Jesus Was a DJ

DJs, many of whom are religiously affiliated, are another vendor to be aware of. They get put in the corners of exhibition halls, because they like to demonstrate how their sound systems will get you rocking at your reception. I think a lot of them double as radio personalities in their free time, or maybe it is the other way around. They bring a DJ voice and animation level normally used to enliven the mood over the airwaves. Except now, it’s all right in front of you. Imagine the American tourist abroad who learns that the waiter doesn’t speak English and raises his voice for better comprehension. Such is the way of hearing the Lord.

“HEY, THERE’S A LUCKY-LOOKING COUPLE,” said the San Diego–based DJ hopped up on Jesus Juice.

“Hi, you must be a DJ,” I said trying not to overstate the obvious.

“GUILTY AS CHARGED. WE HAVE FOUR- AND SIX-HOUR PACKAGES FOR YOUR RECEPTION NEEDS. INSIDE, OUTSIDE, TOPSIDE, FLIPSIDE, WE AT JESUS-DJ’S ARE HERE TO CHRISTIAN ROCK YOU.” He was a fiery young man.

“Did you say Christian rock you?”

“WE BELIEVE IN HAVING A GOOD TIME, BUT WITHOUT ALL THE EXPLICIT LYRICS AND SEXUAL CONTENT. IF THE SAVIOR RETURNED, DO YOU THINK HE WOULD WANT MUSIC ABOUT ass and titties (this part was whispered) AT THAT PARTY?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in a while,” I said, trying to unmatch his enthusiasm and quiet him.

“THE LORD IS BLESSING YOUR UNION. WHY SHOULD HE BE IGNORED AT THE RECEPTION? HE IS NOT THERE TO SERVE YOU. WE ARE HERE TO SERVE HIM. MUSIC IS THE INTERNATIONAL LANGUAGE OF PRAISE. WE, HERE AT J-DJ’S, BELIEVE YOU DON’T NEED SINNERS TO THROW A GOOD PARTY, JUST TWO THOUSAND WATTS OF PRAISE POWER.” He was building to a crescendo.

“Yes, but can Jesus do “The Humpty Dance?” And can he do it in Indiana?” I asked.

“The Lord is everywhere, but his equipment doesn’t travel as well,” he said in a subdued tone.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

ORCHESTRATING THE MOOD - BRIDAL SHOWS - An Overview

I attended two bridal shows during my tenure as groom-to-be, one in San Diego and one in Bloomington. The shows consisted of lots of brides-to-be and their entourages, mothers, maids of honor, bridesmaids, and anyone else who was recruited or convinced that their opinions are quite valuable in the planning process. I considered giving the advice that bridal shows are a potentially very favorable spot for finding female companionship, given that the numbers are strongly in your favor, and love is in the air. Odds are diminished some, when you consider that every fifth female is probably engaged. But if you want lots of twenty-something females with prominent thoughts of finding Mr. Perfect, this could be the spot. Then I realized this wouldn’t be fair to the vendors trying to make a living. I just laughed so hard I forgot what I was talking about.

The purpose of the show is to dazzle and confuse you with all the options available for your perfect day. It is a maze of booths offering everything from cakes to music to honeymoons. You will feel quite proud of yourself, as everyone congratulates you, since any male present is either the groom or the father of the bride, determined mostly by age. You are self-guided through the rows of booths, where you feel like you’ve seen everything in the first five minutes, then realize, at the end, that you were right about the feeling you had two hours ago.

Cake makers are one of the many vendors offering samples—in their case, little squares of insanely sweet toothpick-pierced offerings. They are thrust upon you in the style of Chinese fast-food sample hawkers at any of your finer shopping mall food courts. The angelic sweetness of the cake and icing made me sick after three samples, as all angelically sweet things do after the first fifteen minutes. It reaffirmed the fact that we really didn’t like wedding cake.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

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

Certified Apology

Three weeks later the Crazies sent a letter to apologize. Just kidding. They sent a certified letter, copied to their attorney and CPA, stating that our outstanding account balance was going to be turned over to a collections agency if we didn’t respond in seven days. They cried a river about how they did so much for us that they didn’t bill for—and how apologetic they were about the difficulties. We thought an apology was the only thing they could or should do, but since the letter was marked “return receipt requested,” I really knew better before I opened it.

Apparently, these former ladies who lunch got to thinking about their misfortune, talked it over with their Bunco buddies, and decided that they had done nothing wrong and that they deserved to be paid for their labor and materials. On over two pages, they outlined their case for suffering and distress.

Vendors always say a lot of things to reassure you that they can do their job, while hinting at all the additional service they are going to throw in special for you. Simply tell them to write it down and sign it. That was our first thought. We should have finalized our contract, right after we got the invitations, and not given them a chance to cry over their spilled decaf nonfat Frappuccinos. Your self-esteem should be proportionate to your abilities. Please leave us alone. Where is that damn kangaroo?

My dad and brother are attorneys. I called them and asked, “What should we do here?”

As a result of their advice, I spent the good part of a day typing out our version of the events over four pages, which included counter-bullet-pointing their bullet points about hurt feelings and how normally everyone likes us. I, of course, quantified the miles traveled for auto depreciation, estimated the financial value of the emotional abuse, and noted that I didn’t even charge them for doing their job for them.

If I know my dad, he probably sent a two-sentence letter on the official-looking, law firm stationery, stating, “I think both parties can agree that the services rendered equate to the money already exchanged. I consider this matter resolved.”

We have not heard from them again, for which I am thankful. But I am somewhat disappointed that my four pages, filled with non-legalese jabs at their character and professional competency, didn’t get passed along.

Did I mention how effectively my kangaroo expels those trying to enter my jelly bean haven with a copyrighted double roo-foot frontal attack to the torso? The perpetrators explode backwards, quickly fading to a single perspective point and disappear to a faint popping sound.

As a footnote, once completed, the invitations we designed and half-manufactured were superb. Numerous people responded that they loved them, and a couple of our friends said the invitations made them want to get married all over again. Did this make it all worthwhile? Hell, no!

I believe Christa said it best: “Evil people like that make me not want to get married. It’s not worth the stress. They should go back to their country club and rot.”

It takes extraordinary circumstances for Christa to want another human being to rot. This is not in her character. You don’t want your wedding to be called off because the invitation makers are incompetent, but eloping made a lot of sense some days.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Stamp of Approval

We had Crazy Inc. stuff the envelopes for us as a part of the assembly. Unfortunately, after demonstrations of their skill level, we didn’t trust them to have accomplished this task correctly. So we unstuffed and verified all contents and order. This included such tasks as determining which invitations were assembled in the most precise manner and sending those to the people most likely to retain them for posterity, such as The MOB and The MG. I apologize to those who read this and feel slighted by having received a 95 percent good, but not perfect assembly; we had hoped you wouldn’t notice, with nothing else to compare it to.

At 3:45 p.m., on Saturday, the invitations were a week beyond the acceptable ultimate last day they should have been mailed, and we needed to get them en route to our guests. I hit the USPS website and pulled up the Love stamp. I enlarged, printed, and offered the design to my bride-to-be. She approved. We headed off to our local post office branch.

Upon arrival, we said, “Hi. Yes, wedding invitations. Late. Evil printers. How much postage do we need?”

“Sixty cents,” was the reply.

The essence, the eternity, the all-encompassing documentation of all we hold true and cherish, the colors, the font, the symbol, all weighed about two ounces, a little depressing, yet affordable to mail.

“We need eighty Love stamps, like this one we enlarged and printed for your reference.”

“What we have is in the case,” said our friend in blue.

The Love stamp was not present in the case. Surely, you reserve a supply of one hundred or more in a velvet-lined gold safe behind the counter. These are the preferred stamps of wedding invitations countrywide.

“Do you know of a branch that has them?” we asked.

“They probably have them at the main branch downtown, but they close in fifteen minutes.”

“These need to be mailed today. Can you call and ask?”

“They sell stamps at Kroger and some banks. You could try there,” was their reply.

I went through the white pages and called Kroger (who only sells $.37 stamps) and some other possible stamp retailers to no avail, as all the banks were on banking hours. At the same time, we learned from our helpful post office workers that we were apparently in between model years on the Love stamps, and therefore inventory was low citywide, but they still might have some at the main branch.

I glanced at Christa. “These have to go out today,” she said.

“Then we have to use the flower-bouquet stamps,” I replied.

The $.60 flower-bouquet stamp was lovely and had many admirable qualities, but it did not say Love on it.

“Put them on pretty,” Christa said.

This statement implied that, since we didn’t have a stamp that said Love, we would have to hope the receivers inferred Love by the painstaking effort we put into locating and centering the non-Love stamp. There was a chance that, without an exquisite stamp presentation, given the absence of Love spelled out, some people might forgo opening the invitation, thereby rendering all of our design and labor efforts useless and futile.

Fifteen minutes later, we walked out of the post office, our invitations at the mercy of our friendly postal workers. I smiled and felt a bit of relief. I turned. Her expression was a little more sour.

“We finally got our invitations out. Aren’t you happy?” I asked.

“Everyone knows that wedding invitations have the Love stamp on them. People will look at them and go ‘What is this?’ We should have ordered the stamps months ago. We are so stupid.”

My brain registered a warning light. I needed to respond in the right way, else something bad would happen.

My first thought was practical: “We didn’t know how much postage was going to be a few months ago.” Not good enough. C’mon you can be supportive.

My second thought was defensive: “I’m not stupid. You should have thought of that. You have all the bridal magazines.” Need I explain this one?

Next I mentally considered disbelief: “Sweet Jesus, woman. You need to calm down. They’re just stamps.”

I quickly realized that her ideal dream wedding was conceived, given life, and nurtured a time long before I came into the picture and that, at times, I was probably more disposable then her wedding vision. I didn’t want to say anything to reinforce that perception.

Finally, something positive and credit-deferring presented itself, and I went for it.

“I have never noticed or recalled a stamp on a wedding invitation I’ve received, and when they open ours and see the beautiful invitation you’ve created, no one will be able to remember a thing about the stamp.”

I said it and nothing exploded.

Let this be a lesson, children. Never judge your mail on the color and orientation of the postage; it is what’s on the inside that matters.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival