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.

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.