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.

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.