Happy -1 Year Anniversary, To Us

One year from yesterday, I will wake up and shower for a long time and talk anxiously on a cell phone a lot and hail a cab and marry this chick and drink no more than three of these and hug various people whom I enjoy hanging out with.

Our wedding date is one year from yesterday, which means yesterday was our minus-one-year anniversary, and that means we expect gifts. Please.

This also means this blog will be over in a year! Get it while you can! Bookmark! Sign up for the email alerts! Tattoo the URL to your skull and hang out at coffee shops where people use laptops!

Also, with the gifts. Please.

Presidential Candidates Love Hamburgers, Weddings & Other Asssorted Non-Controversial Things

Wow I wish it was a presidential candidate who dipped his hand under a bathroom stall for a little pre-flight high school handy and not a senator I've never heard of. That would have been so much more interesting.

Instead, we're left with this, a bizarre compendium of presidential candidates' wedding stories. A new site, bridesdecide.com, seems to be suggest that the wedding industrial complex in this country has grown so potent that American brides have been rendered unable to choose a candidate on anything other than whether he (or she) had the good tulips or the shitty tulips as the centerpieces at their wedding reception.

In any case, the site does offer some fascinating tidbits about presidential candidates that make me wonder why single people are essentially excluded from being president because of the perception that they're family unfriendly or possibly gay. I want a single candidate! But I digress. Some highlights from the site:

• There were 15 guests at Bill & Hillary's wedding, but "hundreds" at the reception, which makes no sense at all. I call bullshit.

• Dennis Kucinich, 59 years old and 4'7" in the morning, recently married a 28-year-old Briton. He proposed two days before the wedding, and yet still pulled off a vegan, alcohol-free reception with 350 guests. He even wore a tux with tails and the bridesmaids had matching dresses and flowers. IN TWO DAYS HE DID THIS. Make this man commander-in-chief, stat.

• The following is listed as Mike Huckabee's favorite wedding memory: "We took photos before the ceremony and I was just starving. So Janet's mother cooked a hamburger for me and I ate it in between photos." It would later come as no shocker to the mother-in-law when Huckabee ballooned to 300 pounds, busted a 100-year-old chair in the Arkansas state capitol (that's true), then dropped the weight and went on a weight-loss "crusade."
  

Cat's In The Cradle & The Silver Spoon

When my son eats his own boogers, will I go on the Google machine and look up "boy bugger mouth swallow"? When my daughter steals my midlife-crisis 2025 Toyota Celica and sells it for heroin money, will I spray her in the face with a water bottle? When the twins climb the fridge and send a shit-ton of bottles crashing to the floor into tiny little glass pieces, and the babysitter calls me at a wedding to notify me, will I laugh it off with the wifey and go back to the bar?

These are my questions. We've returned from vacation and we've determined that Shmelvis, our cat, has some sort of mental disorder that compels him to bite, which compels me to lose my shit, which compels him to look cute, which compels him to bite again. We spent much of our vacation in the company of fatter, cooler cats, and we've returned to find our adorable little wackjob salivating for our blood.

What concerns me most, however, is the way I've handled this so far. I've Googled "cat bites" enough times to get many odd pictures that are NOT safe for the workplace. I've sprayed him in the face with various effeminately-colored water bottles. I've quietly smiled when he gets scared -- breaking glass, for example -- because "maybe this time he'll learn."

What's wrong with me? Is web-surfing, corporal punishment and schadenfreude going to be my style of parenting? And if so, will that prevent my kids from being successful -- or at least good at sports?

We Went To A Doughnut Shop And All We Got Was This Lousy Wedding License

Dear Mom, Dad, David & Ilene,

Deborah and I almost got married the other night at a downtown Portland, Ore., punk-rock doughnut shop. After I had a few "mystery shots" at another establishment and Deborah drank half of a beer, we visited the greatest thing to happen to doughnuts since the Krispy Kreme original glazed.

First, a bit about Voodoo Doughnuts. There's the "Tex-Ass" (see picture), a massive of doughy heaven larger than your face (if you eat it in 90 seconds the doughnut is free), and the "cock-n-balls," an oddly-shaped "bachelorette party favorite" that is "triple-cream filled" and comes in a pink box. Unfortunately, the Portland Health Department has forbidden Voodoo Doughnuts from continuing to sell the NyQuil-creme Pepto-Bismol-glazed doughnut, but Swahili lessons on Sundays and weddings by an ordained minister are still offered.

Our friends, Steve and Jenene, generously offered to pay part of the $175 for the official wedding (which comes with coffee and doughnuts for 10) or the $25 for the watered-down "commitment ceremony." Unfortunately, when Deborah asked about doing the deed, we were told that weddings "require appointments," which absolutely takes the point away from getting married at a doughnut shop in the first place. So the bottom line: Next year's wedding is still on!

Love,
Matt

Happy Conception Day!

I take a moment before we leave for a West Coast vacation to bring you this....

The Russian government, in an effort to appear even creepier than normal, has instituted a Conception Day, where people are given a day off of work so they can stay home and do the dance of love with their spouses. The point is to rebuild Russia's dwindling population and, presumably, instigate a new Cold War 20 years from now with a country full of crazy-eyed Ivan Dragos.

A few things. First, I had no idea that married people actually had sex during the day. Second, can't Russia just do an oil-for-baby deal with China, which has so many kids that it actually fines couples and sterilizes mothers for having more than one child?

In any case, Sept. 12 is the big day. The hope is that the babies conceived on 9/12 are born on 6/12, Russian Patriot Day. If they are, lucky parents can win prizes from the government, including SUVs, refrigerators and a half-bottle of vodka with a pack of smokes. (The prizes part is true; the vodka part is not...as far as we know).

But I'm really curious about what happens when you return to work Sept. 13. You know how after Labor Day your colleagues ask, "How was your Labor Day?" But is it sexual harassment to ask a female colleague about her Conception Day? Is it okay to say, "How fruitful/passionate/boring was your Conception Day?" Free pack of smokes to the commenter with the best post-Conception Day greeting.

If I'm Found With A Bullet To the Head, You Know Who To Question

I have to thank my now happily married ex-imaginary girlfriend for finding this gem of a chartcile on Court TV's web site. Apparently, "uxoricide" (wife-killing) and "mariticide" (husband-killing) are the most common forms of...wait for it...muuuuurder.

According to Court TV, America's No. 1 source for non-sensational news, cops always suspect the spouse first. Most murder-suicides involve a spouse, ex-spouse or common law spouse (I've got one of the common laws right now ). And there have been more than 40,000 spousal murders since I was born. You know your marriage has gone horribly wrong when you wake up on a Sunday morning with your hands pinned down, a .9-millimeter in your mouth and a forged suicide note on the bedside table. Damn, you think, did I forget to load the dishwasher again?

The only reason I could think of that would force Deborah to kill me is that I spend a lot of time in the evenings with my other love, the internets. My love affair is, as you can imagine, frustrating for someone who thinks it's overkill to spend all day online and then come home and spend all night online. I'm trying to get to the end of the internets, I say. But she doesn't buy it.

And that's why...wait, what's that noise?!? Ahhh!!!! Baby, no!!!!

381 Days To Our Wedding: Let The Nightmares Begin!

Like most nightmares, the memories of this one quickly escaped from my skull as I regained consciousness. But I do know we were getting married in San Francisco (we’re not), and there was incredible drama at the airport in terms of missed flights, missed connections, missed luggage, etc. Pretty standard.
Then, my buddy Jake asked me if I had asked Deborah’s brothers permission to marry her. Oh shit, I thought. I can't believe I didn't clear this whole thing with her brothers, because clearly that's what you're supposed to do.
So when her brother Jon picked me up at the airport (unclear why Deborah wasn’t also in the car since we were, after all, going to get married), I decided to ask the big question: I love your sis, she’s dope, how would you feel about me marrying her, awkward-awkward-awkward, etc.
Maybe it was a weird question, maybe asking permission the day before a wedding is an empty gesture, or maybe he hates me. Either way, Jon said this:
“Do whatever the hell you want, man.”
That, as you can imagine, made the rest of the car ride silent and uncomfortable.
Cut to moments before the wedding, and I’m bawling my eyes out because of (choose your own: lack of brotherly approval? social anxiety? onions that I had cut up for the caterer to save a few bucks on staffing costs?). This wedding weekend was going terribly, and I was all busted up about it.
But it would soon get worse. For some reason, the chairman of the Republican National Committee scored an invitation to our wedding, and during the ketubah signing I interrogated him about Bush’s plans for Iran.
“We’re attacking on Thursday,” he said. “Guaranteed we’re bombing them before the end of the week.”
And then I really started crying.
Worst. Wedding. Ever…I’ve. Got. Issues.

Talking Smack: Flirting, or Unhealthy, Misogynistic, Psychologically Screwed-Up Male Behavior?

This is what my soul mate said about me to a group of friends Friday night as we left to walk through an area of Philly that is occasionally shady: "I mean, c'mon, just LOOK at this guy. Who wouldn't mug him?"
Ouch.
And this is what I said Saturday night after Deborah mistakenly told the usher at the movie theater that her ticket said Seat 8, not Seat 13:
"Sorry about that, sir. She's still learning her numbers."
Oooooooh, snap.
Deborah and I have always viewed shit-talking as centrally important to our relationship, because it's the only way we know how to flirt. We are, indeed, 9 years old.
But apparently, this is now a big problem. According to a study that this guy published in the Journal of Personality and Individual Differences, men insult their partners as an unhealthy, negative way of trying to hold onto them.
But why do women do it? They haven't studied that yet, but you just know it's gonna end up being our fault. So I'd like to formally apologize in advance. We won't let it happen again.

ALERT: I Might Wear A Kilt

It has come to my attention that my mom has had discussions with some folks who asked about dress code at the wedding. This is interesting to me for a number of reasons. First, the wedding is more than a year away. This is no time to worry about clothing, people. You should be spending all of your time thinking about our gift.

Second, the wedding is more than a year away – I really don’t think I can emphasize that point enough.

So here’s the deal: I will wear jean shorts over red underoos, sans shirt, possible bowtie. Either that or a linen suit. Men, you must wear underoos and jean shorts, too, but they cannot be more fabulous than mine. Ladies, I guarantee you the bride will steal the show -- despite the fact that so far, she has been against wearing a white wedding dress. (Then again for a long time she was dead-set against sitting next to me on the same couch, so we’ll see what happens.)

Feminity & Me

I knew my baby skin, diminutive stature, paper-thin wrists, size 29.5 waist and inability to grow hair anywhere on my body except a 1/2-centimeter diameter on my left cheek wasn't all bad. It turns out that guys like me, who look as if they collapse during heavy wind gusts, are more passionate lovers!

OK, I made that up. According to a new study from England, "feminine guys" are just more committed in relationships. That means if women ignore our physical characteristics, we will pay them back by ignoring other women forever. Not a bad deal.

You Know You Love Computers Too Much When...

I like computers better than actual human interaction just as much as the next guy. And that's why I'm trying to liveblog my engagement, even though I don't know what liveblogging means.

But this dude is so much more nerdified and Web 2.0 than I could ever dream of being. A few days ago he set up a wifi connection in the delivery room while his wife was giving birth to their second child. He liveblogged the whole damn birth and posted it online so people he has never met could follow along at home through updates like "Epideral done. Wife very happy. 06:57 PM August 02, 2007" and " Wife is having a nice chat with the nurse...BFF. 05:18 PM August 02, 2007."

Alternatively, you could also watch hours of footage from the birth (see above), check out posted pictures, or just tell me to get a life and stop looking at this shit on the Internet at 12:38 in the morning.

84% Chance Of Divorce

In the spirit of the new poll feature on this page (see to your left), I decided to check how Deborah and I are polling out there on the interweb. According to 1,243 (bitter) voters who have looked at our picture and read the blurb about us on WeddingBetting.com, we have an 84 percent chance of divorce and our marriage will last 15 months -- a period of time that will actually be shorter than our entire engagement.

Meanwhile, skeezeball degenerate over here gets 4.8 years with just a 73 percent chance of divorce. Just another reason why democracy is overrated.

Hire A DJ, Get A Mortgage

Mi madre, bless her Corazon, suggested a wedding DJ for us, apparently because she doesn’t like the idea of connecting my iPod to computer speakers and hitting shuffle.

Steve & Company call themselves the "knights of music," and I have no reason to doubt them...except I do. One of Steve's offered services -- along with playing at Bar Mitzvahs and weddings -- is selling mortgages. I guess it makes sense that married couples would naturally become first-time home buyers, but do I want my DJ handling my mortgage? It's not like I want a wedding photographer to cut the umbilical cord on my first born, ya know what I mean Steve-o?

Meanwhile, my future mother-in-law also got a good recommendation for a DJ who offers something even better than sub-prime mortgages that will eventually contribute to the downfall of the economy. East Coast Event Group will set up a customized gameshow for guests. They're covering their bases, because if no one likes the music there’s a back-up plan to make sure people stick around for the cake. Brilliant!

It would make too much sense to follow real people's recommendations for wedding music, so Deborah and I are leaning toward a DJ who we heard spinning at a bowling alley Friday night. A recovering Phish-head who plays Philly scenester parties, DJ Frosty mixes tablas with funked-out beats on his MySpace page, where he lists like 100 people listed as influences—from Stevie Wonder to Ween to Wu Tang to the B-O-B. I asked him if he does weddings, and he said not anymore, but since he’s broke now he’ll do anything. I’m digging the bowling-themed starving artist bit, Frosty. Let’s talk.

The Horah: Worth Waiting For

A few centuries ago some Romanian Jews rocked out to the "Let's Get This Party Started" jam of their generation -- the Horah. Since then, while the Sabbath and keeping Kosher and atoning for sins on Yom Kippur are traditions that Jewish Americans have let fall by the goyside, the traditional dance of the Jewish wedding has sustained in drunken, revelrous, uncoordinated fashion. Jews: Not so much with the having of the coordination, nor with the holding of the liquor.

The "Horah," loosely translated as "circle dance with hand-holding," is in reality a full-body experience that involves dancing, jumping, tossing the mother-in-law around in a folding chair and losing your cell phone under Aunt Sydelle. In other words, it is absolutely awesome, and I cannot think about anything else at this point.

Do I give a shit if there's veal at the wedding? Thank you for asking; no I do not. All I care about is that the DJ keeps the Horah music going until A) The dance has lasted longer than it did at the wedding for my friends Sarah and Steve, who set a American Horah record, and B) My best man’s pants split down the crack.

As of now, the Horah is the only thing I am looking forward to at the wedding. All of us, including the wife-to-be, hope my interests expand soon enough. But for now, I can't wait to get in that chair.