The Season of Change

Keep in mind that the joys of registering, like so many other things, will continue to flare up and jump back onto your to-do list. As you register for things at your preferred retailers, you usually provide your e-mail address to receive updates regarding your registry—and all the other sale and promotion notices they can throw at you. In addition, as time passes these retailers inform you of the depletion of their seasonal merchandise. Our groundwork of registering in March for a September wedding slowly eroded, as numerous items slid down to the “no longer available” online section of the registry.

The stores are thrilled. They send you e-mails stating that only a limited amount of your chosen glassware pattern is available. Written clearly between the lines is the message: “We have even put this item on sale to make sure it is gone by the time anyone you’ve invited gets around to buying it for you.”

Our choices were to begin buying from our own registry or return and scan again. I am certain that bridal magazines are colluding, as they advertise all the fine registry options and tell you to start your registry six to nine months out, just enough time to ensure you experience at least one seasonal rotation of inventory.

Our favorite retailers always reminded us, “Be sure and check back often. We are always getting new inventory.” Your hipness is becoming a pain in my ass, Pottery Barn.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Tales of the Gun

Registering has three steps: arrival, instruction, and deployment. First, go to the store. I say this because you could register online, but we know what that leads to: brown boxes and sad children at Christmas. You should refer to the store as the engagement zone because she might find it cute, and you are headed into combat. 

Second, find the ranking officer, who will type in your assumed identity and authorize the release of the Scan-o-matic 5000, along with brief operational instructions to scan the barcode and input the quantity. Bond had his Walter PPK. I had my Scan-o-matic 5000, weapon of the future man and wife. The Scan-o-matic had the heft of a power drill, the interface of a graphing calculator, and the aesthetic styling of a bottle of Liquid Plumr. From the moment the seven-pound plastic and rubber behemoth touched my flesh, I was alive. From the conspiring Polish stemware to the elusive Egyptian bath towels, every store was awash with villainous perpetrators. No agent of overpriced merchandise could escape the horizontal beam of mind-reading mayhem.

The officer will ask you if you are familiar with your surroundings, that is, their store. I would recommend answering with an emphatic yes. The sergeant-major of Macy’s gave us a tour of the nonclothing portion of the store lasting at least twenty minutes, about a minute per hundred square feet. What percentage of people can’t recognize a pot by sight?

At some point, I zoned out and began reconnaissance work on the Chinese deep-fryer who was causing an insurrection in the area between kitchen and electronics. According to our tour guide, “this is where you will find things that are used in the kitchen and are plugged in at the same time.” Roger that, sergeant-major.

Finally, in the deployment stage you are released with your intended into the field. There are three levels of comments that you should be aware of.

1. Do you like these?

This question is asking for an opinion; she is either truly on the fence or doesn’t like them enough to proceed without your approval. Give the honest answer. She does consider your taste, or what your new taste should be.

2. I like these.

This means she has made up her mind but wants a token approval. Say whatever your reactionary affirmative is and fire away. It is safest to scan and move on, trying to over-register (have way more gifts than guests, women probably don’t believe this is possible) and remove the objectionable item on a later revision. If it is truly awful and you’re savvy enough, try and blame the objection on the mood of a room or the clashing color of the duvet.

3. Ooh, I love these!

Reconfirm that excitement and scan away. Don’t ever object to these. You can try and make it seem like you are doing her a favor, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It is safest to see it as reacting to the statement, “Don’t you love my new shoes?” She does. Support the loving to get the loving. You can use this same reaction for something you must have, within reason. Pushing too hard for the kegerator will gradually erode any points you may have acquired earlier.

Eventually, she will want her turn to scan. For all secret agents, getting put on checklist duty is like getting demoted to a desk job. Here is how you get back on the gun. You can wait it out, since seven pounds does get heavy, and she will probably not want to be hindered while moving through the store. Or you can tell her that you scanned the wrong item earlier or that you need to make a change in quantity. In the same fashion that a universal remote can be frustrating to a beginner, the complexities of fixing a previous scan will result in the Scan-o-matic being returned to you. She does not have time for messing with the stupid thing. Yes, Bond is back in the field and ready for a showdown with the Indonesian napkin holders.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

REGISTERING - To Depot or Not to Depot

Registering is creating a list of items you would like to have to get started as a married couple.  You then share this list with your invited guests, who you hope will purchase the listed items. Don’t confuse this list with a Christmas list. A Christmas list is stuff you want. This is a list of what is going to replace all of the stuff that symbolizes your manly existence, like the fork and plate you eat with. Yes, intentionally singular. The assessment of my personal possessions began. I was prepared to take a couple of punches, because honesty is the foundation of a healthy relationship.

“I’ve always found your dinner plates mannish and not very attractive. We should get new ones,” Christa said.

Or sometimes the softer approach was applied. “Your towels are nice, but I don’t think they will fit the new color scheme.”

I did not remember the new color scheme ever being discussed, but my possessions and I were under new ownership. I was being rebranded as a part of a stylish and welcoming couple with appropriately colored guest towels.

Once I was released from the burden of anything I owned, that is, anything I had picked out for myself without her consultation, I was free to explore what suited me in the role of lesser half.

“Ooh, I like Pottery Barn,” she said. Which I admit was an excellent choice, but perhaps I should have made it seem like I was really sacrificing for her, since I was eventually going to try and get something I wanted.

We cranked out a list of possible retailers that could provide new guest towels and the like. And then I asked, “How about Home Depot?”

“No,” she bluntly replied.

“It would help with…”

“No.”

“We could use a…”

“No.”

“The house will need…”

“No.”

I went with logic, my first mistake. Our new home in Cincinnati wasn’t a fixer-upper, but it was an improver-needer. What better way to help us make a home together than the helpful folks and products at Home Depot, the “everything for your home improvement” store.

“No one wants to shop for wedding gifts at Home Depot. You might as well ask for an oil change as a gift,” she explained to me.

“If that would get you to take the car in, I would. You know it’s an essential service,” I responded.

You can see the wrong turn so clearly in retrospect. I was able to convince her to ask someone else, her sister, and surprise! It was still a bad idea.

I asked one of my friends who was getting married a month before us, and he said, “I wish. I could really use a Dremel.”

Man friends stand by you in the tough times. Why not clearly distinguish the man gifts, so each guest can show favoritism? Even men with callus-free hands, like me, enjoy the feel of a power tool, and my man friends would willingly shop for them. Hello ladies. Relieve yourselves of the gift-shopping burden by adding a man-friendly option. Do you really think we are ever going to distinguish and utilize glassware by beverage type? I knew this was not a victory to be won. So I relinquished my quest, but not before going to Home Depot’s website and noting that they did have registry services. So I’m not that crazy.

We eventually selected our retail options by determining, first, that we should register at no more than three stores. Then we identified which stores were locally available to our parents’ invitees, who might not be Internet shoppers, and finally we established which stores could collectively replace the greatest percentage of my mannish and unfriendly possessions.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Betty Crock o’ Cake

We went to meet with a cake maker in the great sprawling hills of Brown County, Indiana. Brown County is Bloomington, if you substitute Bloomington’s structures and people with hills and trees. This was the most remote vendor we met with. We went out after dark, down unlit winding roads, while raccoons made faces at us. This is where campfire stories happen. The gloom was broken by the comfort of a porch light that illuminated the cute little house of the cake maker.

We were met by the cake designer (apparently anyone can “make” a cake) at the entry to the showroom, a square room off the back corner of the house. The slightly sweet smell of icing was in the air. Blue ribbons were displayed, along with sample designs of fanciful flowers and birds made from fondant, the sugar syrup used to make elaborately designed accents for any cake. Anything seemed possible with fondant and a skilled artist. Christa had her mind made up about style already, so making suggestions regarding, perhaps, a lobster with a beer would not have served our purpose.

Our discussions began simply enough with us estimating our guest list and, thereby, the number of servings we needed. We were hoping for a three-tiered cake, because four is too many, and two is too few, when it comes to the cake of love. The design ideas came from something we saw in a bridal magazine. It would be a white cake with white dots in alternating rows. Each layer would have a tulle ribbon tied around it in a bow, and roses would lie around the small platform created by each tier. It was gloriously simple and elegant and, therefore, relatively inexpensive, as the time needed for artistry was limited. Now we just had to determine the flavors for each layer. How simple. Let the discussion and tasting begin. We figured we would get it started by stating the obvious.

“We don’t want our wedding cake to taste like wedding cake.”

The cake designer seemed to take this somewhat in stride. I felt it necessary to explain that most wedding cakes are so sweet that I feel sick before I am halfway done with one piece. Everyone has fluffy white or yellow cake, with icing that is somehow sweeter than sugar and makes my teeth rot on the spot. I wanted a cake that was dark, thick, evil chocolate goodness, capable of tinting my teeth brown and worth eight Weight Watchers points with every bite. And I know I’m not alone in my desire.

She said, “Sure.” The single word of agreement was alarmingly too simple, too easy.

This was followed by tasting some samples she had made for us. We were sold on her ability to make cake, and from viewing the showroom, we knew our design would be almost too easy for her.

As we ate, she described some of the possibilities. I thought we were looking at something fairly easy. I mean, in the grocery, you have about six Betty Crocker cake flavors and six icings to choose from, a finite number of combinations. I figured this would be a little more advanced, but within the realm of comprehension. I was slightly off.

“How fluffy do you want it?” the cake lady asked.

“Nice fluffy,” I replied, displaying my full knowledge of baked goods and the English language.

“It can be anything from pillowy to like a brownie. It can be any flavor and also infused with additional flavors,” she said with no hesitation. Is she an alien intent on conquering the world through diabetes?

“Let’s limit ourselves to the good flavors,” I said, glancing around for human-harvesting pods.

“Each tier can be different, and I can put icing, preserves, or anything else between the layers of each tier.” Definitely not human, but does she want to take over the world?

“Do you have any recommendations?” Christa asked her, apparently unconcerned with humanity’s fate and simply wanting the choices narrowed down.

“It’s really up to you. I can probably track down any other recipe or style you want,” she replied. You will not defeat me with obesity and lethargy, Cake Overlord.

It was at this moment that Christa realized that having anything she wanted could, possibly, be a curse. (She’s still willing to try it, for a while, but can see how it could become cumbersome at times.) We agreed to retain the cake designer’s services and paid the deposit, but we wanted some time to mull the fifteen billion options.

My head was spinning with the possibilities, the two cups of sugar I had eaten, and the burden of saving mankind from its own sweet tooth.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Have Fish, Will Travel

We wanted the restaurant where we had our first official date to cater. They make wonderful Italian food in a nice, intimate setting. Upon contact, they were interested in establishing a catering side to their business. So we had a meeting.

We had our full entourage in tow (all first-generation blood relatives and Danza, who is an artificial blood relative). First we met the restaurant manager, a nice lady. Whether this was the adopted Italian way of life or not, she seemed to be in no hurry to confirm or get estimates on anything.

“Do you have an estimate on the price per person for a standard meal?” we asked.

“Well, I can try and figure that out for you,” she replied.

“Would it be like the menu price?” we asked.

“I can’t say,” she countered.

“We have some particular dishes we would like to have.”

“Okay, let’s bring in the chef for this,” she declared.

“Great. This should get us some answers.”

Chef entered stage left. He had the uniform. Introductions were made. He was new to the restaurant, within a week or two, from somewhere out east. His accent was a touch Jersey, with a hint of rural France, perhaps. It was the accent you practice in the shower as a suave Euro-seducer of American women. (In my case, it’s more like the voice I use to pretend the cat is a French art critic.) He spoke of some fanciful events he had catered before the move to Bloomington. I love Bloomington, but for chefs, I’m not sure if it is really a promotion, after any place that hosts such fanciful events.

“We love some of the dishes here. Are they suitable for mass production?” we asked.

“You must get a food that travels well.” (Italics are used to emphasize his accent of unknown origin.)

“We were thinking about the Penne alla Vodka.” (We did not actually say this with an accent, but because it’s a specific menu item, I thought it needed to be distinguished.)

“Cod travels well.” (The accent has returned.)

Cod, a well-traveling fish and great fried with chips, was not on the menu. Did I choose this opportunity to state that I like ice cream? No, I felt that was a bit irrelevant. (These are my thoughts, which can take on a number of accents.)

“What else travels well?” we asked, seeking a second choice.

“Like I said, cod…and bread.”

It was like we were having the reception on week five of Columbus’s transatlantic journey, where fish, jerky, rock salt, and water were the only options. We were trying to translate our wishes from English to English and still not getting through. They didn’t have any equipment designated for catering, and the chef didn’t “know his staff yet,” so he couldn’t commit to anything. Apparently, they could prepare cod but couldn’t prepare for meetings.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival