A Wandering Minstrel's Notes from the Frontline

"Nuh uh. No way. I ain't sellin you nothin."

I have a wallet full of cash and three credit cards.

"But ma'am."

"Then I got your poor bride in here a week later all up in my face 'why'd you let him buy these? You crazy?' Nuh uh. You bring your bride back on in here and let her decide."

"I'm fairly certain my bride would not get up in your face."

When I set out five minutes earlier with my wedding to-do list in hand, I never thought I would be foiled so quickly. Usually my roadblocks are of the self-induced kind. I make it about half way through my list of the day and just can't take anymore wedding. A mild, inner temper tantrum ensues filled with expletives and utter contempt for the industry that's masquerading as my best friend while scoping my bedroom for valuables, then I quit for the day with the promise of a better attitude tomorrow. I certainly didn't expect to hit a brick wall at the first stop on my list - the post office.

Of course, in L.A. the Post Office is often a scary place, even in our yuppie little corner of the city. Things started out okay though. After barking me over with a loud, "Next...yeah you," the woman behind the counter did an about-face when she gathered I was getting married. Her features softened and her skin went from reflecting the institutional lighting above to actually radiating an inner glow. Ahh, the magic of weddings. None of this made a difference, however, in her convictions about the way this was going to go down. I looked her in the eye, gave her my best pleading smile, and --

"They're just stamps."

"Just stamps. Ha."

"I really don't think she'll care much."

"Bring her on back. If there's a line you just cut it and come see me."

"She works like sixty hours a week. In downtown."

"You have a good day sweety. I'll see you in a bit."

Then she turned her attention to the gathering line --

"YOU. NEXT."

So I left the post office empty handed. And had to tell Michelle that I didn't buy stamps for our invitations. That I needed her help. To buy stamps. Because the lady at the post office wouldn't sell them to me without her input. Apparently in the eyes of the world I am just a wandering minstrel, good for a story or an anecdote, but when it comes to important things like weddings, incapable of making any real decisions or policy; like what stamps to use for invitations.

Of course, the stamps that I tried to buy turned out to be the wrong ones. The envelope required 79 cents of postage and if you put a desert-scape and a bulls head stamp together you got 79 cents. I figured what the hell, it's a stamp. The other alternative was combining two wedding cake stamps or two wedding ring stamps, both costing 88 cents in postage. My future wife figured what the hell, it's an extra ten bucks. Let's go with the rings. It's cheesy, but thematic. She was right. The invitations looked much better with the rings than they would have with the desert scape and the bulls head.

One point, postal worker. Zero points, Andrew.

A month later I enter into Mr. Tuxedo on another mission. A kindly, manicured gentleman walks me through the store and gracefully shows me all the options. And then he turns to me, before I've even pointed at any potentials and --

"What color is the bride's dress?"

I don't know the answer to this question. But what I do know is that I'm not supposed to see the dress until the day we get married. So this time around I puff my chest and say with pure confidence --

"I don't know. I haven't seen it."

"Of course you haven't. But you are allowed to know the color," he responds like I should know this.

"Oh. Ok. Well, I think it might be off white?" (I found out later it's not)

"What color are the bridesmaids dresses?"

"Yellow"

"What color yellow?"

I stare at him blankly, my confidence draining. I know exactly where this is going. He looks at the soft yellow parking ticket in my hand.

"Like that? Or canary yellow? Or school bus yellow?

"I don't know."

"Bring your fiance in. Until then we can do nothing more."

"She's very busy. I can do this."

He chuckles.

"Maybe you can. But you can't give her approval. Only she can do that. We are open seven days a week."

And that was that. I texted Michelle that again I had been thwarted in my wedding task of the day. That she needed to accompany me to Mr. Tuxedo. That they wouldn't even let me try a darn tuxedo on without her there, let alone actually let me rent one. I'm not sure how the geeks at apple did it, but somehow I actually heard her tone through the response text she sent. She was not happy. Not not happy with me, but with the industry that was reducing me to eunuch status minute my minute.

I should have seen it coming long ago on our first wedding related meeting. We walked into the party rentals display room and the woman looked at me with the curiosity one might study an alien if it wandered into your living room. She gave a curt smile, looked to Michelle and exclaimed --

"How nice of you to bring him along. Most brides just make these decisions themselves."

That's what I thought she said anyway. But thinking back on it, what she probably said - and I was just too busy feeling uncomfortably sized up and down to hear it correctly - was that most brides make THE decisions themselves. As in ALL of the decisions. About everything. Because what I've found is that most vendors, even the U.S. Postal Service, happily listen to what you (the groom) have to say, and then refer to the bride for confirmation on everything. And while this is annoying and somewhat emasculating, I can't even imagine what's it's like on the other side of the coin. Not only are you (the bride) typically the shot-caller on all the big ticket stuff, but from there on down to things like stamps and how many flower petals you want on each centerpiece, the only answer accepted must be delivered from a voice lacking an Adam's apple.

I'm coming to terms with it. And I think Michelle is too. I've been relegated to anything that can be accomplished online, anything that's kind of masculine - like chartering a bus and buying alcohol - and to planning our honeymoon. So it goes...