THE PU GOES GLOBAL

We were supposed to have a wedding website. But we had one problem: we were bound and handcuffed, being held hostage by the dastardly Mr. Puddy and his imaginary evil henchmen. We certainly couldn’t compose anything for publication in those conditions. Mr. Puddy smirked and logged on. I was surprised by the technical aptitude displayed by our cat. He seemed so knowledgeable in the ways of the information superhighway. I asked him how he knew so much.

He gave me the squint eye, which implied: “How do you think I got the handcuffs? It’s not like you let me outside on my own, where I could possibly make a trip to the hardware store and get my supplies.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about your feelings before you took us hostage? We could have explained the whole thing,” I said.

He paw-slapped me across the face to silence me, glaring to emphasize his unspoken mission: “The world has always been misinformed about our movement to free ourselves from this hypocrisy of illegitimate parenthood. Now they shall hear my side of the story.”

It was amazing to witness him go to work. But since we were bound and gagged by him, maybe it wasn’t as unbelievable. Mr. Puddy typed like the Swedish Chef prepared food, with flair, song, and puffs of smoke.

He was surprisingly practical in his website design. He had sections titled: Welcome, About Me (Mr. Puddy), Wedding Party, Wedding Events, Accommodations, Area Maps, and Gift Registry. He incorporated the wedding color scheme into the site and was very impressive in his mastery of the written word. Most curious was his introduction of the wedding party (actually, their feline companions):

Parents of the Bride – Marvin and Betty Norris

Owners of two cats: one old, one overweight. I could take them both.

Parents of the Groom – Bill and Pat Lloyd

Owners of one cat: a Russian. Cannot be trusted, but could be useful.

Maid of Honor – Angie Norris

Owner of one cat: prissy, fuzzy thing. Don’t cry for me Argentina. (This is a Madonna reference. He’s a cat. I can’t explain it.)

Best Man – Matt Lloyd

Co-owner of one cat: wears a cone, perhaps a communications specialist.

Bridesmaid – Mandi Morris

Has no cat. Has child who hisses at me. Must keep an eye on that human.

Bridesmaid – Danza Harrison

Co-owner of cone-head cat: wonder if he receives Animal Planet on that thing?

Groomsman – Andy Matthews

Has no cat. Good for him and good for cat.

Groomsman – Mark Buehler

Owner of two cats: blood relations. Apple does not fall far from tree.

Flower Girl – Daphane Norris

Owner of one cat: do not trust the runny nose. Would snivel to the Feds.

Ring Bear – Parker Norris

Owner of one cat: The Sniveler. One can’t be too careful.

To my surprise Mr. Puddy sought Christa’s approval before publishing his creation to the world. He is such a momma’s boy and a little kiss ass.

She looked at me and shook her head, as if to say, “You’re just not right.”

“Me? What did I have to do with this?”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

SAVE THE DATE

“We need to save the date,” Christa said.

“I thought we already did,” I said.

“You know. I mean tell our guests,” she replied.

“Shh-yeah! Of course I knew that. You always inform people about the time and place of a special event before you formally invite them to it.”

Just for fun we decided to make Save the Date announcements in the form of a ransom note. A ransom note contains exactly what is needed for informing someone to save the date.

1.      Location – so travel can be arranged

2.      Time – so you know when to arrange travel

3.      Implied exchange of object(s) of value

The ransom note format was not chosen simply to displease or rattle immediate family members, as some other activities were (muffled giggling).

The first thing we needed was a hostage. We decided that having one of us hold the other hostage didn’t make sense or create the right impression. Also, we intended to enter wedlock childless in every sense, so no shotgun theme. Rest easy, readers; we did not give away children to accomplish this. That left just one possibility, abduction by feline.

Fortunately, we owned an extremist feline. Our cat is a bastard, born into a fatherless home. He was tired of the bastard moniker and finally had a reason to lash out because of it. Christa adopted him, in a perfectly legal, paperless, basement transaction, in my presence, but to him, I was just the guy sleeping with his mom. He was named Niles Humpty Norris, after Niles Crane from Frasier. Humpty was added because I was a participant in the process—and because I believe every animal was meant to dance, although not all in the “humpty” style that Digital Underground promotes. His required daily recitals also fueled his rage. We both love him, and he loves us when it is convenient for him.

I have trouble sticking with one name for animals. I prefer to call them whatever comes to mind at the time. I hope this isn’t a problem for our future children, although I enjoy when it angers the cat. One name that stuck more than others was Mister Puddy or Mister Pu. The former rhymes with goody, if you are pronouncing it correctly. We thought it should be spelled similar to David Putty, one of Elaine’s boyfriends from Seinfeld, as Mr. Puddy seemed destined to also work at an auto dealership, eat at Arby’s, and give high fives. He would not score well on standardized tests, but that may be part personal choice.

He describes himself thusly:

I am a Gemini, with luxurious white fur and delicate black highlights. I enjoy evening walks through the garden and seafood from the can. I am a lover,—just ask my favorite accent pillow—but can be ornery when agitated. I come from a fatherless home and legally still live in one, but that will soon change. My adoptive parents seem to think I am incapable of effectively bathing myself. I am a cat; that’s disgraceful.

Now that he was older, around our age, relatively speaking, he’d decided that enough was enough and took matters into his own paws. In a hurricane of fur, he subdued and bound us, then laid out his demands.  

The contents of the Save the Date package were as follows:

Exhibit A: The Note

Save the Date

September 18, 2004

Or you’ll never see Drew and Christa wed again.

Meet at the corner of 4^th and Washington in Bloomington Indiana at 4:30 p.m. for the “exchange.”

Mr. Puddy

Exhibit B: The Poem

You in your veil and I in my cap
had just settled in for a late March nap
When I was arose by an unnerving clatter
Mr. Pu looked up to say: "What is the matter?"
Quickly he bound us and said: "Be quiet.
You two are getting married, no longer shall I hide it."
He sat us on the floor and giggled with glee
Momentarily stopping to scratch for a flea.
He doffed a sombrero and pretty red scarf
and said: "This is for bathing me and making me barf."
He set up the camera and set the self-timer
and thought: "I didn't know Dad was such a rhymer."
”Try to look surprised,” he said with a grin.
He held his head high to remove his double chin.
The picture was snapped not a moment too late.
Pu wants to make sure that everyone saves the date.

Exhibit C: The Photo of the Captives

The Save the Date packages were mailed. One blood relation, Uncle J, didn’t know what a Save the Date was and thought this was a poor excuse for a wedding invitation, then accused us of being into bondage. Since we mailed these while still in San Diego, The MOB heard the reactions as they moved west to east, and Uncle J lives out west. Instead of laughing off Uncle J’s reaction as ludicrous, she began to fear the worst from the church friends she had invited. The MOB called to tell Christa that bondage was frowned upon at her church.

Fortunately, a member of The MOB’s church received the Save the Date, comprehended, fell out of her chair laughing, and then reassured The MOB, hopefully with minimal discussion of bondage.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

PARENTS GETTING THEIR PEEPS IN

The whole point of having this shindig is to ask those who love and support you (and your parents’ friends) to come and bear witness to your declaration of unbounded love. If you are able to persevere through the invitation acquisition process (foreshadowing unsavory times), all you have to do is decide who to send those invitations to. However, there are numerous factors to consider during this process, related to other aspects of the glorious event planning.

The first major step is to make a rough estimate of how many people you want in attendance. The number needs to account for the variable cost of each guest, in order to keep within budget.

“Variable cost, why?” Christa asked.

“Having limited funds means we can’t throw the event of the decade, but we have a chance at the best merriment-to-expense ratio this year, and that is why each feature and guest added to the festivities must be considered, relative to merriment and cost,” I replied.

“So if cousin Stinky isn’t bringing $42.50 of good times, we aren’t inviting him?”

“There is a discount for blood relations.”

The number of guests must also take into consideration the physical confines of the church and reception site. You must remember that an open bar, lit candles, and some guests’ unwillingness to forgo polyester does increase the chance of fire, and the legal ramifications could force you to return some of your gifts to pay for court proceedings. I unsuccessfully tried to pay for my last doctor’s visit with crystal candlesticks. I suspect you wouldn’t get much further with a lawyer.

It is often helpful to try and assess where your parents stand with their guest list. I sent my mom (The MG) my best guess for who they might invite, selectively chosen. She replied with a list of their friends and my extended family members, divided into three tiers. Tier one indicated people we “must invite,” tier two meant “want to invite,” and tier three was “should invite but expendable.” Impressive! I do believe you are my mother and that microeconomics can be inherited.

Wait. The MG had already completed a three-tier guest-ranking system. What was she spending her free time doing now? She was not only reacting she was anticipating! She probably had suggestions documented on note cards for checklist items still two months in the future. She did mention that she had been to the library to get wedding guide books, and if I know the public library system, those will probably span at least the past half century. So not only are those note cards color-coded and alphabetically stored, they probably have bibliographical footnotes.

If you see parallels to your own mother, your best bet is to find her a very time-consuming hobby right before you announce your engagement, something like foster parenting for three-month-old Indonesian quadruplets.

It was a completely different situation for Christa, since she didn’t know very many of her parent’s friends, neighbors, or The MOB’s fellow church workers. Christa called to ask The MOB if she could provide us with an approximate number and the names of people she would like to invite. The MOB said she could try and put together a formal list. She then began to tell Christa about people she had already invited, including someone she had run into that morning at Bob Evans. This list included several people from her church, who all expressed interest in coming, but who, she was certain, wouldn’t come, and we didn’t need to formally invite. I knew from the look on Christa’s face, as she listened, that the news was going to be interesting.

Christa got off the phone and said “I don’t know what to say. She’s invited people but told me not to formally invite them.”

“I don’t know if Excel has a function for that,” I replied.

It is interesting to note that, at no point during any vows I’ve heard or read, does it explicitly state an obligation to humor your intended’s immediate family members in times of insanity. It is probably why they just traded head of cattle for daughters in the old days. It was a simple, elegant exchange, free of in-laws.

I was able to use The MG’s numbers to figure how many of our friends we needed to invite to keep her comfortably at tier two. In fairness, we needed to give that same number of invitations to The MOB. However, her potential invitees had to consider the three hours of travel needed to attend. This distance led to a higher percentage of declines, as the wedding grew closer. For every “can not attend” notice we received back, there was another potential couple to send one to. The MOB had her seats, and she intended to use them. She would send Christa e-mails regarding who to invite and the likelihood of their attending, including a medical history (“it’s only mild hemorrhoids”) and resume of other road trips completed (“went to visit his daughter in Toledo just last week”). His ass cushion better match our color scheme.

There was no problem with trying to fill the seats. At some point, though, when the guests received their invites two weeks before the event and had already missed the RSVP date by three weeks, they would have to infer the fill-in guest label that was assigned to them, and that’s not tasteful either.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Fart Me Once, Fool on Me

We went to visit Mark (groomsman) and Chris Buehler with the dual purpose of seeing Isabella, their new baby, and asking them to read the passage we had selected for our ceremony. Since they didn’t know about the reading, and we knew about the baby, the baby introductions came first. She was tiny, below Mr. Puddy’s weight class, I imagine. But his dexterity is so advanced that it wouldn’t have been a fair fight were Isabella capable of hand-to-hand combat. She was sleeping on a blanket on the living room floor. It looked like a slightly uncomfortable position, one that you might expect to see when you hire a grizzled old veteran of the pest control industry, who can diagnose your insect problems by simply falling to the floor and listening to termites’ subterranean activity.

I was handed the baby. This caused fear. I’ve never seen one up close, but from a distance, they seem too easily breakable to handle and too wiggly to be safe. Baby and I made our acquaintances, and she gave me a wink and a small grumble, lifted her leg, and ripped a fart. She was in diapers, and I was in shorts, so I didn’t detect transfer. She hammed it up, grimaced, and cracked two more Howitzer shots across my starboard thigh. It was then decided that perhaps an investigation for residue was needed, and I was relieved of my duties. We asked if they would read our selected passage; they agreed to. In retrospect, I realize it may not be unladylike to fart like a Howitzer, but it certainly is ungentlemanly to disclose this information in public.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Thingys 101

I don’t know the business side of running a wedding and formal gown shop, but there seems to be an overwhelming belief that each shop should exist in a black box. All information shall remain within the doors. No word of what you saw or heard should be passed on, and pricing is done mostly by witchcraft.

Because I was such a wonderful fiancé—and because our entire bridal party lived two thirds of a country away—I was given the pure thrill of accompanying Christa on several trips to bridal shops in San Diego. The layout was similar in almost all the shops. The most prominent feature was the goddess pedestal, where brides-to-be stand to be fussed over and view themselves in 180-degree mirrors. There were a handful of admiration chairs for blood-related opinion givers to sit in, and approve or disapprove of the gown options.

One half of the store usually contained various bridal gowns; the other half held the rainbow of bridesmaid dresses. The great difficulty was separating the color from the style. Instincts tell you not to touch anything in lime, but sadly there was a dress in lime that didn’t want to be lime, and it was just waiting to be snatched up by a colorblind bride, without prejudice against color, tassels, or bedazzling. The odds are against finding a dress in your color scheme and style to try on for an exact trial run. Instead, you must refer to the book of swatches, try the dress on in the wrong size, and project the body types and sizes of the bridesmaids into them. Meanwhile, across the country, the bridesmaids were all looking for dresses in the same way. They let Christa know what they’d found and wanted her to view and critique, thereby instigating the great bridesmaid dress scavenger hunt.

I tried to help with this search, but without a make and model number, it was a crapshoot. My choices produced the following responses:

“Honey.” The one where the second syllable gets lower, like I had just been told three times “not that one.” It was probably one I picked on color. Lesson learned, for at least another fifteen minutes.

“I don’t like the thingy.”

Was it the class of thingys or this specific thingy that was bad? Was it the thingy in combination with this other thingy, one too few, two too many? I guess I overslept the day thingys were covered in all the fashion design courses I took. I tried to learn the thingys to avoid, but they were all so similar, yet so different. Cursed thingys.

“Why don’t you just hold the ones I’ve picked out?” she finally said.

Your skills are not worth my time. You really help more by not helping. Did you not get the memo?

Once the options have been selected, you head off to the dressing rooms. Some stores have dress Nazis who personally attend to you, meaning they don’t let you out of their sight for fear that you might try and document what you look like in the dress. They wait by the dressing room, sometimes inside, at the ready with many large pins to create the illusion of an altered dress or to penalize those who attempt to escape with the knowledge they have gained. Fortunately, there was time for secret-agent photo reconnaissance. Given my previous field experience, this was really not a challenge. Let me see if I have any chewing gum in my pocket…“Oh, did I just take a picture?”

I’ll admit a waist-high shot of a fuchsia dress, two sizes too big really didn’t help the decision process, but it was one of the only victories I could salvage.

I was thanked for my efforts afterwards, since Christa knew I genuinely tried to help. But in my frustration, I translated it to, “I know you’re not a woman or aware of elegant style, but you did manage to drive here without getting lost. Way to go.”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival