her eyes ignite.
Michelle would rather get married outdoors surrounded by the decadence of nature than in The Ritz. Yes, she wears a suit to work, and work is in a stately building in the financial district downtown. Wolfgang Puck caters an occasional lunch. They have free bubbly water and ergonomic work stations. She sits in meetings all day where they hash about, "subordinated unsecured creditors," and "collateralized bond obligations," while their blackberries accumulate ping's in silent mode. She is a pedigreed corporate vixen. But don't let this fool you. Lurking just beneath the surface of this ostensible urban poster child is a yogafied, farmers market friendly, nature loving, hike enthusiast - a bonafide Santa Monica hippy. It is this sensibility that has already begun to infuse itself in our wedding plans. And so:
Bridezilla whirls with a roundabout kick. Grazes Michelle's face. A drop of blood falls.
Michelle scales the cage wall like a tarantula. Double-back flips off it Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon style. Lands in a double leg-lock around Bridezilla's neck.
They crash to the floor - Bridezilla caught in Michelle's deadly vice grip. Veins pulse. Bridezilla claws. Michelle clamps harder.
At our reception Michelle wants a barbeque; albeit with wild salmon, an assortment of organic vegetables (probably from sustainable farms), a variety of salad options (also organic and probably sustainable) and, of course, the pudding cake. She doesn't care if Mario Batali is working the grill or Martha Stewart frosts the cake. In fact, it's more than likely that I will be a Groomzilla in this department. I'm not a fanatic, but I'm a fan of food. If I could get Mario behind the grill, I probably would. But this isn't my cage match. So:
Wily as ever, Bridezilla slithers loose from Michelle's clutches. Rebounds off the cage. Charges.
Michelle ducks, grapples Zilla's legs. Punishes her headfirst into the mat - the perfect Reverse Piledriver.
Animated stars circle Bridezilla's noggin.
There's been no mention of riding into the ceremony on a white stallion. Or arriving via yacht. Or anything more extravagant than our feet at this point. Of course, Michelle would look great cantering up to the ceremony on a glistening steed. Her bridesmaids in tow on a line of ponies as trumpeters herald the event with resounding notes. Or maybe I've had too much coffee. Yes, indeed I have. No horses, yachts or ponies on the list. So we go to:
Michelle leaps off the cage wall. Crushes an elbow-first body slam into Zilla's dazed frame. Wraps her in the headlock-of-death. Bridezilla gasps for breath...
In an excited conversation about the wedding dress I offered to call Oscar and Vera**. Michelle shrugged and tossed out her trademark "eh". She has a very clear idea of what the dress will look like, but doesn't seem concerned by whose fingers stitch the seems. From the limits imposed on my brain by my maleness regarding visualizing wedding dresses, I can only tell you that it sounds nice, and then defer you to her for the specifics. Back to:
Bridezilla's eyes roll back. Michelle lets up...
WHAM! Michelle's airborne. Nails the cage roof. Drops to the floor in shock.
Ahh, Bridezilla. You sneaky devil. Alive and well, she cackles and leaps to her feet. Darts at Michelle.
But a lightning jab to the throat catches her. Bam! Bridezilla hits the mat hard.
Michelle tosses her over one shoulder and... SMACK! Crushes Zilla with an Inverted Haymaker.
I could literally go on for pages, but it's fair to say Bridezilla's taken enough drubbing for one cage match.
In the end, I know my future wife cares about many things involving our wedding. I certainly do, too. Some of those things Michelle might care about a lot, but none of them she cares about too much. Well, maybe the pudding cake. If you've tasted the pudding cake we speak of, you'd get it. I do. I get warm and Tootsie Roll chewy when I think about that cake, and when I think about my future wife ... and how she might end this cage match:
Bridezilla sprawled out - down but not out. Michelle straddled on top, knees pinned to Zilla's shoulders.
BRIDEZILLA: Damn you. Damn you and everything you stand for you low-maintenance bi...
SLAM. Bridezilla's face meets the bloodied mat.
SLAM -- SLAM -- SLAM. Michelle doesn't let up --
MICHELLE: I (slam) JUST (slam) WANT (slam) TO (slam) GET (slam) MARRIED (slam) IN (slam) MY (slam) BARE (slam) FEET!
And one big, final SLAM!
The thought of getting married in anything other than Louboutin's or Choo's knocks Bridezilla unconscious.
The Ref pulls Michelle from Zilla's limp frame. Raises her arm in the air.
A Champion is crowned.
Like I said, warm and Tootsie Roll chewy all over. Bridezilla's excluded, who couldn't love my future wife?
*I pitched an actual cage match featuring MY FUTURE WIFE vs. BRIDEZILLA to the folks over at Pay per View. I thought it would be a nice way to pay for our honeymoon. They didn't agree.
** It was a fairly safe offer since I know neither designer personally. Since you can't Google my net worth, I doubt they'd take my call.
The Countdown Begins ... Sort Of
For any self respecting countdown to begin, one must first have something to count down to.
Wedding. Check.
Blog#1 was supposed to be quick. Something simple like: 372 DAYS AND COUNTING... STAY TUNED, COMPADRES!
I was really excited about the font highlight, and maybe finding a ticker to embed that automatically keeps track of the countdown. But before I could even type that big, bold and exciting number I realized, in my zeal, I had overlooked a fundamental flaw -
The Date.
Crap. Foiled already.
Yes, apparently you actually need a date to count back from to use 372 DAYS AND COUNTING... STAY TUNED, COMPADRES! Otherwise it's just ? DAYS AND COUNTING... and that just doesn't hold the same muster.
Let me tell you my friends, choosing a date is no easy task.
JANUARY: OUT. I like to get fat over the holidays. Dieting from Thanksgiving through Christmas is not a viable option.
FEBRUARY: OUT. It's the best month for powder in Tahoe. Since we are getting married in Tahoe, that just won't work. I know my friends - they would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know my brother - he would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know my future brother and sister in law - they would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know myself - and I would definitely show up to our wedding - in my ski boots. Probably late. Maybe bleeding. And I know my future wife...
MARCH: OUT. No need to compete with the most important holiday of the year - St Patrick's Day.
APRIL: OUT. Due to my genes, I don't know much about tanning. All I know is that Michelle would like to have one on our wedding day. Even in LA it's tough to be tan by April. Well, the natural way that is.
MAY: OUT. My Birthday. As I creep into my thirties I can really only handle one celebration a month.
JUNE: LIKELY. So far, no strikes against June.
JULY: OUT. Michelle's Birthday. We usually spend the entire month celebrating it.
AUGUST: OUT. I usually spend the entire month recovering from celebrating all of July. And apparently it's booked through 2012.
SEPTEMBER: POSSIBLE. Late September might be chilly in Tahoe. But otherwise, no strikes against it.
OCTOBER: OUT. The idea of a Halloween themed wedding is more frightening than the costumes that our LA friends* would likely show up in.
NOVEMBER: OUT. I spend the first three weeks of November thinking about all the food I'm going to eat on Thanksgiving, and the last week regretting/digesting all the food I ate on Thanksgiving. So does my brother, only worse. We would be useless.
DECEMBER: OUT. I can't say I'm religious, but I still don't want to compete with Jesus.
It has taken Michelle and I approximately one month to get this far. I'm not sure if we should pat ourselves on the back or slap ourselves in the face.
In either case, wish us luck.
*For some reason Halloween lives on well into your thirties and forties here in Los Angeles. I don't know why. Really, I just don't.
Wedding. Check.
Blog#1 was supposed to be quick. Something simple like: 372 DAYS AND COUNTING... STAY TUNED, COMPADRES!
I was really excited about the font highlight, and maybe finding a ticker to embed that automatically keeps track of the countdown. But before I could even type that big, bold and exciting number I realized, in my zeal, I had overlooked a fundamental flaw -
The Date.
Crap. Foiled already.
Yes, apparently you actually need a date to count back from to use 372 DAYS AND COUNTING... STAY TUNED, COMPADRES! Otherwise it's just ? DAYS AND COUNTING... and that just doesn't hold the same muster.
Let me tell you my friends, choosing a date is no easy task.
JANUARY: OUT. I like to get fat over the holidays. Dieting from Thanksgiving through Christmas is not a viable option.
FEBRUARY: OUT. It's the best month for powder in Tahoe. Since we are getting married in Tahoe, that just won't work. I know my friends - they would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know my brother - he would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know my future brother and sister in law - they would skip our wedding for a powder day. I know myself - and I would definitely show up to our wedding - in my ski boots. Probably late. Maybe bleeding. And I know my future wife...
MARCH: OUT. No need to compete with the most important holiday of the year - St Patrick's Day.
APRIL: OUT. Due to my genes, I don't know much about tanning. All I know is that Michelle would like to have one on our wedding day. Even in LA it's tough to be tan by April. Well, the natural way that is.
MAY: OUT. My Birthday. As I creep into my thirties I can really only handle one celebration a month.
JUNE: LIKELY. So far, no strikes against June.
JULY: OUT. Michelle's Birthday. We usually spend the entire month celebrating it.
AUGUST: OUT. I usually spend the entire month recovering from celebrating all of July. And apparently it's booked through 2012.
SEPTEMBER: POSSIBLE. Late September might be chilly in Tahoe. But otherwise, no strikes against it.
OCTOBER: OUT. The idea of a Halloween themed wedding is more frightening than the costumes that our LA friends* would likely show up in.
NOVEMBER: OUT. I spend the first three weeks of November thinking about all the food I'm going to eat on Thanksgiving, and the last week regretting/digesting all the food I ate on Thanksgiving. So does my brother, only worse. We would be useless.
DECEMBER: OUT. I can't say I'm religious, but I still don't want to compete with Jesus.
It has taken Michelle and I approximately one month to get this far. I'm not sure if we should pat ourselves on the back or slap ourselves in the face.
In either case, wish us luck.
*For some reason Halloween lives on well into your thirties and forties here in Los Angeles. I don't know why. Really, I just don't.
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