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

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…

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.

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.

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...

Yet as I commenced on my weekly visit through my favorite shopping destination, the supermarket, I realized that the frozen food section and its bags and bags of fried appetizers called to me and my immature taste buds, like Tony does Jessica. (Romo and Simpson for you folks who don’t have a fiancé who reads every Celeb. magazine everyday of every week.) As if I was walking up to the proverbial “Gates of Heaven”, a light shown down upon me, and I was witness to the beauty of Ore-ida, Tyson, Kraft, and even makeshift versions of TGIF’s (the restaurant) favorites.

I’m simple, folks. My friends are pretty simple, my family is pretty simple, and Sarah’s family is pretty simple. We’re simple people. You already know this, but often I would choose the fare of a local diner or deli over the craziness of the best French restaurant in the DC metro area. That’s not to say that I don’t like going out to a really nice dinner, because I definitely do. I readily enjoy taking Sar to the city for a really nice meal and having her get all “dolled up”. (She is incredibly pretty if I do say so myself. Dolled up or not, but I digress.) However as I sat there in my trance listening to the freezer section whisper sweet nothings to me, I started to get nervous and hyperventilate.

Would my friends eat the Ahi Tuna? Or, would they prefer tuna fish sandwich mini’s? (Cut in triangles always. Thanks mom!) Does anyone (me included) even know what endive is? How is blue cheese cream different than plain old blue cheese? Worse yet, when my brother sees the blue cheese cream, would they begin their search for the Buffalo wings that usually accompany it? What do you think would be more lauded, Slightly Charred Thai Beef Skewers with Honey Ginger Remoulade, or old and trusty Potato Skins? How about when my groomsmen do decide to try the skewers, does it then create a safety concern? I.E. will one idiot start to drink too much “signature cocktail” and begin to pierce idiot number 2 next to him? Will he be too drunk and then slip and pierce Nana in the butt? Will Nana then turn and knock him out with a quick elbow to the jaw? (She’s tough man.  In fact, there are rumors that she's on the verge of starting a "Fight Club" in her old folks home.  She is a ripped and powerful mass of muscle, weighing in at an elderly 96 pounds.  Intimidating, to say the least.)

Let’s leave this stressful conversation and head on over to an even more exciting one, “Signature Cocktails”. A signature to me, was what I practiced in eight grade English class for the full 45 minutes alloted.  Thats when I thought my future was going down the road of professional sports. I would spend hours signing my name on my notebook or “trapper keeper”. (Wow. That makes me feel old. I just said, “trapper keeper”. Do “trapper keepers” even exist anymore? And, can’t they get a cooler name for them if they do?) Sorry, almost forgot what we were talking about. Apparently signature has an even cooler meaning than it’s usefulness as a time killer in school. Signature, as in cocktail, means a way for you and your fiancé to create a drink that means something to you or says something about you. Maybe it represents your color palette. Or maybe it is infused with some type of flavor like watermelon or sour apple. You should also know that "SigTails" (my new, not cool name for them) have to have a real catchy, neat title like, “A Mango Miketini”, or “A Crazy Sarini”. Note the use of Sar and my names. Also note the crazy in Sarah’s…

Initially I thought our signature cocktail should be a simple drink. In fact I had and still have a great idea. I think our signature cocktail should be chocolate milk. Perfect if you ask me. Everyone likes chocolate milk, and if you don’t, you have a flaw internally. Actually as I sit here writing this, I am getting more and more confident that Sar will love this idea. I’m going to pitch it right now!

I pitched it. She didn’t smile. Actually she may not have heard me since I said it and she continued to watch reruns of “Friends” on TBS. I tried twice, but neither time got a response. I’ll keep trying.

Maybe it’s the chocolate that threw her off...

Come again?

Richard Branson owns an island that he rents for 45 grand a night.  Forty five thousand dollars.  (In case you didn't realize what the numerical version means, I figured I would spell it out for you.)  Not one thousand, two thousand, or even ten.  Forty five thousand dollars. 

We aren't going to Necker Island on our honeymoon. 

Who started this honeymoon craze?  Who's the clever girl behind the word itself?  I did some digging.  Although there are conflicting stories, I am going with the Honey Mead one.  Basically bride and groom were given honey mead (or wine) and after it was all finished the honeymoon was over.  Is this true?  I don't know.  Do I care?  Nah.  I care about the following few things currently as they relate to our "trip of a lifetime".

WEATHER ~ Is the weather 80 and above at said location with little humidity?  I live just outside of Washington D.C., the nations capital and home to crappy weather often.  Many folks who live here thinks it's great.  They say things like, "Look how beautiful the Cherry Blossoms are"!  Or, they throw some crap at you like, "We have the best of both worlds.  Snowy winters and warm summers.  How could you want to be anywhere else"?  Well Mr. and Mrs. DC, let me tell you something.  Your precious Cherry Blossoms, although pretty, last for approximately 5 days.  That is 360 days of branch and 5 days of flower.  I am no genius, but that seems like a bad trade off.  As for the best of both worlds issue, anyone who gets up to go to work in D.C. during the months of October through March knows what it's like to deal with the pretty, pretty snow and cold weather. 

The snow is cool for 3 days, at most, then all adults start to hate it.  We curse the kids sledding as we sprint out of our houses and rush to get in our cars.  Half the time we forget the damn ice scraper and curse ourselves for that.  Why we leave the ice scraper in the house at all baffles me anyway.  After scraping until your knuckles bleed and your face has lost so much color you resemble Joan Collins, you finally can get in the door.  You turn the car on, don't let it warm up, and you quickly blast the car's ice breath directly on you.  Each time thinking "how %&$#@* long does it take to get some hot air"!  Maybe you're the lucky one with heated seats.  If this is you, then you know that by the time the heated seats start to work, you are pulling up to your destination. 

Funny thing about the winter is looking at the other drivers next to you.  Every driver on the road, including you, is contracting every muscle in their body at the same time and sitting as close to the wheel as possible.  As if this act would in itself make you warmer.  A weird pained look on all of our faces, like we have food poisoning, just saw the video for Heidi Montag's new song, or worse, like we just stubbed our pinky toe 12 times in a row.  It's a teeth clenched, steering wheel gripping, eyes watering from the freezing cold heat of the air conditioner kind of look. 

Let us not forget that when it snows 1/100 of an inch in the D.C. Metropolitan area, all things important shut down.  Schools are cancelled, the mail doesn't often come, and you can forget about making it to a bank.  Yup, only the one unimportant thing stays open...Your place of business.  Somehow, someway, the place where you work is always open.  If cold weather was a person, I would fight him or her right now.  I am not one to be confrontational, but I believe I would kick Colds ass.

Wow, that was a true rant, huh?  I need to calm down, relax, get a massage, take a nap, have some tea....I hate cold weather.  OK, lets cancel any thought of going skiing, seeing Alaska, or going North of Cape Cod and such. 

DISTANCE ~ This will be less of a rant because I realize now that to see the world or get anywhere really, you need to "man up" or "grow a pair of balls" (as Sar might say) and fly.  I really, really, hate flying.  I am that 3 year old kid that screams and cries the whole flight.  I am the guy who puts his seatbelt on so tight it gives me a stomach ache.  I am the one guy who listens intently to the flight attendant explain, "Place the orange inflatable life jacket over your head and pull the yellow cord to inflate".  I am the guy that makes the mental note, "Yellow cord Mike, the yellow one".  Sadly, I might have to drug myself with a Five Guys burger, chocolate covered pretzels, and Skittles.  (Not the crazy flavors, I am talking the original Skittles with all the colors of the rainbow.  You know, "taste the rainbow...")

COST ~ You may think I would take this opportunity to be pissed at Sar, and say that she wants me to spend crazy amounts of money.  I could do that, but it would be a lie.  I actually want to spend crazy amounts of money and have the best time possible.  You see, I have this problem where I get all involved in a trip and then think that I need to add on everything and anything under the sun.  I.E., the upgraded rental car, (I'm thinking Maserati) YES.  The super duper deluxe room that really only faces 15 percent more of the ocean front than the standard room but costs triple, YES.  I will order room service every night possible (even after dinner when I am full) simply because I, like you, love having my food brought to me.  There is something so cool about room service that starts from when you were a kid and never goes away.  (Maybe it's the miniature ketchup jars?)

In the planning stages of a trip, I become deaf and mute.  Sar may try to talk to me, but she knows there will be no response until I have clicked the "purchase" button.  I believe that I should get a pass for not listening or caring about what she is saying during the trip planning phase, as I am doing it half for her.  Just to clarify also, we come to our trip destination possibilities together.  Sar hates the cold too and we both love to sit on a beach, eat, tan, and not do a thing else.  (Ok, fine.  We like reading too.  We are our parents people, we are our parents.  As you know, I like my man Harry from Hogwarts while Sarah prefers to enlighten her mind with titles like, The Devil Wears Prada, and Bergdorf Blondes.)

Look, if there are three things in life that I just don't care about spending money on, it's Sar, food, and trips.  Lucky for me, I get to spend money on all three with this Honeymoon.  Wait, is that lucky?  Hmmm...

So drum roll please ~

After months of deliberation and hours of tripadvisor.com reading, We are going to Bora Bora.  It is like 18 hours away from D.C. so perfect for me with regard to flying.  Maybe I'll need two burgers.  Or maybe I add the XL Snickers bar to go with the Skittles.  Yet the weather should be a balmy 85 with sunshine all day everyday.  I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am.  I just hope that the airlines know who their dealing with.  I think if I could, I would put my seatbelt on now...

A buffet is a magical place where nothing is unattainable. Mine, in college, was called “China Buffet”. An $8.95 fantasy world, where a family could come and truly have a lovely experience. I loved this place like a parent loves their children. When I first came upon it, by a quick glance out the corner of my eye while passing in a car, my heart nearly jumped through the roof. I had that feeling that you had when you start to realize in third grade or so, that you maybe don’t want to keep pinching the little girl next to you and making her cry. Instead you want to do anything within your power to make her smile. It’s a feeling of accomplishment, a feeling of growth. It overwhelms you and brings you to a new place in your adolescent life. It’s the butterflies in your stomach lightheaded feeling of pure and utter bliss.

Only later in life did I realize that my “China Buffet” was not nearly a one in a million spot. “China Buffets” were apparently in every town and every city in the U.S. Please don’t be one of those misguided souls that maintain that these wonderful dwellings only serve Chinese food. Not only is that foolish, but it shows your complete lack of knowledge regarding the eating industry. These crafty establishments serve foods ranging from Chicken and Broccoli, to Fried Chicken, to Pizza, to anything your heart and gut may desire upon entrance.

Naturally, I figured that when Sarah mentioned that she wanted a “candy buffet”, it would be something akin to my current knowledge of buffets. I thought, “This is the best wedding idea she has had yet”! After the dinner, we can have a table set up with a medley of General Tso’s Chicken next to Reeses Pieces, all sitting beside the egg rolls, which are directly adjacent to the different colored, monogrammed M&M’s. Tasty, oh so tasty.

Wrong.

A “candy buffet” is not a buffet at all. In fact it is a mockery of the buffet word. Instead it should be called a “wedding colored table linen jar candy place”. Let me explain. A true candy buffet as I understand it to be is a table, (with the appropriate pintuck linen matching the rest of the tables) with jars of all different shapes and sizes (that your fiancé has scoured the internet and every craft and home furnishings store in America looking for) full of all the candies that you and your precious fiancé love. All of which in the exact colors that she has had programmed in her mind since she came into this world as a young babe.

Our special “wedding colored table linen jar candy place”, will have assortments of sugary delights in bright chartreuse greens, fuchsia pinks, and chocolate browns. Do you know what it’s like to try and find all of your favorite candies in the allotted color scheme, all the while trying to portray it as of part a cohesive theme? It’s like trying to tie your shoes with no fingers.

Yet after months of investigative work, Sarah has found the perfect “hurricane vases” (which have absolutely nothing to do with weather) and “apothecary jars” to be the receptacles for our chosen candies. (Although “apothecary” may sound like a medical procedure men have when they turn 40, it is a jar with a lid basically.) There won’t be any Lo Mein, no Dumplings, not even a fortune cookie. Only specially chosen, intricately designed, candies arranged in perfect succession with the perfect stainless steel candy scoops sitting in each vase. Scoops. Not spoons or shovels, or anything that simple. Scoops folks.

It will of course look dazzling. At least until our pleasantly full, overly served guests get too it. Yet for a good thirty minutes, it will sit there, all alone, carrying the weight of the buffet world on it shoulders. Almost too pretty to enjoy…

First of all, lets talk about talking.  Why, may I ask, do women feel it necessary to have seven (at the least) different conversations going on at once?  How are men supposed to follow any of these conversations?  It sounds like they have created a different language every time a conversation starts.  Almost a different dialect of English.  Lets call it "womenglish".  In case you don't understand what I mean I will provide below seven different topics that were discussed all within a 45 second conversation I overheard between Sar and one of her bridesmaids...

1) The conversation started with both women in agreement that they would rather spend their days not working.  Instead they would find things to do like shop, get pedicures, and be super productive.

2) The napkins.  They talked about the damn napkins people.  Example ~ "WOW!  Look at the print on that doily.  SOOOO cute"!

3) They loved the way the hostess had decorated the house.  Sar actually said, "She is so creative!  Look at how she mixes the minimalist style, with an artsy, contemporary, funky, whimsical feel".  Umm, excuse me, what? 

4) They took turns celebrating the outfits that they wore.  My question is, why is there a need to buy a whole new outfit for a shower?  It's four hours at the most people.  You have 4000 different "tops" (most with the tags still on) in the closet, pick one.  Who is this Diane Von Furstenberg anyway?  Why do they call it a wrap dress?  I'm losing my mind.

5) Who cares if Angelina is pregnant again with Brad.  What is this kid number 15?  I liked Jennifer better anyway.

6) Both women were so excited to see that their favorite Riesling had made an appearance!  Woohoo, nothing like a person who doesn't know the difference between wines acting like they do.  (I do this also, but that's beside the point.  I remain that I am perfect.)

7) They actually had a serious conversation regarding the pro's and con's of "The Real Housewives of OC" versus "The Real Housewives of NYC".  Bravo TV people, killing us slowly.

You may think that it is impossible to get all of the above in a conversation in under 45 seconds, but you would be mistaken.  Not only is it possible, but it can all be done without breathing too.  I figure that men need to breath every 10 seconds of a conversation.  I'll provide an example.

"Hey man, you see what Peyton did to the Jags last week"?  

BREATHE

"Yea, he's better than his brother by far".

BREATHE

"True, but his bro is getting better.  He did just win a Superbowl".

FINAL BREATH OF CONVERSATION

This is a good example of a normal english conversation.  This is however incredibly different than the normal "womenglish" conversation that is the status quo of women gatherings. 

My dad and I spent a good 3 minutes at the shower to say hi and drop off the grandmothers.  Three minutes was perfectly sufficient to learn everything that was going on with all the women.  We left, we had dinner and talked man stuff.  It was sublime. 

Then we went back and it began again.  For three hours I spent my time listening to conversations that sounded like the first example provided in this entry.  I believe that I deserve a medal.  Or at the very least a good pat on the back.  Us guys aren't made for that much talking.  It starts to make us nervous and we begin to sweat.  We feign interest but the truth is we are looking for the nearest bathroom or vacant space to get away and BREATH.  We may even do the old "pull out the cell phone" trick.  Women, you should know that when we do this, there is no one calling.  It simply is a way for us to move away from the thousands of words being thrown our way.

One more thing about the shower.  We received a whole bunch more of the stuff that we registered for.  We are stupid.  Remember, we have 800 sq ft.  So, we have enlisted the help and space of the parents.  After this whole wedding thing is over and done with, I think it would be in our best interest to search for maybe a place with say, 900 sq ft.  Maybe even 1000.  Who knows, maybe a reader of this blog who has an extra house wants to sell it to us for free.  Sell for free, what a deal. 

P.S.Sar and I are four days into our super duper exercise and fitness program.  Awesome right?  Only 75 days or so left...

If you’ve read any of my previous posts you know I love me some food, damn it. We all know that food plays a central role in getting in wedding shape. Unfortunately, I like all kinds of food. I am not one of those “foodists” that thinks that they are too good for common man’s food either. I would gladly eat a basket of sliders pre-meal at the local diner just as soon as I would order the chilled butternut squash soup with a dash of crème fraiche. If push comes to shove, give me both the onion rings and the seared ahi tuna. I don’t even get scared when those big fancy words come around. Instead I get my game face on. Words like soufflé, braised, shank, and demi-glaze only make me hungrier. Yet give me the fried, BBQ’d, brick-ovened, extra butter foods right along side. From deli to diner, to chain restaurant, to five star dining experiences, I am ready and willing to go to battle. I’m just being honest, people. I feel I have enough guts to say out loud what people think everyday. Those folks that tell you they don’t like fried foods are lying, plain and simple.

Knowing that I have to give up some of my faves isn’t making me the happiest person. In fact, I think that I am food depressed, or better yet, have food apnea if there is such a real thing. I lie awake at night dreaming about thick bacon cheeseburgers. When I do fall asleep it’s usually accompanied by dreams of carrot cakes and gallons of whipped cream. When I get home from work and realize that my options for dinner are egg whites, oatmeal, chicken in a can (tuna without the fish, basically), or turkey burgers, I get a bit perturbed. This often means I get pissed at Sar for no reason and take out the aggression that results from lack of flavor on all around me. Watch out people, I’m like Hillary at a Barack rally. You don’t want to get in my way. Oh no, cause if you do, that utter resentment from lack of anything salty or greasy will come at you with the speed of a jungle cat and the fierceness of Christian from Project Runway. (Wow, twice now I have incorporated Project Runway into my posts. God be with me…)

By the way, as Sarah sits here next to me in bed watching "Keeping up With the Kardashians", I happened to innocently drop one lone Raisinet (out of my Jumbo Size Raisinet box) in the bed.  As if it were in slow motion, the Raisinet gently fell through the air on its way to the sheets.  Sarah and I quickly made eye contact and knew what we each must do.  We went after it like two starving hyenas.  No holds barred between the two of us when a chocolate covered anything is involved.

Here’s the real kicker. I spend my days working in the health and fitness industry. I am a personal trainer by trade. Sad, but true. I preach the benefits of exercise and healthy eating. However, since the engagement, I spend my time hating the very thought of 30 minutes on an elliptical. I despise knowing that instead of going to Wendy’s I am instead going to Bally’s. You know the funny thing about eating healthy and exercising is that you really do feel good after it’s all over. I.E. after cussing at the treadmill for the half hour I get off and look at it with a loving endearment. I won’t have to see it again for a good 24 hours and to me there is nothing better in the world. After going a full day and eating relatively clean, I feel fantastic. That doesn’t keep me from craving anything and everything with sugar or fat after 7pm, but at 7am the next morning if I showed restraint, I feel really good about myself.

I have to get my ass in gear, people. If not for me, then definitely for Sarah. She deserves to have a man who she can still think is attractive 50 years from now, let alone alive 50 years from now. If we are going to live a nice long life together than this is pretty important. Think of the health benefits. The cholesterol issues and heart disease issues we could avoid just by getting on that tortuous elliptical machine. Oh, who am I kidding, I am doing this for vanity purposes, too! I think it's great that there are those health benefits, but truth be told, I want to look good, man. I believe we all do.

Crazy thing is if I can’t get motivated for my wedding, than what can I get motivated for? So, starting tomorrow (I have said that one million times) I am ending this negative relationship with food and exercise and starting a new one. No more will I continue to make up and break up with those two (food and exercise that is) Instead we will be a united front as we confront this exciting time in our life. “Best shape of my life” here I come.

Only one caveat, I’m bringing the cheese fries with me…