Don’t Hug Your Children

The blessings began. All four of our parents were asked to join us at center stage. We felt we should give The MOB and The MG a little time in the spotlight, as this was their day too. Ask them, you’ll see. Jimmy asked each set of parents for their blessing and support of our union, now and in the future. We received an affirmative on each side, with no accompanying suggestions. I thought that was an excellent sign.

The parents lit their respective unity candles. It was during this lighting period that Christa asked again, “Is my mascara running?”

She verified the condition of her mascara and makeup three times during the ceremony. It was perfect, and I told her so. I don’t know if she was expecting to be able to run off to the powder room mid-ceremony. My fanny pack was only equipped for craft projects. I could have touched it up, but it would have been with a Sharpie.

As the parents returned from candle lighting, they all had a twinkle in their eyes. Love had not just overwhelmed them, oh no. They had something up their sleeves. They had decided to deviate from plan and hug their children before returning to their seats. We’ve all hugged before, this was nothing new. The MG and The MOB were exploiting the moment of shared glory we had given them to implement their own plans, one last time, without approval, and the dads were right there with them. So mocking, they even told us, “This wasn’t in the plan.” I had my laminated copy right there, and it mostly definitely was not.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

THE WAITING IS THE HARDEST PART

I sat down, at the church, in my designated holding area. I placed a call to my groomsmen and suggested that maybe they could bring some snacks over for us. A little later, my groomsmen arrived with a bag of snacks, including Hot and Spicy Chex Mix, the perfect wedding-kiss-to-remember accompaniment. We gave high fives and said we were looking sweet. Not one of us could correctly attach a boutonnière; so much for my crafties. The videographer made his appearance, made sure to document the contents of the bag of snacks, and asked my parents for some words of encouragement.

My mom said, “I’ve always wanted a girl and am happy to finally have one.”

My dad, giving his patented head hug and cheek press, said, “He was quite a deal for a blue light special.”

To summarize, I was perhaps their second choice of gender, and I had some redeeming qualities for being deeply discounted merchandise from Kmart. They concluded by saying they were both very proud and loved me very much (implied: despite my man parts and minimal commercial retail value).

I had been planning and helping orchestrate the next part of my life for nine months. Let’s get to it already. Get me wife. Get me on vacation.

Near the end of the pre-wedding downtime, I was joined by Marvin, Christa’s dad. He has never been described as a hugs-and-kisses kind of guy. But he wanted to tell me that he and The MOB were very excited and happy for Christa and me. The true amount of emotion behind his statements wasn’t outwardly obvious, aside from a little shakiness in his voice and what I thought were watery eyes behind his tinted glasses.

I was in a state of anxious delirium and probably sounded like the Tasmanian devil, but responded that I was very excited to be marrying Christa and, thus, joining the Norris family. I then started spinning madly. This was followed by one of those slightly awkward handshake-hug combinations, and the spinning stopped.

It was time to get started. We were lined up behind the secret door. As we got in order and waited for our musical cue to walk into the sanctuary of the church, Matt asked, “Do you have the ring?”

My pits moistened. Boy, that was entertaining. Matt had been given the responsibility of carrying my ring. It had been delayed for as long as possible, because he was my little brother, who had a history of letting people “borrow” things and not keeping good records of the transactions. So his practical joke was made more effective by the slight fear of historical precedence. I laughed but had to consider that he might not have the ring, when it came time to symbolize my union. The possibility existed that he may have outjoked himself. It was go time, so I hoped for the best.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

THE MAGICAL DAY - THE RUNAROUND

My day began with grumblings from the mutant canine that needed to tinkle. I unleashed her from her cage. It was a beautiful morning, pleasant temperature and blue skies. The Lord had heeded my request and asked Mother Nature to spare our special day from the hurricane aftermath.

He had said, “You remember what it was like to be young and in love. Don’t rain on their parade.”

To which Mother Nature replied, “Are you saying I’m old? Maybe I’ll go find myself a creator who appreciates a mature and accomplished woman. It’s not like you’ve been hitting the Ab-Roller lately.”

On all levels, you must respect Womankind.

Both man and beast returned to the house relieved; mine was only mental. I sat down, turned on the TV, and began to organize my first craft project of the day. I had to craft my message of love in blue mini rhinestones on the bottom of Christa’s shoes. This had to be accomplished in time for Danza to deliver them to her, at the two-hour hair appointment all the ladies had scheduled for that morning. There I sat, with a horse that wanted to play and a cone-headed cat that was interested in my rhinestones—but more interested in avoiding playing with the horse. The next twenty minutes of my special day were spent with craft glue and rhinestones just small enough to be unaccommodating for man hands. Ultimately, I completed an “I ♥ U” on one of the shoes and called for a blow dryer. Heat was applied. Then it was time to rouse my best man and begin the day’s errands.

I got a little high-pitch and lispy. “Hello, people, it’s the wedding day. We need to be up, and we need to be organized. The love shuttle leaves in twenty minutes.”

My brother and Christa share some characteristics, mostly in the extended awakening to departure phase of their days. Here is how Christa and I make it on time to any event:

1. I ask, “How long will it take for you to get ready?” (30 minutes)
2. I multiply her response by her personally adjusted version of the space-time continuum. (1.6 X 30 = 48 minutes)
3. I then add an extra fifteen minutes to that total and subtract that from when we need to leave our house. ( 48 + 15 = 63 minutes)

Over time, I have refined my estimate of her personal adjustment to the space-time continuum to 1.6. The most accurate first read of this factor can be obtained by having her cook mac and cheese, then dividing the length of time she instinctively cooks the noodles by the time printed on the directions.

This extra time before departure allows me to postulate hypotheses on how she could possibly individually affect the space-time continuum, without displaying any outward signs of superpowers. I assume that is why she always bumps into stationary objects. She is playing catch-up with the earth’s orbit, since she exists in a slightly altered dimension, especially in the bathroom.

After that tangent, Matt was now functioning, and we began to load the minivan, now christened the “Love Shuttle.” We had several stops to make and activities all along the way. The first stop was the church, where we were delivering the guest book and pen, unity candle, and programs. We were also meeting up with Jenny, our exceptional bow-tying, pretty-making hired gun, to get the key to the reception hall for our next delivery. Jenny was in transit when we arrived, so we got to rest for a few minutes in the pews.

“I’m tired,” Matt said.

“Get your five minutes now, and we’ll try and get done in time to relax a bit before we need to be back here,” I replied.

He’d been on active duty for what, maybe an hour? So there I was, reclining in God’s house, with a brief moment to reflect on getting married that day.

“Why do I have so much crap to do?” I said out loud.

At some point long ago, I was told all I had to do was smile and be agreeable. I wasn’t told about my checklists, my errands, my battle with a possibly incurable disease (aka the crafties), my kidnapping, and the rest. Weren’t my responsibilities supposed to be over with popping the question? If we are going to find a way to compensate stay-at-home moms, surely we can compensate stay-at-home wedding planners or at least confer on them an Associate’s degree. And where was my beautiful bride? Had she gently risen from bed and stretched to the sweet melody of birds chirping? Might she be on her way to the hair salon to sip champagne and be fawned and cooed over by everyone? When we renew our vows, I’m going to be the bride! Who said I didn’t want to be pretty?

At the reception site, we drove around to the side door of the building to unload. We went in to find a cart we had heard about to move the goods in bulk. The cart was not in the reception hall. It was not anywhere visible. We asked the security guy if he knew anything. He told us to check with the facilities office. It was closed. Holy crap. It was two of us with too much to carry.

I had to use the restroom. As I turned the final corner on my way to the restroom, a beam of light shown down from heaven and illuminated the scene. No, wait. I just happened to glance into a darkened, seemingly deserted hallway and thought I saw the shadowed outline of a wheel of small diameter. The cart had been found! I wasn’t sure if the cart was trying not to be found, so I brought it into the bathroom with me so it wouldn’t sneak off, if the opportunity presented itself. Doubly sweet relief that next thirty seconds was.

We brought in the booze and set out the table-name cards, which began falling off their bases. Monkey balls! Repair was needed. If the crafties hadn’t influenced me to buy a fanny pack, stuff it full of craft supplies for the day’s potential emergencies, and wear it like my soon-to-be-outdated chastity belt, I might have panicked.

The florist came in, needed clarification; I gave it. Favors were out, and Mr. Puddy was displayed. I was on fire. Somebody find me a six-foot block of ice—I’ll use my knitting needles, some Ziploc bags, and this remote-control car engine to create a specialty cocktail spewing lobster. Suck it, Corey!
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Craft Me Wednesday

The next day I was up and ready to get my craft on. First I headed to Wal-Mart for blank CDs and labels to construct the favors. I bought seventy-five CDs and a package of seventy-five CD labels. I self-checked and was out the door and on to Michael’s.

I passed by Walgreens and laughed, “Not today, my friend.”

Two seconds later, I was parked at Michael’s, and the moment had passed. Inside, I headed to the frame aisle and counted three more of the perfect frame. That made four total. I remained quiet and motionless in the frame aisle, waiting for my moment. Then a red-aproned CraftMaster passed by the end of the aisle.

“Excuse me, do you have more frames in the stockroom?” I asked, hoping the question required no firsthand inspection of the frame I held.

“Some we do,” the CraftMaster replied.

The CraftMaster approached, but not alone. The CraftMaster, like the supplies it utilized, carried the crafties. I have not seen a craftie, as no one can with the naked eye, but I have heard they are exceptional leapers. I didn’t know what a safe distance was. Most people don’t even know they carry the crafties, until they find themselves at a scrapbooking party in a macramé vest. I pointed at the frame and took a couple steps back, but at an angle, so I didn’t get too close to the craft supplies looming on the opposite side of the aisle.

“That is a sale frame, so everything should be on the shelf,” it replied.

“Thank you. I have no further questions.”

I audibly exhaled when the CraftMaster departed in the direction from which it came, so there was no awkward and dangerous passing in the aisle. I bought the three additional frames, which would frame half of the bridal party subset of eight. I was more than willing to give the pretty ones to the girls, without hesitation. I later realized that, in my flight from Michael’s, I hadn’t looked for another frame that might be suitable for the male half of the bridal party, and I would have to return.

Back home, I performed a test run of a CD label. It came out looking pretty good. I peeled off the sticker, only to learn that, by running around the heated drum in my laser printer, the sticker now wanted to exist in the fetal position of stickers, curling in on both sides. If the sticky sides touched one another my label would be ruined. This problem required me to use my man hands, which are normal-sized for a male with very respectable dexterity, to circumnavigate the label attachment tool, as a way to restrict the curl without attaching myself to the label, while lining up the CD with the other hand, lowering the CD, and pressing it onto the label with a fluid motion—while removing my curl-restricting fingers at the precise thousandth of a second to avoid the pinch. It was even more painful than it sounds.

After a couple, I decided to leave that frustration for later and went to Kinko’s to dimension my table name pieces, because there is nothing better than being frustrated when heading into a task needing precision and dedication. A friendly associate greeted me and asked whether I needed any help.

“No, I just need to use the super cutter for a while,” I replied.

He graciously waved his hand in the direction of the super cutter. Neither he nor I knew that I would be spending the next two hours at the cutting station. As I began to exhibit stage one crafties, I used some dummy table names to practice and measure the final design, without ruining a final version. I only had one final copy of each, because I was still in stage one.

Once done, I headed out to the car, loaded my stuff, and pulled out of the lot. I heard a thunk and looked in my rearview to see my table-labels box lying in the middle of the road. I don’t remember what required the box to be set on the car roof while I opened the door, but all my work was probably ruined and at the mercy of any oncoming motorist. Having not yet made my good-weather pact with God, I cursed, pulled into the next driveway, and ran back down the street, still cursing, to retrieve the box. I waved at a passing car and got back to the sidewalk. I didn’t know it was possible to be overworked and unemployed at the same time. The box had suffered a little, but the contents looked good. The reception could go on, but I am unsure whether I will ever be the same. Wedding preparation and the crafties had begun to make me lose my mind. I don’t drive off with stuff on top of my car. I don’t lose my train of thought easily. I don’t use electrical appliances in the shower. When will the sanity return?

Should I tell Christa, my future bride, that by the time we get married, she may be marrying a man who is losing his mind, due to a full-blown case of the crafties?

I needed to be held and told everything would be OK, to hear that soon I’d be married and could let my crafty persona get flabby, and no one would mind. I finally had a day that needed listening to, and Christa was there.

She loved the table names and said, “Who’s my little wedding planner? Who is it?”

We both enjoyed the brainless entertainment of sitcom reruns that evening. And later, I learned that the best way to put the crafties into remission was to drink beer and watch sports and manly construction shows, until I realized construction is nothing more than crafties on steroids, and knew I was in for a long, slow recovery.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Craft Me Tuesday

After a great night’s sleep, I returned to Walgreens the next day. I didn’t even ask if my photos might have stayed in the queue. I resubmitted.

“When will my photos be done?” I asked.

“About an hour,” the help replied.

Fortunately, Michael’s was in the same shopping center as Walgreens. Fortunate may be a strong word here, but I did save some gas money in transitioning from store to store. I needed frames for my soon-to-be-ready photos. They needed to be pretty but not gaudy, silver but not shiny, and fit exactly with the entire wedding theme of understated elegance. At Michael’s, I could even dress my teddy bear to go clubbing, so why not find the frame of all frames. And find it I did, a lovely number meeting all the criteria, as best I could tell. I understood, at this point, that if it didn’t meet the instinctual “doesn’t feel right” criteria when under inspection, nothing else really mattered. But it at least qualified for inspection. I grabbed one to take home.

Frame selection might sound easy, but I haven’t told you that we had been visiting frame shelves, sections, and departments for the past month—and had not yet found the frame of eternal love. We had surveyed and passed on hundreds of frames. Some, with the flashing chili peppers, were easy to dismiss, but I felt several respectable candidates had been denied, based on “I’m just not feeling it.”

“This one is nice,” I said.

“I don’t know,” Christa replied.

I listed all the criteria the frame met.

“The people don’t look happy,” she responded.

“What people?” I said, glancing around.

“In the frame. It’s tainted.”

Apparently, a frame with even a hint of discontentment on the inside could never truly contain and display the eternal joy our winner was destined for.

Frame and pictures were purchased, and I headed home. Tasks to accomplish that evening were:

1. Hopeful confirmation ceremony for picture frame
2. Final approval on table-name card color, design, and display

I started with the easiest, the table names. I only needed to determine the final proportions of the support structure. I cut one support piece the long way, accounting for the quarter-inch border on either side, folded it in half, and said, “This is as big as they can be.”

“It’s perfect,” Christa enthusiastically replied.

Let there be joy around the world, for a period no shorter than forty days!

“But there is too much space around the text,” she added.

And may we now suspend that celebration. Adjustments were made, and an accord was struck. Final production was added to the next day’s to-do list. Now for the frame.

“I also found a frame that I think will do the trick.” (Big reveal from plastic bag.) “What do you think?” I asked.

“That is cute. Nice job, honey. We need eight, plus the two parents’ pictures. How many do they have?”

“At least one,” I dejectedly replied.

I mean, how short-sighted of me, to find the one-in-two thousand frame, bring it home, and not consider quantity. I won a battle and decided that was enough for one day.

“You didn’t at least look?” she inquired.

“I’ll go back tomorrow.”

Nothing deflates you like knowing you’re going right back into the craftie zone the next day, especially when it could have been avoided. I slept in a ball on the floor that night.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival