They're all crazy...

Well folks, we're married...

The wedding was incredible, beautiful, amazing and every other word I can think of that means "great"!  I will post a real entry in the next few days, but am simply loving being here in the Outer Banks currently and thus have no real want to sit in front of a computer.  Just being honest here...

So, as I head to the beach with my SPF ZERO on in hopes of getting my white ass a nice shade of caramel, I want to let you all know one thing.

At 6pm on May 31st 2008, I became the luckiest man on the face of this Earth. 

All fears and stresses melted away, and I sit here with a smile that couldn't possibly fit in a picture no matter how wide the lens.

Be in touch soon...

Mike

Sar and I are a team.

We are like a “band of brothers” fighting our way out of the trenches and through adversity. (Except Sar is a girl, so that is totally incorrect) We are like Joey and Chandler (Friends), Lauren and Audrina (The Hills), Meredith and McDreamy (Grey’s), all the Ninja Turtles, and a whole lot like He-Man and Shira…

I’m sorry. That last one was totally out of line. Not only does that show you how not cool I am, but it also points out how not cool I was as a kid. My bro and I used to watch He-Man like it was our “job”. We clocked in at 3:26 pm after school everyday, and prepared to be the best “employees” possible for those coveted 30 minutes. Commercials full of Hi-C ads and Skip-it flashed before our eyes and not a word was spoken or a movement made. Dare I say, not a breath taken. We watched intently, waiting for He-Man’s magnificent tiger to go from cowardly to courageous. I realize that many of you readers (believe it or not, I think there may be 6 readers!) are women. So, I imagine that you aren’t too hot on the topic of He-Man and honestly I don’t blame you. Who walks around shirtless wearing a loincloth anyway?

Lets not even talk bad about the Turtles ok? Girls and guys watched alike so I don’t want to hear shit. Everyone knows the damn theme song and everyone knows that Splinter could kick anyone’s ass. “Heroes in a Half Shell, Turtle Power!”

(If you were thinking or in fact just shouted out “Turtle Power” after reading “Heroes in a Half Shell”, you need a hobby.)

I just spent three paragraphs on my youth. I apologize again. That is not really wedding related, in fact I would think if Sar reads this it may have a negative affect on the whole wedding process. I.E. She would call it off.

Back to the teamwork talk of the first paragraph. I wrote a while ago about our kitten, Elle. Well I wanted to give you folks an update as to how she’s doing and how she relates to the wedding. Currently, Elle makes all decisions in our home. She decides where everyone sleeps, she decides who gets to eat dinner, and she definitely decides whether I get to use the computer or not. Let me explain further.

When I sit down to write a lovely heart wrenching blog, Elle often decides that that’s a bad idea. She thinks it’s cool to walk over and sit down directly on the keyboard in mid-sentence. Often that makes the sentence look like the following…

“One day I was blogghyser ergerghwethywrarhygwhjnjrygws”

Sometimes I like to eat dinner in front of the T.V. with my plate of healthy gross tasting food sitting in front of me. It’s quite common for Elle to decide she is human and walk onto the table and stick her nose and tongue in my food. Have you ever smelled a cat’s breath? Well once you do, you will never want their face near your food, gross tasting or not. Dinner is over.

Sometimes after a long day of work, I like to go to sleep so I can wake up for another long day of work. Elle decides when this actually happens. If she is not sitting on my chest and glaring at me daring me to move, then she is scraping the walls with her claws, which sounds like what I envision the “Guinness World Record Holder” for longest nails scraping a blackboard a football field long until her nails are nubs.

This morning, Elle went in for her spay. (I.E. no more sex) I am heartbroken and both Sarah and I are grieving immensely. We can pick her up tomorrow. Tomorrow, which feels like a year or two away. We don’t know what to do with ourselves. I’m not sure when to eat, where and when to sleep, and I’m just barely typing these words out without her spelling error help.

We have two big wedding decisions to make tonight. Yet we sit here without our leader. How can we decide whether to have a Polaroid guest book without her non-English speaking input? Who will decide which of the 40 different bridesmaid gifts Sarah has bought should be “the one”? Only the princess can help us now, but we have no access to her.

A trio we are. Two humans and a cat, all walking the “Green Mile” of marriage. If this is me now, a dog person who has a cat, the world better watch out when we have kids. I’m a mess and I am proud to admit it. We have 44 days left folks. 44. Decisions still need to be made. Who will make them? I’m going crazy. Will tomorrow never come?

I need the wisdom. The wisdom of the cat…

It started as a kid. I would step off the school bus and after taking care of my bus patrol duties (close your eyes and think chubby kid in an orange patrol belt), quickly began a full sprint towards my house. My house was about 1/10^th of a mile up a hill on the left side of my street. Not far at all, and not much of a hill to the naked eye. I loved my street. I knew all the neighbors, who often smiled and waved as I sped past them. There were roughly 10 houses all neatly packed next to each other before you got to mine. Number 11 on the left was me.

Truth be told, after about three houses, my girth in combination with gravity, began to play largely into my speed and thus I often slowed to a near crawl by the time I reached the top of the longest hill ever created. I hated my street. Who in their right mind would create a hill at a 90 degree angle. Ever been to San Francisco? Well the hills there ain’t got nothing on this one. The neighbors mocked the tortoise like speed at which I moved, and even the 14 year old Newfoundland managed to move quicker…backwards.

Home. There are two things that I deem incredibly important about home. One is the use of one of the bathrooms upon arriving. After a long school bus ride, there is nothing more fulfilling then a good pee. Second is being the first person to check the mail each day. Then it was the excitement of a new “Highlights” magazine or maybe even a Harry and David catalog. (God, I love food.) Now, however, it was something much more important.

We are beginning to receive our RSVP’s back. Be still my beating heart.

Sar and I live in a condo now, so our mail is delivered downstairs in our box. If you have never lived in a condo and had the opportunity of receiving your mail this way, let me explain. Often I get home after working since 5 am to find two or three of my neighbors standing directly in front of my box fumbling with keys or on the cell phone or fumbling with keys while on the cell phone. Keep in mind, I am so anal about receiving these RSVP’s that any set back of time and or stalling pisses me off like I was the one contestant on “The Biggest Loser” who doesn’t lose any weight.

Each day we receive, at the least, two of these precious mail parcels. I swear people, it’s like I am Charlie and have found the “Golden Ticket” each time I slip my key into the magical lock. I grab my mail and usually skip the elevator, hopping each step with the length and gate of a wild gazelle being chased by a ravenous lion. (To understand the importance of this, skipping the elevator for me is like missing a meal. It just doesn’t happen.)

So far we have received an overwhelmingly positive response. It seems that people are pretty excited about celebrating with us. Or, they simply want to take a trip to the Outer Banks and have a quasi vacation. Nonetheless, we have only had two folks respond back with no.

When we initially started inviting folks and creating a master list of people we thought worthy of an invite (this is really how you feel), we imagined that 60 percent might attend, as the destination was far for most and the closest airport was a good two hours away. Wrong. Apparently destination weddings are the new “it” thing. Everyone comes. That’s fine by me, it’s Sarah who is losing sleep and having breathing issues. She seems to think that we may not have enough space. To that, I have responded with a list of those who can sit outside the tent.

The list includes…

~ My brother

~ One of my best friends who cheats in scrabble

~ All three living grandmothers

~ All other guests who like camping. I figure they like the outside anyway.

So here we are each afternoon, racing home to see who the lucky one is that gets to open the mail first. It’s almost like winning the lottery each and every day. The only exception is we aren’t gaining any money. Instead, with each “yes,” we are preparing to give more and more of it away.

In keeping with my reality T.V. infatuation, I would like to talk tonight about dancing. Yes, dancing. As in “Dancing With the Stars” or more appropriately, “Dancing With Mike”. This post will not be long, as I can only make fun of myself for a certain period of time. Usually, this time lasts somewhere just under an hour. (It should only be 30 minutes truthfully, but I still look down at the keys when I type. Oh get off your throne, you do too, admit it.)

Let me tell you a little about my “game” as a youngster before I give you the low down on our first dance and all that that entails. My game began way back as a wee tike and manifested itself as a cocky, dumb, not really as important as I thought I was undergrad. As a youngster my game was limited due to having to actually speak. You know to hold a conversation; I actually had to have words come out of my mouth. Most often they were aimed at some young girl who didn’t know what was coming. I could definitely manage a good fake yawn and cough here and there, but frequently the words were very, very far behind or simply hidden in the continued yawn / cough sequences. Often the sentences went like the following. I will insert Sarah’s name for mass appeal…

“Hhhh Hh Hi Sarah, how are you (yawn) doing? I mean how are you doing today? It’s a (cough) nice weather day today. Right? I mean it’s really nice when (yawn and cough) the wind blows you know? Basically I, well, I, I like your hair”.

It’s a very nice weather day?? I like your hair?? My God in Heaven, I had a zero percent chance of getting any girl to even walk to the backstop with me at recess. Forget holding hands or any physical touching at all. That was absolutely gone when the first yawn / cough appeared. I got better as I got older, but never was fantastic by any means.

Then, somewhere in the late 90’s, the sea’s parted, and all was salvaged. Enter AOL instant messenger. No sounds were needed! All I had to do was type. That’s it! I could run my game all while sitting at my computer unshowered and disheveled. “Game” took on a whole new meaning for me as I devised a plan to get girls to come over or simply hang out.

Now I knew full well I was no Michael Jackson. Share the same name, yes. Share the same ability to bend in ways men shouldn’t be able too, no. However, in my eyes, I could slow dance better than any man alive. I was champion of doing the left foot then right foot move which guided the senseless female in circles for the full duration of an R-Kelly CD. ("12 play" folks. If you don’t know, then Itunes can help you understand.) I kid you not, I won over many a female with the simple IM plea of “Come dance with me, please”. I was also pretty persuasive in my ways. I used humor, (rather than looks) to brainwash these ladies into the slow and sultry steps I had perfected. AOL instant Messenger had given me the key, and all I had to do was open the door.

You may be thinking, “How does this relate to your first dance Mike”? Well, let me tell you. The first dance is a 2 and a half-minute uncomfortable version of a train wreck any way you slice it. If I take no dance lessons, I feel that I can fall back on my perfected slow dance two-step and pull off an emotional and stylish version that is passable. With dance lessons, I believe I will look like an ass at best. What you folks don’t know is Sarah is an incredible dancer. She was a ballet dancer, captain of her high school cheerleading squad, and later member of her college dance team. Not even Fred Astaire in the flesh could help me here. I stand no chance at looking even remotely agile unless I manage to sell her on the “AOL IM circular two-step”. So, although we have finally decided on a first dance song, we are still in the throws of negotiating just how that first dance will look.

Although I do think that I will look more idiot than elegant, in my heart I know that it won’t matter since Sar and my love is stronger than any amount of left feet. Let alone, it’s only one dance, right? So the people in attendance get a good laugh, no big deal. Most of them will be too drunk to even remember who’s wedding they are attending. Only one problem. Along with the DJ, and the flowers, and the string quartet, and all else wedding, we have booked a videographer. A man whose sole purpose in life is to tape a first dance full of utter embarrassment. Alas, what I am I left to do? Well let me tell you. I close my eyes and I trust that the “game” that allowed me too woo Sar in the first place will shine through and my talent at the ‘circular two-step” will win over all in attendance.

I’m ready…for lessons…

The invitations went out today.

The invitations went out today.

The invitations went out today.

I heard somewhere that if you repeat things in your mind that are bothering you, all the while practicing a normal in through the nose out through the mouth breathing technique, it is a way of easing your tension.

Absolutely incorrect.

Whoever the person is who decided this, was dead wrong. When you repeat the things in your mind that bother you, they bother you MORE. I would like to hunt down this Psycho fraud and have him repeat, “I am a non-educated jackass, who created an idea that has no merit. I should be disbarred from psychology, sociology, and overall “smartology” and thrown to the wolves”. Say that over and over. Jerk.

I’m not stressed. Just a bit nervous that’s all. You know nervous like the night before Open Heart Surgery. Or nervous like when you first lean in to kiss a girl and realize you forgot to brush your teeth this morning. Basically, you have waited and waited until every possible thing is perfect for that kiss and thus plunged yourself into a state of hope. Well hope just got crushed by the United States Postal Service. The USPS has done nothing wrong to me, but I hate them nonetheless.

We took our 150 invitations to the post office today with explicit directions to ask to “hand cancel” them. Hand canceling basically means that you can hold the little ink stamp thing yourself and stamp each invitation with painstaking perfectness. Easy enough right? Nope. I had heard horror stories of other folks going in and asking to do “the procedure” and being turned away with full force by the Postal Drill Sergeant. Men and women alike fell to their knees in tears and were painstakingly made to watch the PDS (Postal Drill Sergeant) seize their invitations and rub off the incredibly expensive and meticulously written calligraphy. Months of effort down the drain at the hands of a woman who obviously was straight out of the “The Shining” rather than the Post Office.

We arrived. We discussed our plan of action, and talked ourselves up. You know, you say things like, “Hey, we’re being ridiculous. It’s a post office after all. They are here to help us. They want our invitations to arrive nicely as it reflects on them. Let’s pull ourselves together here”.

With confidence in tow, Sar and I walked the “The Green Mile” into the building. As we entered, I think I saw a man come out with tears in his eyes, murmuring something about Drill Sergeants and baby announcements, but I quickly made myself believe that it was just allergies causing his teary misfortune. The rumors of the PDS were unfounded and flat out bogus. Right?

We waited. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. 12 minutes of supreme stress, listening to the three clerks say things like, “Would you like insurance for this package”? Or “Is there anything fragile or pliable in the package”? I kept thinking, “Insurance for the package? How about life insurance as my heart is beating so fast it feels like that of a contestant on a Bobby Flay “Throw Down” episode. (Food channel folks, get with it.) I swear I could have knocked out the person in front of me with the thumps that were coming from my sternum. I would be dead at 27, in line at the post office. Could be worse, I guess. I could have died when we got the initial floral bid. Lucky for me, Sar was there to revive me after my heart actually stopped. I love that girl, lifesaver that she is.

Then it happened. We saw her in the flesh. The PDS. Of the three clerks, she was obvious. Tight uniform, short-cropped hair, and piercing crimson eyes. I nearly melted into the floor like a groom version of the “Wicked Witch”. You don’t know this about me, but I am the unluckiest person in the universe. So, I figured of course we would get the PDS and not either of the other two smiling happy clerks.

Sarah and I had practiced our speech before hand. Once arriving at the counter, we would both put on dazzling smiles and then explain to them that we have known each other for 20 years and that we are getting married and that we love each other and that we really do deserve the power of the ink stamp. We moved gingerly up closer and closer to the impending doom.

And then there was light…

Like a shift in my unlucky universe, the nice postal man next to PDS called for us to come on up. Thank you universe, I owe you immensely.

I immediately began stuttering my words, until something truly weird came out of my mouth. It sounded like below.

“Yes, hi there, sir, hello. We have, I mean my fiancé and I have, I mean we have 100 or so letters to mail. Can you help? I mean of course you can, you are the post office (weird giggle and smile). I really would like, I mean we would like to hand cancel them. Can we do that? Please, I would like to do that if possible, I mean we would like to do that…”

He looked, he smiled, and he gave us the coveted ink stamp. I am so smooth people, I sometimes scare myself. Off we went stamping and sorting, sorting and stamping. It all finally went off without a hitch thanks to our postal knight in shining armor. And to think, I was scared of little miss PDS. Alone I may be a baby, but together with Sar and with a firm grasp on the English language during clutch time, I certainly rise to the occasion...