VENDOR CROSSCHECK #57

We were three weeks out, and we went to Bloomington to make sure everything that could be in order was. This was a chance for us to try and influence any decisions our vendors might have made on their own and for us to make our final pleas for what we considered good taste.

We went to visit the videographer. He was, again, operating lawn equipment as we approached. We went over our preference for minimal sound effects and add-ins, such as silhouetted soccer balls or babies passing across the screen to transition from scene to scene.

“You don’t want babies?” he asked in a shocked voice.

“No babies,” we said together.

It was too late to do anything else, so we left. On the ride back, we got to wondering.

“Do you think he was asking us about having real children or not wanting the digital children in the video?” Christa asked.

“I don’t know. He seemed quite perturbed with our request. No matter what he thinks, it should keep the digital children out of the video.”

“What if he edits out all the children? So we don’t get to see Daphane and Parker; it jumps from Angie to me during the processional.”

“He couldn’t possibly do that.” Yet it did seem possible.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Welcome to the club.”

Next we had a meeting with the DJ. The meeting was held at a café down the street from the DJ’s office. This turned out to be a meeting with the DJ and the guy we thought was the DJ but was, instead, the head of operations, so to speak—the one who organizes the event, then turns it over to the guy who shows up. The guy who organizes the event was an excellent multitasker. He managed to eat a meatloaf platter while running us through the proposed sequence of events.

The DJ himself was a much more laid-back character, with flowing facial hair that stretched from sideburns to chin and back again. He had shaved his upper lip and a little below the bottom, for a net result that was, frankly, Amish. In fact, at our reception, one guest invited by my parents actually went up and asked him his name. She claimed that she expected it to be something like Graber, since he looked so Amish. Fortunately, this interaction did not affect his performance.

During bites of meatloaf, we laid out our ideas for the reception, including various comedy clips, which we were still gathering, and our reception game, for which we were still ironing out details. We needed all our clips burned on a disc a week ahead of time, so the DJs could get organized.

They also insisted that we pick out the “ringer.” That’s a song everyone knows and loves to dance to, which gets the party started on the right foot. They literally pitched it as the song that makes or breaks your reception. They suggested “Love Shack.” I don’t like “Love Shack.” A reception that rejects “Love Shack” seems good to me. Next was “Celebration.” We decided we could work with that, which was fortunate, because that was their only other option.

Next we were off to the photographer’s studio to meet with our designated man of candid-shot persuasion. He was a bit younger than we expected and was lightning in a bottle, if that lightning had a born-on date in the seventies and had been left in the warm sun since its day of inception. Stated another way, if I was lightning, he was wool socks on carpet.

I quite often speak in a monotone, which I didn’t think was that dull, until I heard my first attempt at recording the outgoing message on our answering machine. They say tape adds about ten stages of boredom to your voice. If there is a market for reading incessantly boring novels in a horrifyingly monotone voice to aid those who are sleep deprived, write up a business plan, because I am your vocal talent. So when I take notice of the complete dullness of someone else, unrecorded no less, that is a unique moment in time. The photographer wasn’t the brooding artistic type. It seemed like we had pulled him away from a Digimon marathon to discuss an event that he simply got paid to show up at.

So in his hypnotic, slumber-inducing voice, he said, “So, why did you want to talk to me?”

“We wanted to go over some details of the ceremony and reception and what we were hoping for, in terms of pictures.”

Do you understand what we’ve been going through to get this event organized? It was quite a favor to ask, to have the Lord shine his light down on us, as we pledge our love to one another, and you better have your aperture and shutter speed set accordingly, because I don’t have any bargaining chips left for scheduling a do-over.

“It says the church is the First United. I worked there before. I know the rules,” he stated.

“Will you be there for the rehearsal to see where you need to be?” we asked.

“We don’t do rehearsals,” he said.

I am growing nervous about his “gift,” where everything will work out, because he has done it before, and he is an ar-teest.

“We would like to have some candid shots. Everything looks so rigid and posed in most of these photos. We will need some formal shots, but it looks like everyone is trying to behave, rather than enjoy themselves. At no other point in life do you stand shoulder to shoulder and angle yourself at seventeen and a half degrees,” I said.

“I can do that,” he drones on.

“Well my confidence is at an all-time high. I guess we’ll see you at the wedding and good luck to both of us.”

We left feeling a bit concerned about our prospects for wonderful photo documentation of our glorious day.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

DIAGNOSIS: CRAFTIES - To Dine in Love

Since our table-naming convention had been ruthlessly stolen by Corey and Laura, we had to come up with something at least slightly different. (We were sticking to our goal of having every detail trounce everything that each guest had seen before.) Now, we needed to name our tables. And it had to be magical.

We went over a list of cities that we had been to, but they didn’t provide the level of intimacy we wanted. I tried to pitch the cat names again, Smoocher Pu, Snicker Puddle, (always pronounced poo), Puber Cakes, but I was vetoed.

We had done so much in Bloomington, at the beginning of our relationship, that it seemed to require a bigger table. Thankfully I didn’t have to create a spreadsheet that equated the relative significance of each phase of our life to a table size. The tables seated eight and only eight. We then began to look for the moments that were significant and where those moments took place. We first saw one another in Wal-Mart. That made it Table One. Now it was only a matter of which set of parents and, more importantly, which mother, in her finest attire, would be dining at Wal-Mart. We smiled like the Grinch when he crafted his masterful plan to steal Christmas. Not to leave any set of parents out, we quickly made Suburban Lanes, the bowling alley we first hung out at, Table Two. Where would you rather eat? At the all-powerful mega retailer, where the bargains are so thick it leaves a light film on your skin? Or at a place where you see baby carriers on pool tables, while Mommy kicks back a cold one with a Marlboro, and you wear the same shoes as hundreds of patrons before you?

After cackling for a while, we came up with a list for the tables. This took about an hour. Her job was done. All I had to do was create a wonderful quip about each location, determine a design for the table-naming card, estimate size, determine materials needed, choose a font, add a bit of flair, make it match our color scheme, print it, assemble the as yet undetermined design, package it safely for travel, and I would be done. I hadn’t been this crafty since I glued pasta and cereal to a paper plate in kindergarten and presented it to my mom as original art.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Truth and Honesty

About a week later, we received a voice mail from our original Cincinnati salesperson, Lady Highbrow. She wanted to make sure we had made it in to place our order—as the “cutting it too close” time was upon us—and to wish us continued luck in the planning of our wedding.

I thought that seemed nice of her and left her a return message a couple days later, stating that we had been in and had placed the order with another associate. I thanked her for all her help and thought that was the end.

A few days later, I received a call from her again. First, she thanked me for the return call and was glad everything was going well for us (well sort of going well, as you are learning). She probably offered a couple other niceties, and then it was time for business.

“Did you ask for me when you came in? I’m asking, because I was there. So I’m just curious if you asked for me. We are working on a truth and honesty policy at work,” she said.

I replied, “We said we had been helped by you, although we didn’t have your card and didn’t remember your name at the moment. We described you and the woman helping us said your name, and we said ‘that’s her.’ She said you were at lunch at the moment.”

“So you didn’t ask for me by name?” she asked in follow-up.

“Well, we didn’t ask literally, but we determined who you were and that you were at lunch. We then told her that we needed to place an order for the wedding bands we had picked out, and if she could help us do that, that would be great.”

She interjected comments along the lines of: “Sorry, this is unusual to ask these questions.”

But she really wanted to know whether we had asked for her by name, as that was apparently the key criterion in the potential violation of the truth and honesty policy. It seemed she never quite got the exact phrasing from us that could make her case ironclad.

As I reflect, I still debate whose behavior was more unsavory. The one who pretended a coworker was at lunch and stole an extremely easy sale—or the one who called the customer at home to try and make a case against her mischievous coworker. In a moment of self-centered greed, I’ve secretly stolen a French fry from Christa’s value meal, but this was a whole new level. Yes, the pretty blue box had lost a little luster, but I am still available for endorsement deals.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

ONE DJ, LEGALLY BOUND

At the Bloomington Bridal Show, we had made contact with a DJ who seemed to have the right balance of organization and lack of preaching to make us feel comfortable. We had checked on our date, and it was open. We had given our name and number. They only booked two weddings on any given day to make sure they weren’t ever stretched too thin to perform admirably. We took home the info and had considered ourselves at least tentatively scheduled for that day.

At a later point, while doing vendor crosscheck number fifty-two, we decided to call the DJ back and discuss any details that needed to be covered that far in advance. I think we may have been two months out. We called, and they checked their calendar. They had one slot filled by someone else—and had promised the other to a wedding planner from parts unknown they had worked with before. A somewhat understated description of our reaction would be that this was not welcome news.

Through some discussion, I learned the DJ did have our name and number written down for our weekend, but he hadn’t heard from us, so he didn’t think anything of it. At least, not enough to call and see whether that name and number meant anything. By pressing the issue, I learned that the second slot was promised but not booked, so it was simply a matter of who got the deposit check there faster. They operated on a first-paid, first-served basis. I made him disclose his whereabouts for the next hour or so and said our local legal representation would be paying him a visit.

In hindsight, I am willing to acknowledge that this so-called wedding planner in Tiny Town, Indiana may have been fictitious. I understand vendors’ selling tool of artificially inflating demand for their services. But we, nevertheless, were in a foot race. I didn’t know if we were racing that day’s postal service, the wedding planner in her car, or the fickle hands of fate to the DJ’s door. But it was a race where second place not only received no medal, but also caused another small leak in the dam holding back the doomsday flood of wedding imperfection, caused by second-rate service providers.

After a few moments of speaking in a soothing voice to my beloved and laying out my plan for obtaining the coveted second slot, I got to work. We finally got to utilize some of the benefits of holding the event in Bloomington. A call was placed to my brother, the best man, as he toiled at work, trying to modernize the family law practice, situated conveniently a handful of blocks from the DJ’s office.

“Hey there, best man. Are you ready for your first task?” I asked.

“I guess so.” I sensed he was hoping this wouldn’t be an arduous task.

“This is a time-sensitive matter. Do you have thirty minutes to spare?” I tried to imply urgency.

“Sure. Right now?” He was still hoping for an escape clause.

“You’re racing a wedding planner, as we speak, and there’s no telling where she or her deposit might be. It may already be too late! This is not a drill!”

It is best to give the groomsmen competitions to invoke ardent participation, where the bride’s side can exist solely on favors and other feel-good stuff.

“OK, what am I doing? Where am I going?” I had established buy-in.

“Through personal or office resources, obtain one hundred dollars and head to this address. Find this person. Tell him this info, and then bind that bastard to it. Throw in any legal jargon you can to make him sweat, just for causing this momentary concern,” I rattled off with military precision.

“OK, I may have to call you once there.”

The hunt was clear. He verified that I’d be available for any unforeseen details, and off he went. Needless to say, we smoked that wedding planner; and if she were real, I’d go tell her all about it. Sadly, I realized that some other lovely bride and groom may have been stuck with rocking it Jesus style, but they had a wedding planner. Take the easy road, why don’t you.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival
 

THE MUSICAL BAIT AND SWITCH

As a positive result of attending the San Diego Bridal Show, we had decided to go with a solo acoustical guitarist for the ceremony music. The simple and elegant sound would further enhance the giddiness of the crowd gathered to bear witness to our ceremony. We simply needed to track one down and get a contract negotiated. We were referred to the Office of Musical Attractions at Indiana University. This is a place where all the gloriously talented music students give notice that they wish to be a musical gun for hire. I’m not sure if they all sit in little boxes waiting to be adopted, or if it is merely a bulletin board with a phone placed in front, where anyone can answer and try to match you with someone’s flyer.

We placed the call and were matched with a classical guitarist who was pursuing a Master’s in Performance Guitar, or something close to that. The price was very reasonable, as starving student-artists do have a benefit to society. We were given his contact info to get in touch with him and get a feel for what he was like.

As the communications continued, every few days, the contract arrived in the mail. We held it for a couple days and then sent it back, opting for the “bill me later” payment option. A situation where demand is much less than supply must be celebrated. I was in the driver’s seat. I will not pay you now, and you will like it.

It was the following day that we received a voice message from the Office of Musical Attractions that stated: “We’re sorry, but your guitarist has just realized that he has a scheduling conflict, with his wife having a family reunion of some sort, and he can’t get out of it. We have found someone to fill in, who I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with.”

This message did not sit well. First, our new guitarist had a name we couldn’t pronounce. Not that that reflects on his playing ability, but it certainly affects our comfort level. I called back to the office and left a message politely paraphrasing the following:

“What’s going on? The contract is in the mail back to you, with guitarist Number One’s name on it, signed and dated. You can’t be pulling this crap, and if you are, you need to spell out guitarist Number Two’s name and e-mail, because I can’t sound out what you said, and I don’t want another random pen pal from Eastern Europe.”

The next day, we received another message restating the apology, spelling the name, and saying that the replacement was a very accomplished player, whom we should be more than happy with. As it turns out, that was the caller’s last week on the job. She hosed us and skipped town.

We took the new name and went online, where the guitarist was supposed to have a website. We found it, and was it ever interesting. He had a series of photos which made him seem a bit self-absorbed. He was dressed like Michael Jackson from the “Smooth Criminal” video, had it been filmed in Havana with mirrors and a guitar. He tried to verbalize his oneness with his instrument in a monologue similar to the following:

“I open the door, and music comes in. It makes my fingers hot, and my hands sweat. I get the fever in my eyes, and I vibrate with the strings. Blood is pulsing, and its rhythm drives harder and faster. I am becoming the instrument. Its will—my own. Waves are crashing. My pants have vanished.”

That left us a little concerned. “Let’s send him an e-mail, and see what he says,” we decided.

The concern continued, when we received our first correspondence back from the artist known as Number Two. He used the word “plane,” instead of “plan.” I shrugged the first one off, as I talked myself through it. He is an artist. He types what he feels. Sometimes he hits an extra key that is nowhere near the “n.” Then it happened again. Then he “planed,” instead of “planned.” His entire English dictionary was printed a line off or something. We could tell he could play. His musical samples and resume told us that. We had to hope he could understand that it was our day and our music. We hoped he didn’t add random letters to what he read or played as well, so he wouldn’t think we were inviting him to play at our bedding: “Perhaps something for the lady to get her in the mood, so you may bed her. Although, I am already here; and again, my pants have vanished.”

The whole situation was like switching to Diet Coke. It left a bad taste that you had to adjust to.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival