Freedom’s Last Beer

After we had foiled an engagement party in February and a Stock the Bar party in July, my family and, therefore, my brother had stopped putting effort into trying to plan anything without our knowledge. So the decision came to me, regarding when and where to have a bachelor party. He would be in charge of rallying the troops to attend, but I would have to set a locale, date, and partial agenda.

For her bachelorette party, Christa’s team had decided on Cincinnati as a geographic and entertainment midpoint. I chose Cincinnati, so I wouldn’t have to plan and drive. We were behind schedule on planning this event. This should have been expected. It was mid-August.

With the assumption that we couldn’t each have our own weekend, due to us needing to be in Bloomington during all other weekends, I had to work out an arrangement for both parties to operate from the same home base but not get in each other’s way. Christa and I also had to figure out how to sleep twelve people in our house, which had only one actual bed.

I was the only one attending my party who had any firsthand knowledge of what Cincinnati had to offer and was, therefore, in charge of finding my own activities. I was not inclined toward the typical stripper. I acknowledged it could happen, but I was not the one who was going to make the call to contract my own stripper. That seemed unhealthy.

We had to straighten the house for the three-minute tour afforded each guest. I nearly died inflating our air mattress manually over about forty minutes. We counted sofas, a futon, a daybed, and a couple of air mattresses as adequate sleeping conditions for our guests. I told Christa that my friends would survive a night on a sofa that wasn’t covered in sheets. She may have been politely trying to protect our sofa, instead of the guests, but I had told the guys to bring sleeping bags for mutual protection. We assigned the ladies to the upstairs and the gentlemen to the downstairs. As you might have guessed, the bed, futon, and daybed are all upstairs. We bought snacks, breakfast food, beer, and some beverage components for the ladies. I showered and dressed, she cleansed and picked out an outfit, and we were ready.

My guests showed up in a single van from Bloomington. Everyone found himself a beer within a couple minutes. Some wanted the tour, and some preferred to sit and drink effortlessly, rather than extend unnecessary courtesy. We had called a van cab and had about forty-five minutes to consume and speak on topics of zero relevance or importance.

During that time, I learned that: “You finally get to stop masturbating. You have sex all the time, once you’re married.” And “Marriage changes your life completely, you live in the same place, with the same person as the day before, but you wear a ring.” Not even a hint of sarcasm there.

So once I was advised, the festivities began. The van cab took us to Margarita’s Mexican in downtown. It offered booze and good Mexican eating, a solid base for an evening of revelry.

Next, the party moved on to the Bengals preseason game. This was an awesome exhibition for the Bengals and for us. The Bengals did everything right and roared to a halftime lead of twenty-eight to three over the Patriots, once again providing false hope to a city paying for two over-budget stadiums with under-performing teams. We spent equal time in the manly activities of making the long trek for overpriced beer and trying to spot the best rack in the neighboring sections of stands. Yes, they can be referred to as “racks” at such a manly gathering.

I also received advice from a husband and wife, sitting a row below and a few seats over from us. Upon learning of my fate, the couple, in unison, saluted me with overpriced beer. “Congratulations. We’ve been married for eight years,” she said, looking towards us.

“Feels like twenty,” he said, laughing. She looked at him scornfully and slapped his thigh. He corrected himself. “Just kidding. Marriage is great.”

She turned back to give us an apologetic smile for her husband’s behavior, and he started vigorously shaking his head no, until she turned back again.

I took a vote to see if we should leave at halftime, seeing as the Bengals couldn’t play any better. The reserves would be in soon, and beer was much bigger and cheaper at the Hofbrauhaus on the other side of the river. The vote was yes, as always, for bigger and cheaper.

We cabbed across the river to the Hofbrauhaus, which was modeled after the beer garden of the same name in Munich and provided booze in the form of liter glasses of Germany’s finest. Liter-sized glasses make fantastic beer goggles. The beer goggles were working so well that one of my friends began speaking with a cute little eighty-four-year-old woman in the group seated next to us. Picture Happy Gilmore’s grandma. He relayed their conversation to us.

I told her, “We’re here because it’s my friend’s bachelor party. It’s his last few days of freedom.”

And then, in his best beer-drinking little eighty-four-year-old voice, he said that her advice was to “Love ’em and leave ’em.”

Nothing inspires a group of bachelor party attendees more than a grandma still making booty calls. We decided against buying her a shot of Jagermeister and inviting her over for strip poker later that night, but we were tempted. The night eventually ended, and my freedom was supposedly gone, but sadly, it didn’t take wedding planning with it.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

CELEBRATIONS REAL AND FAUX - THE COMPETITION BEGINS - The Day That Almost Changed the World

Saturday, August 7, 2004

The wedding day of our friends, Corey and Laura. It started with a modestly early-morning Cincinnati wake-up, since we had to drive to Chicago to attend the festivities. We were going to shower at the hotel when we got there, so we went pretty much from bed to car. After napping until Indianapolis, Christa was eager to discuss all the things we could about our wedding. I’m certain we covered about everything. She was also excited to see how Corey and Laura’s would turn out, now that she was so up to date on wedding style. Neither one of us was fully prepared for what we would find when we got there. I may have been slightly better disposed to absorb and deal with it.

We arrived safely and checked in. We cleaned and groomed. We went through the routine.

“Which shoes? Hair up or hair down? Did you bring the gift? Did you remove the price tag?” Christa asked.

They come that fast, and you must always be on alert. It is easy to misfire a response and get yourself in trouble. Surprisingly, I did just that.

“Yes, I even gave the tissue paper some pizzazz and signed the card for us,” I replied regarding the gift.

I had demonstrated artistry and initiative.

“You signed my name!” she exclaimed, stepping out from in front of the bathroom mirror.

I sensed danger, not sure of its nature. “Of course. It’s from both of us,” I replied.

Reaffirmed unity. I thought I had really accomplished something.

“No. Now it’s from you and your fiancée, who didn’t care enough to sign the card herself. They are going to hate me.”

Internal alarms go off.

“I can…”

“It’s too late. Just remember that I try and make my friends like you,” she replied, returning to the bathroom.

I was not sure whether she was referring to my actions causing dislike—or whether her friends really didn’t like me.

Are you getting the feeling that this eventually became a fantastic stress-free day? How could you not? Let’s continue, shall we?

We arrived at the church, meeting and greeting friends along the way. We were seated.

“Do you like this church?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s very nice,” I replied.

“Do you like it better than our church?” she asked, not for knowledge but for reassurance.

“No,” I stated definitively.

First, don’t ever like someone else’s something better than yours. No matter how obviously the statement favors the alternative, you must stand by her. If her dream wedding isn’t your dream wedding, then you’d better make it yours. If she favors it, Purple Passion in Dixie Cups beats champagne hands down. This is a wedding-planning helpful hint that really should be used every day of your life. When the question starts with “Would you rather,” be sure to go with the option that relates to her, and don’t spend too long thinking it over. She may compare winning the lottery to eating her burnt grilled-cheese sandwich. Just reach for the milk and dig in.

We made trivial small talk in our pew. The ceremony began.

“Those bridesmaid dresses are just like mine, only they’re scarlet instead of merlot, and they have spaghetti straps and a slightly different design,” Christa said.

“They are not really the same then,” I stated.

It is a bit selfish to want your friends’ wedding to be lovely, yet have yours be slightly better. But remember—this is war, perhaps a cold war, but a war nonetheless.

“But did you look at the bouquets? That is the style I wanted, and there is no greenery, like I want. We need to add flowers to ours,” she said.

The entrance of the bride was upon us, so we whispered a bit.

“Ooh, that’s a good song. It’s not my song, but that’s a good song. She looks beautiful. I like her dress. Do you like her dress?” she asked.

“Yes, it looks lovely.”

“Better than mine?”

“I haven’t seen yours.”

“Good. I’m just testing you. She has my bouquet too. Only mine will be slightly darker.”

We respectfully observed the rest of the ceremony. I did notice that they had some churchly person presiding over the whole thing. I wonder where that idea came from. We exited the church, milled around, and did the send off. A small group of friends headed to a bar to pass the time, prior to the cocktail hour and reception. Christa and I engaged in small talk and regained a resting heart rate. I believe we had remained competitive, thus far. We headed back to the hotel for the cocktail hour.

As we approached the designated room, we spotted the frame. Yes, the Pottery Barn with wide matting, perfect for signatures frame. And they had put it on an easel resting on the floor. Damn you two. Apparently we aren’t the only ones who get the Pottery Barn catalog, even though they print it with our name on it. And they put a picture in the middle of it, of them. Of all the people in the world, they chose themselves. Look at them all smiling and happy. They are laughing at us.

“We are putting ours up on the table, and we are going to use a black-and-white picture,” Christa said.

She had begun to reestablish the subtle distinctions that would win the war. The frame had been resting on the floor, leaning against our dining room wall for months. If we had only saved the receipt, we could have proven we were the winners, the originals. We should have dated and notarized our idea list, then had our patent attorney fax it to their planning headquarters, back in April. That would have prevented such blatant acts of infringement.

At that point, we needed a stiff drink. I am going to say “we” a lot during this passage, because “we” are a team, each with our own strengths and weaknesses. And “we” share a desire to win this challenge of superior style and uniqueness.

As I reached the bar, I saw a small framed print of their specialty cocktails, with cute little names. Why are you punishing us, Oh Lord? We were the ones with a specialty cocktail. Yes, a specialty cocktail. They have four. Not only are we copying, we apparently aren’t very good at it, since we were only planning for one. I almost refused to drink them, but quickly thought better of that plan.

I turned from the bar, specialty cocktails in hand.

“Is that a goddamned slideshow?”

I may have said that out loud. Across the room, running ever so innocently on a TV monitor on a rolling cart, was a slideshow with, you guessed it, pictures of them growing up and dating each other. It made me sick. I bet, if I had walked over there, the slideshow would have been accompanied by some wonderful, loving musical tracks, perhaps some of their favorites. I wished I had eaten something unhealthier that day, so I could run crossing patterns in front of the monitor, strategically passing gas to deter anyone from the vicinity.

A couple of specialty cocktails into socializing as well I can, we got the dimming-of-the-lights warning to head to a different room for dinner and dancing. Two rooms? Aren’t you a couple of fancy britches? We walked up or down a flight of stairs to arrive at the guest-tag table, where we learned we were sitting at Atlanta, Georgia. Little boy and girl genius had named their tables after places that meant something to them. Who reads these bridal magazines and only uses all the good ideas? I bet they will type up a cute little explanation of Atlanta as well.

We moped over to our table, nodding to a couple of people as we went. We arrived, and they had centerpieces of flowers floating in a glass bowl with some accent candles. And look, an explanation of Atlanta, Georgia. Apparently, it’s where they conceived of the plan to have a wedding just like ours.

“That’s my centerpiece idea. We are planning the same wedding. We have to postpone, because we need to change everything,” Christa said.

We had hit bottom. No one wants to attend the same wedding over again, and we weren’t going to give the contingent of twenty-odd mutual friends a chance to do just that in six weeks.

“There is not a chance I am prolonging the planning process,” I said.

“Then we should have gotten married in July,” she replied.

“We are forty-three Knot checklist items behind schedule now. There is no way we could have done this in July.”

“Then you better get me something to drink.”

I headed over for some more specialty cocktails. Then I saw it, an ice sculpture that Laura had designed, that you poured drinks through to chill them. It was standing about five feet tall on the bar.

I bowed and said, “Point given.”

We are not even going to try and top that. I may be able to configure a beer bong to incorporate a cowbell somehow, but I’m not touching the ice sculpture. How did we miss the section on mocking gestures of excessive grandeur? Now it was our wedding, only better.

I returned to our seats with the drinks. Christa had begun to recap all of the similarities to other members of our table and was receiving kind words of encouragement. The problem was that, even if other people didn’t remember, Christa would, and that was the issue.

At some point later in the evening, they rolled the cake out onto the dance floor to do the ceremonial cutting. Could it possibly be white, stacked, with ribbons around each layer, and flowers on it? Yes it could.

“That’s our cake,” she said.

“It is similar to the cake we haven’t ordered yet but think we want,” I replied.

“We really have to start over. I don’t want anything like this.”

“Seriously, if your dream wedding is similar to hers, that is not a bad thing. You just have similar taste.”

“But she got to go first. Now it looks like we are doing the same exact thing,” she said, frustrated.

“Our male friends won’t notice, that I can promise you. The females have to know that you can’t plan a wedding in six weeks, and some of your plans, if similar, had to have been already in place at this point.” I tried to calm her.

“I don’t want our wedding to be similar to anyone’s.”

This is the ideal: nothing like anything that has ever been done, yet better than anything anyone has ever seen, on your first try.

“You forget we have a secret weapon,” I said, trying to be energetic.

“If you say anything about you being a wonderful fiancée, it’s not the time.”

“No. It’s Mr. Puddy, but thanks for your vote of confidence. People put our Save the Dates on their refrigerators, because of the power of the Pu. We shall use this power to our advantage.”

“You’re not really helping any.”

She was frustrated. And I was trying my best methods of distraction and diversion.

“If that DJ starts playing dance music, I will walk right out of here!”

He did, but I stayed. We got our dance on and eventually headed back to our room, as the reception closed down. As we lay in bed, she reminded me again that she really wanted our wedding to be unique. I told her that they can’t change theirs now, and we have six weeks to make improvements. Mr. Puddy and I would hole up in the office and have some intense strategy sessions. I guaranteed that everyone would know it was our wedding. I told her that she had my heart, until it ceases to beat, and my soul until the end of time. She liked that, and we made a note to include it in our vows. I think she slept after that, although my specialty-cocktail-induced slumber probably prevented me from registering any restlessness from her.

Postmortem: now that our day has passed, we can reflect lovingly on both ceremonies. Corey and Laura had a beautiful wedding and reception, as you would expect from two obviously stylish and elegant people who unknowingly stole so many great ideas from us. However, we did falsify our documents so that our ten-year anniversary party will be two weeks before theirs. Suckers!
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival