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

Fart Me Once, Fool on Me

We went to visit Mark (groomsman) and Chris Buehler with the dual purpose of seeing Isabella, their new baby, and asking them to read the passage we had selected for our ceremony. Since they didn’t know about the reading, and we knew about the baby, the baby introductions came first. She was tiny, below Mr. Puddy’s weight class, I imagine. But his dexterity is so advanced that it wouldn’t have been a fair fight were Isabella capable of hand-to-hand combat. She was sleeping on a blanket on the living room floor. It looked like a slightly uncomfortable position, one that you might expect to see when you hire a grizzled old veteran of the pest control industry, who can diagnose your insect problems by simply falling to the floor and listening to termites’ subterranean activity.

I was handed the baby. This caused fear. I’ve never seen one up close, but from a distance, they seem too easily breakable to handle and too wiggly to be safe. Baby and I made our acquaintances, and she gave me a wink and a small grumble, lifted her leg, and ripped a fart. She was in diapers, and I was in shorts, so I didn’t detect transfer. She hammed it up, grimaced, and cracked two more Howitzer shots across my starboard thigh. It was then decided that perhaps an investigation for residue was needed, and I was relieved of my duties. We asked if they would read our selected passage; they agreed to. In retrospect, I realize it may not be unladylike to fart like a Howitzer, but it certainly is ungentlemanly to disclose this information in public.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Check in with Jesus

On our initial trip to Bloomington for planning, we also attended church services. It would be embarrassing to be smitten by the Lord at my wedding, so I figured a test run in God’s house would help me determine my standing. We also scheduled a meeting with the minister who had agreed, by e-mail, to preside over our ceremony. He came well recommended by those who are familiar with the church in Bloomington.

What is he going to want to know? Have I involuntarily spoken with a police officer before? Have I done things I felt were wrong and not told any one? Did I experience alcohol before I was twenty-one? Did I tackle any landscaping in the Blue Ridge neighborhood anytime between 1987 and 1992? It all depends on interpretation. I did make amends by speaking openly in the Colorado Christian College free-rides van at South Padre Spring Break 1997. So I thought all of that was behind me.

I was unusually nervous heading into counseling. The minister is a fantastic man. He reminded me of a slightly older version of Jimmy Cooper from The OC. He approached it primarily as a logistics meeting to set the order of events and get a little background information from each of us. Should the conduit of God’s word know I consider the speed limit merely a strong recommendation? For no reason, every answer came with the constant thoughts: Don’t say anything unholy. Say you love her for any reason besides she’s hot. Eventually, after reciting her nonphysical qualities, I did slip in “…and she’s not bad looking”—because I did notice that, after a careful assessment of all her inner beauty.

The most awkward moment came when the minister counseled us on sex. But he didn’t really counsel us; he said it was something some couples needed to discuss, but he could tell we were OK. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been handling my own equipment for over a decade. No need for the health-class filmstrip here.

We both left feeling somewhat relieved. I am not sure if we felt that we had a chance of rejection from the church. It wasn’t one that either of us attended, but it was pretty. We both felt the same uneasiness during the process. It seemed that he was not only considering us as a couple, but also evaluating whether I spoke in run-on sentences or hesitated in relaying personal information. I worried that he would put a finger to his ear, as the Lord whispered some tidbit from the Pearly Gates dossier being kept for my final judgment into his Holy Moses 3000 earpiece, and then ask me about the results of the informal flammability study on insects I conducted at a younger age.

As we exited the building, Christa said, “I think that went pretty well.”

“I felt unusually conscious of being truthful,” I confessed.

“So did I.”

“We’re a fantastic couple, aren’t we?”

“I think so.”

“I feel like we just won something.”

“You won me.”

You have to reward that with a kiss. So I did.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival