Sábado! Sábado! Sábado! Ver como una mujer se casa con un idiota! Este sábado!
And again, in my ongoing quest to somehow make the best night in a couple's lives all about me, I procrastinate to present part three of my four-part series on weddings and how they are ruining my social graces. As the two previous weddings completely understand, I unfairly compare the festivities and ceremony I was invited to the unfair disadvantage of my super-nuptials (because everyone wore capes). In the span of 14 days, I have tasted four cakes, witnessed two awkward kisses ordered by officiants and watched the Mavericks have a parade. Only one of the previous listed events I watched in my boxers. As this series is three-quarters done, I keep the same hypothesis that we as grown-ups do this to ourselves/we do/we and no one else/we do it to ourselves. So, moving forward from the demonstrative setup, let's have Kristi Garsee and Jeff Garner get married, shall we?
As two weeks ago where lack of planning and general disorganization was the order of the day, the Garner/Garsee affair was saturated in planning. Emails from three months out noting proper behavior at the church, itineraries broken down by quarter-hours and tuxedo fittings with alerts pointing to stragglers that have not yet been measured by a really gorgeous black woman...oh, wait, that last part only happened to me. Well...okay, then. So, I ask you, good readers of the blogging blog, is it better to be the freewheeling participant or the rigid clockwatcher, slave to the seating chart?
My answer to the rhetorical: they both suck. That's why variance is the spice of life...unless you are doing something that demands precision.
Speaking of precision, my timing was impeccable to where I totally missed the setup of the chapel. I didn't have to line up any of the 3000 chairs that faced the already-built arbor. I am seeing a disturbing trend that all weddings somehow have manual labor involved in them now. I thought you just showed up, the chairs were set, the Chuppah was built, the food was on the way and the bride and groom don't have to do a damn thing except choose to get a good night's rest. The only fair review time for this wedding would be the magical day in question. No day minus one activities for me. We (The Lovely and I) are there for the mission-critical day at hand.
Mira como estos hombres tratan de crear una foto divertida, sin hacerse daño. Este sábado!
As mentioned in part II, travel always seems to be a necessary evil to partake in weddings unless everyone you know and love is embedded in the same township. So, there's no real reason to complain about something that is inevitable...
...unless it's in Houston.
To carry the same torch of many Dallasites before me, I am going to bang on that city like a kettle drum. I. Hate. Houston. I know it's silly to throw out the word "hate" to a city that has a sub-par football franchise that has the same geographical construct as the metropolitan neighbor to the north. But damn-it-all, I can't stand that town. It consists of 95% roads. Traffic is the official city hobby. Their city flag features two cars bumper to bumper. They shut down AstroWorld because they needed another park and ride (that no one uses). Houston is not Houston unless you are going seven miles an hour on an interstate highway. I hate it.
I know it is completely unfair to judge a wedding based on the city where the event takes place, but Houston is just one big demerit. Besides, it's the point of this exercise is to bash all weddings other than mine. Try to keep up, folks.
After the longest 4 hour drive ever, we hit the hotel and take one big sigh of relief that Houston traffic was not our demise today. Not today, Houston traffic, not today. After a nice hour break of watching my nephew avoid me, it was time to gear up. What's the gear, you ask? Brown tux, pink vest and tie, brown cowboy boots.
Yeah, let's re-examine that. I understand the wedding colors were pink and brown. Okay. But they are real sticklers to the scheme. This concept is lost on me because we didn't have colors at my kickass wedding. Colors for the wedding seems like one of those details that could turn your average, easy-going, reasonable human being into a maniacal, blood-thirsty, hulk-like smashing machine with the strength of 12 evil monkeys.
But the kicker--pun intended--was the elusive chocolate brown cowboy boots. I haven't ridden a horse since I was in Costa Rica (where horses are pretty solid methods of transportation). Even then, I was in my Vibrams. So, cowboy boots aren't vital to my wardrobe. I have a pair of black, soft leather ropers just in case President Perry relinquishes the federal mandate. But now I have to find and purchase brown boots to match the tuxedo? One would not think it would be difficult to find a pair of brown boots in Dallas, but Dallas isn't Fort Worth (thank God or whatever entity separated the two). I would have had an easier time finding an illegal underground unicorn fighting ring. But I found some. They are pretty nice. If ever I could force the excuse to wear them, I think I can try to slip them on once in a while. But damn, I didn't put this much effort into my own wedding.
So, there we were. Three hours early and suiting up for the event in what looked to be a day-care facility within the church. So, here come three photographers that looked like they just got out of a Yearbook layout meeting. "Okay guys, let's go outside." Eight guys in boots and tuxes...brown boots and tuxes...standing in crematorium heat. Blast furnace wouldn't begin to describe the absence of comfort. And I have to stand there in un-broken-in boots and "act like you are talking to each other"? I was talking to all of them before you kicked us out of the air conditioning.
I think what it all boils down to is comfort. Was I comfortable in my tuxedo? No. I am 35 pounds overweight wearing an effed-up cotton-poly blend that wasn't supposed to wrinkle in 102 degree heat. Was I comfortable in my boots. No? I felt like I was about to tip over with the stupid, stupid heels while I am waiting for my Palomino to whisk me away. Was I comfortable in the church? No. For some non-religious reason, they didn't believe in turning the thermostat down another five degrees. Hell, I would have pitched in for the electric bill for the month if that was the case. Was I comfortable at the dessert reception? No. Ceiling to floor panel windows had a western exposure and they had an espresso bar. Fighting heat with heat doesn't work for me.
But three things trumped the whole batch of discomfort. One, my family was there. It's kinda a kick to the pants when you realize you haven't seen your parents in over a year, but that is forgotten the first hug you get from Mama. Second, The Lovely was there. No matter how my feet ached or my sweat streamed or my temperament tested, she was there to catch me or back me up. Three, Jeffery looks genuinely happy. For the first time in a while, the smile is there, the spring of step is bouncing and the wit is sharp as ever. It's amazing how a person emits negative signals when he's down in the dumps. But when there is happiness, you can't keep a good man down. And I blame that on Kristi.
To the happy couple, Houston would have not stopped me from this wonderful occasion. I speak for The Lovely when I say the ceremony was gorgeous and the prettiest flower in the whole bloom was the one walking down the aisle (not you, Jeff). I apologize for ripping on your color schemes, but the luchador masks clashed beautifully with the brown and pink. No disrespect, but my wedding was cooler. Literally, you could have walked outside without thinking you lost all your breath from the heat evaporating it. We are here if you need anything (including a baby sitter if you want to take the drive to Dallas). Good luck to the both of you.
Wedding Blog series disclaimer - if you haven't figured it out by now, I am going to be an a-hole about your wedding because my wedding was the best. See paragraph one again or just don't read my blog.
Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Second wedding in a row where a ring bearer/flower girl completely stole the show. Way to go, August. I hope someone was rolling video on that. What is the saying about working with animals and children?
2) Nobody, and I mean no one, thinks you are cool if you are playing drums on your steering wheel with actual drum sticks while going 80 MPH. Houston drivers are a bunch of jaggoffs.
3) Swallowing your pride and saving 60 bucks on gas is worth it. Three cheers for the Corolla! The FJ is not a road-tripper, just an urban assault vehicle.
Three down. One to go. But there's a lot of other nonsense to get through, such as training in DC, the 24-hour blitz of NYC, the Rahr and Sons brewery tour, the loss of the NFL, an underachieving college football season, TX-OU weekend and my dog's birthday. Summer time/and the livin' is easy. Talk later.