They Say the Germans Love David Hasselhoff … Wait ‘Til they Get A Load of Us!

Most people pick a wedding date, start planning the big day and then pick a honeymoon destination. We, on the other hand, are revolving the wedding around our honeymoon plans to Oktoberfest in Germany. And, well, since Oktoberfest really only happens at one point each year (don’t be fooled by the name – it’s really in September. I’m thinking this naming accident is due to the Germans getting so drunk they pass out and don’t wake up until the next month and don’t really remember exactly which month they started partying in the first place … but I hear there’s like an actual, real reason it’s named that), we sort of have to get married prior to that time.

And so we’re getting married in the summer … in Florida … which is the middle of the busiest part of hurricane season. But, hey, no worries. Hot, sticky, humid rain is good luck for your wedding day, right? (or so it was once said by someone who was super bummed about the stormy weather on their big day). Besides, we’re keeping it all indoors. And, really, who cares if everyone gets soaked on the way out? Not us! You know why? Because we’re going to Oktoberfest – that’s why. And there’s just no arguing with fine German Hefeweizens and lederhosen.

But, of course, like most couples we want to have luxurious accommodations to crash in after binge drinking our way through Bavaria (and seeing the sights too, of course) so we’ve decided to take a nice upscale tour of the region – stay in castles, traverse to the top of the Alps, dine on the most upscale pretzels found anywhere. After all, this IS our honeymoon. But, it’s also just a little expensive. And so I’ve gone into total bargain hunting mode – steadily monitoring plane ticket prices, calling the tour company a few times a week to see if it’s gone on sale yet and generally scouring the interest for any kind of deal at all that I can find. I was so busy with all that I forgot to actually book our hotel for our time after the tour … the time in Munich … you know, the time during while we’ll actually be experiencing Oktoberfest. In other words, I forgot to book the most important part of the trip – the entire reason we’re going to Germany in the first place. And, well, it seems I may have waited a little too long. There is still some – slim – hotel availability. But it don’t come cheap. It seems that people really, really like to drink. And, shockingly, they all like to have a place to lay their heads for the night when they’re done. Who knew?

I guess this just proves that I should go ahead and book the rest of the vacation now before it too goes up in price. But I am stubborn. I will likely search for deals for a few more weeks until plane tickets rise to an unbearable level and then, and only then, will I panic and make the purchase. Ahh – the bargain hunter’s logic! Funny enough, the whole reason we decided to do a tour in the first place was because my husband to be said he wanted something totally easy and stress free that we didn’t have to plan and, therefore, would have all that time to devote to wedding planning instead.

Ah yes … wedding planning … I should really get started on that … sometime. Just let me check Travelocity.com real quick first …

Sweep(stakes) Me Off My Feet

UPDATE: Voting lines now open. Please cast your vote by clicking here.

Problem solved! Earlier this week I was searching for ways to win money for our wedding and, as if I asked for it using techniques learned in “The Secret” (which I haven’t actually read because, of course, the concept that you can merely wish for something and it will come true is one that should only be propagated by children’s fairytales … an perhaps not even then), a solution landed in my e-mail box less than 24 hours later when I got this message:

After losing $100K a few years ago (well, not really “losing it” per se, as it was never mine … but losing it in principle anyway) the fact that this contest would give me that exact sum has got to be more than mere coincidence. Yes, I am implying that, in fact, I am destined to win this money.

Don’t believe me? I don’t know why. You see, I come from a long line of sweepstakes victors (okay, maybe that “long line” really just consists of my mother, but I plan to steadily keep this family line of winning going). What has my mother won, you might ask? Well, just last year Regis & Kelly sent her and my Dad on a trip to Aruba. Before that there was a big-screen tv, washer and dryer, a Ford Mustang, cash and gifts cards of all sorts, stereo systems, furniture, life-size statues of Mike & Sully from the movie “Monsters, Inc.,” other trips – cruises, a week in Hawaii, a lovely tour of San Francisco – just to name a few. And, of course, who could forget that summer she won approximately 63 of the 100 third-place prizes in some sort of sweeps, which resulted in me coming home to find 3-4 kazoos sitting on the doorstep … every single day for a few weeks.

Yet despite my mother’s dedication to entering, and sometimes winning, all number of sweepstakes I have yet to win myself anything more than a poorly-made luggage set and several t-shirts emblazoned with random company logos. But this new contest presents an extra challenge – there’s voting involved … by actual people … and they determine who wins. And that’s where you come in. Or, rather, where you will come in. We need you vote for us. But first we have to film a video and upload it. I’ll try to squeeze it in between filming my stalker-like video entries for HGTV. I can only juggle so many get rich quick schemes at one time.

I’ll keep you posted as to when voting lines open. And please remember – only you can help win me money that I in no way earned. Thank you.

Will Work for Free (Toilets)

This week my Dad was at Home Depot picking up supplies for one of our many ongoing home improvements and, while there, he encountered a film crew taping (by his estimation) one of the “Crashers” programs found on the DIY Network (his guess was that it was “Yard Crashers,” but it could have been any of them really). He then made a terrible, terrible mistake – he didn’t call me. You see, if he had, I would have literally dropped everything, jumped in my jalopy, barreled down the interstate (granted my car maxes out at a top speed of about 70, but still … pedal to the metal) and ran frantically into Home Depot wildly screaming “Please pick me! Pick me!!” On second thought, maybe the fact he didn’t call me was for the best, since I’m sure such crazy antics would not have resulted in the positive results I desire. Still, I can’t help but be more than a little bummed that I missed it. After all, I spend every trip to a home improvement store shouting “Where are you Matt Muenster?” to no avail.

Now, I’ve already told you all my cockamamie schemes for winning money for the wedding, but I’ve got other expenses as well – home improvement being the biggest of all – and I need to save any way I can. Since I can’t just spend my days hoping that some television show will randomly be looking for willing participants on the very same day I visit that store, I also take a more active approach to looking for free home renovation assistance – online stalking. It began the day I found out our offer was accepted on our “new” 1986 home. I opened my internet browser, without any idea as to when we would actually close or move into this place, and went directly to HGTV.com and applied for “Cub Appeal,” begging them to change the baby blue and teal exterior of our home (which looks like an outside shot of any home featured on “The Golden Girls”) to something a little more pleasing on the eyes. As it turns out they are only filming in the San Francisco area right now, so the paint chosen by Sophia, Rose, Dorothy and Blanche is still in place (for now), but my online efforts became a trend – every few weeks I would find a new program looking for rooms to redo and I’d submit an application. And each time I’d beg, plead, beseech them to please, please come fix our master bathroom.

So far I haven’t had any takers, but a new round of applications begins this weekend. We’re making videos this time and I’m hoping our winning on-screen presence seals the deal. And, really, how couldn’t they pick us? In addition to being ridiculously charming, witty, fun and, of course, impossibly gorgeous people, we have what might be the world’s strangest bathroom. And so I submit for your consideration (as well as the producers of HGTV, DIY Network, and I think TLC has some shows too, right?), the mystery that is our personal lavatory.

There is so much I could say about our odd, L-shaped, totally 80s bathroom – stark white tile covers every surface, with a few “classy” floral tile accents thrown in for effect, massive windows turn the whole place into a greenhouse while you’re getting ready in the morning, 360-degree mirrors display all your flaws from every angle, and the only feature of the space that’s been updated, the vanity, was done so poorly, with mismatched woods and lousy assembly all around – but really it’s best done as a pictorial. Here’s our top 5 favorite features:

1. The shower – Where are the controls? How do I operate this thing? Oh wait, are these them in the hideous mauve bathtub? How did they get there? Convenient!

2. The shower (part 2) – Did no one think to enclose this thing? Are we just supposed to pretend like the water won’t go everywhere (including soaking everything on the adjacent towel rack)? I guess I’ll just dry myself with this waterlogged hand towel.

3. The toilet – Doesn’t everyone want their commode to be conveniently located as close as humanly possible to their wide open shower? At least it gives you a great view of the rock garden (see point 5). Plus, extra bonus, anyone looking out the window in the master bedroom can see you sitting on there too. Hello!

4. The OUTDOOR shower … to nowhere – Why shower inside when you can shower outside in the sticky, humid Florida air? Not a bad concept if it connected to the pool, which is located right on the other side of that big solid wall. But as it is you can only access it from the bathroom itself. I guess this shower is just for me to use on days when my master bath shower just won't work (and, as I stated above, it doesn't really work. That means we have two useless showers in our bathroom). Uber practical.

5. The rock garden … in the middle of the bathroom floor – Hand’s down our favorite nonsensical feature of the bathroom. A rock garden … in the middle of the bathroom floor. Just stating it again for effect – No other words really seem to describe this magnificently terrible architectural decision. It just dares me not to fall into it daily.

So, you see, my stalking is totally warranted. No need to issue a DIY restraining order. I mean, even if we had the money to fix all this we wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve got my fingers crossed, my video camera running and my computer at the ready for any new HGTV opportunities that pop up. It can’t be long now! And when Dad suggests that this weekend we should replace the beat up, hollow, brownish faux wood door to the bathroom that doesn’t shut all the way I feel totally justified in saying “no.” I mean, why bother? When the DIY networks come calling, they’ll fix it for free!

I’ll Take “Dessert Toppings” for $1000 Please

Ten years ago, my office (at that time) got a new intern. As was custom, we took the new fella out for a welcome lunch where it quickly became clear that we were not going to be so happy to welcome him to the team after all. He was rude and insulting to his new coworkers in the sort of way that only an arrogant “I’m 20 and already I know soooo much more about the world than you do” wannabe college grad can be. By the time the dessert cart rolled around I could barely stomach the idea of him ruining another delicious morsel for me. And yet, as he went ahead and ordered the cheesecake anyway, I figured “Eh, if I’m stuck here, let me eat cake” and inquired about the available options. When the waiter said that one of the cakes included a chocolate ganache on top we asked for clarification on the meaning of this funny word, ganache (though, to be honest, I was going to order it without explanation – it was chocolate, and it looked yummy). The waiter defined it and the term “ganache” became a commonly-used phrase in our office.

Several years later I flipped on an episode of “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” and who did I see? This very same intern, staring back at me. It was one of those special weeks where you played with a partner, and his was his now-fiancé. I remembered her as the same girl he used to call in Japan on his work phone, racking up obscene phone bills that were charged to the company. Now they were engaged and playing for money for their upcoming wedding. And they won. $100,000 to be exact. And the winning question? Well, the specifics of the wording are a little hazy to me now. But I remember the correct answer. It was “ganache.”

See now, I normally consider myself to be the type of person who can graciously be happy for others without feeling bitter or sorry for myself (not too, too terribly anyway). But, this time, well … I can’t say I felt too pleased for his victory. And now, as I face the giant excel spreadsheet of expenses associated with my own nuptials, I can’t help but feel a certain desire to track down this former intern and demand my cut of his winnings as, clearly, he would have never known that answer were it not for this simple inquiry all those years ago. I mean, come on, he’s no Slumdog Millionaire – he is undeserving and far too lucky – and I want my share!

Or maybe I should take a more healthy approach and focus on winning my own cash. I’m smart, right? No Ken Jennings perhaps. And sure, that computer that kicked Ken Jennings’ butt on “Jeopardy” last week reminded me that I’m not getting an invite into Mensa anytime soon. But, still, I graduated semi-top-ish of my grad school class. That 3.97 GPA has gotta be worth something (and btw, karma, while you’re busy catching up to that jerk intern, why not also take a swing at the one evil professor who dared to give me a mere A-. Thanks). Of course, considering that I work for one major television network and my sister works for another, disqualifying me from applying for anything with prize monies on either of those channels, that really leaves a very small window of prize-based game shows on other networks for me to consider. And while “The Amazing Race” looks right up my ally, if I judge by other couples I’ve seen on that show, I fear that my husband-to-be and I would likely no longer be betrothed by the end of that crazy ordeal. The lotto maybe? Nah, the risk to reward ratio on that seems rather slim. I know – Vegas!

Yes, why didn’t I think of it sooner? The girls and I have planned a trip to Sin City in May. That gives me nearly 3 months to learn how to do something – anything – more than pull down the handle on a penny – or if I’m high rolling, a nickel – slot machine (or, I mean, push that little button on the front of it). Surely 3 months is enough time to read up on craps, watch hours of celebrity poker showdowns on tv and figure out how to count cards Rain Man style (err, scratch that last one. Jail time doesn’t suit me much). This is a brilliant plan, and one that is sure not to fail. Come on baby, mama needs a new pair of shoes … and a dress … and flowers … and a honeymoon … and … and … Shuffle up and deal!

Hot Child in the Suburbs

Apparently today is some sort of holiday. I wouldn’t know this based on my work schedule, but this fact is evident the moment I hop into my car and begin the drive to/from my office. You see, I’m a suburbanite. More importantly, I’m a suburbanite in a city with a main revenue source that relies on tourism. And, more important still, I live in the part of town commonly referred to as “the attractions.”

Now, just to give some perspective, the attractions area stretches all the way from my office in the Stepford Wives-esque manufactured town of Celebration – which is located on the far end of Disney’s sprawling 47-square-mile metropolis that houses 4 theme parks, 2 water parks and so many resorts I long ago lost track (in other words it’s roughly the size of San Francisco, or twice the size of Manhattan, whatever helps you wrap your head around it better) – then passes right through the SeaWorld parks before ending, finally, at the park and resort area that makes up Universal Orlando (and which also happens to be where our house is located). So, as you can see, making the drive from house to work (and back) pretty much takes me through every tourist trap, theme park logjam and “Mom, which way do we go now … I can’t figure out this map … Wait, I think that’s our exit let’s swerve across 4 lanes of traffic right NOW” destination in the Central Florida area.

Surprisingly, it’s normally not so bad to drive through. About 25 minutes on average, sometimes even less. However, every time a holiday weekend, spring break season for northern schools, winter vacation or touching television commercial about spending more time with your family rolls around my daily drive turns into a standstill. Accidents line the interstate and rubberneckers gawk, snap photos and force the rest of us out onto side streets, which are equally plagued with throngs of locals trying (unsuccessfully) to use their back road knowledge of the city to maneuver around it all (they say it’s the locals who actually have most of these accidents, not the tourists, though I think we all can agree that it’s us who crash only because we’re trying to avoid the swerving and weaving and general road chaos caused by them). In total, regardless of which backed-up roadway you pick, holidays like today mean my drive time could be doubled. So when Dad tells me to be home promptly at 6 p.m. and pick up some orange juice from the store on the way (don’t you just love the fact that I’m a grown, 33-year-old woman now has absolutely no relevance to him in relation to his parenting skills?) it’s hard to explain that, in fact, I would have to leave the office quite earlier than is really considered acceptable in order to make this happen.

I’m not complaining though – quite the contrary. In fact, I find people who live in Orlando and complain about the tourists to be annoying. Why not also complain about how hot it is while you’re at it? It cracks me up. It reminds me of those people who live in college towns and then complain about all the dang students everywhere. Sorry, nope, not buying it. You live here by choice, and you knew what you were signing up for when you moved to the second “Happiest Place on Earth.” And yet, there is a whole other side of Orlando that is so far removed from tourists with Mickey ears perched on their heads and clinging onto stuffed Shamus that you would hardly even identify it as part of the same metropolis area. And it is many of the people who live on this side of town – in the downtown Orlando district and outlying suburban areas that stretch out the other, non-attraction based, side of the city – who seem to foster this oddly misplaced disdain for all things “Disney” (they are assuming, of course, that all the theme parks in the region can be lumped into just one conglomerate, regardless of which parent company actually owns each individual attraction).

When the “happiness haters” speak of traveling to “my” part of town you can hear the vehemence for this task in their voice. And, frankly, I can relate because that’s exactly how I feel when I travel to “their” side of town. That nasty holiday traffic I only sometimes have to encounter when driving through the attractions is a daily occurrence for those who drive downtown. And while paying to park at the theme parks gets their blood boiling, I feel the same sense of dread driving in circles downtown looking for a meter, hunting for quarters to feed it and desperately rushing through meals to avoid a ticket when it expires. Oh, and that’s assuming the restaurant you wanted to dine at is even still open. Just because you went there just last week does not mean it will still be open today. Orlando businesses are notorious for failing and shuttering before you even have a chance to check it out. Visiting a friend? That means paying $15 for the privilege of parking in their building’s garage, waiting for the front desk guy to come back from his break so he can buzz you in, being told what types of food & beverage you’re allowed to have by the pool that no one is swimming in but instead lounging coyly around in order to be seen. Or else you could just come to my house, park out front for free, and drink whatever you want as you actually swim in my nice, private, not peed in by small children, pool. Want something to eat? My side of town features the acclaimed “restaurant row” and dozens of award-winning restaurants, many with celebrity chef names attached, at all those “terrible” vacation resorts that true Orlandians (Orlanders? Ummm … Residents of Orlando) hate. They even have those $18 martinis you seem so fond of. And you know they’ll be open – 365 days a year. Plus, did I mention the ample free parking?

I get it – haters gotta hate. But, come on, Orlando is no New York City. And we can’t pretend it’s Miami either. This is not a great cultural hotbed of America. So, lighten up people and embrace what makes this place so fun … or at least funny. Oh, and come visit me in the ‘burbs – it’s pretty great out here.

We’re Off To See The Wizard

Okay, step one is done. We picked out the bar where we’re getting married. Next step – finding a man/woman of the cloth to perform this most holy of ceremonies.

I suppose that for couples who are getting married in an actual church (instead of a watering hole that features wood ransacked from a place that used to be a church), this decision is an easy one, and it’s pretty much predetermined for you. For us it took much more consideration. Sure, we could pick someone from a listing of available non-denominational officiant choices and pay them a small fee to orchestrate this union. And, while there’s nothing really wrong with this option, it just doesn’t feel that personal to me. I mean, what right does someone who doesn’t even know you have to certify your marriage as a valid one? Not to set myself up for scrutiny here, but I rather prefer that the person who marries us has a pretty good idea of how we interact as a couple and is willing to vouch for us. You know, willing to stand up there on the big day and say “Yes, I do agree to join these people in matrimony. I think these crazy kids are really going to make it.”

Thinking about it this way, Groom-A-Saurus Rex and I sat down and considered which person in our life knows us both well and would be willing, nay, excited to perform this ceremony. No, not only perform it, but rock it. With these things in mind we couldn’t think of a better candidate than our friend, Honorable. Alas, there was only one tiny obstacle – He was not in any way authorized to initiate a legally binding contract such as marriage. And yet, you wouldn’t believe how quickly this can be remedied. With just a few simple clicks of the mouse, and one easy payment of $26.99, Universal Life Church bestowed upon Honorable the right to marry us … after devoting a mere 10 minutes of time to this task. Hooray for technology!

With the ability to suit up (or robe up) firmly in his grasp, our friend’s greatest challenge now lies in choosing from the more than 100 “official” titles now available to him, ranging from those I thought were reserved for actual, “real” men of the cloth – such as Reverend, Rabbi, Monk and even Pope – to the trivial and nonsensical – a few of my favorites are Rock Doctor (R.D), Psychic Healer, Sorcerer and Universal Philosopher of Absolute Reality. With so many options, I can see how it would be hard to choose. So far, however, he seems to be leaning towards the title of Wizard. And why not? Wizards have been known to grant wishes (to most everyone except Dorothy), and to have such a great friend up there speaking words of joy, faith and eternity to us as he binds us in our own form of holy matrimony, I’m sure every wish we have for our future is sure to come true. How could we possibly get married by anyone else? To have Honorable’s newly bestowed mystical powers, in conjunction with all the very real reasons we chose him for this duty in the first place, working in our favor – Well, that is a real honor.

And who knows, maybe Honorable will make a side business out of this. He can even read last rites (though hopefully that won’t be a necessary task). Plus, he’s got a handy laminated wallet credential to show to anyone who doubts his authority. And did I mention he also gets a special parking pass (though whether or not it actually prevents him from getting a parking ticket remains to be seen)? With this sort of power, he may never want to disrobe!

Bleep My Dad Does

Dad rolled into town as usual – with little advance notice and no end date given, with only promises that it will be many weeks from now and, of course, with the utter certainty that such a visit doesn’t require permission on my part. When I get home tonight I can expect to see the guest bedroom furniture rearranged in the manner which he likes it, new food products will have taken up residence in my fridge and, if I’m lucky, he’ll cut back on the barrage of “Why don’t you do things this way? The right way?” sort of questioning that has become less frequent, though certainly not yet extinct, additions to his stays.

Not that I don’t love his 1,200-mile drive drop-ins. In fact, I enjoy his company and I love how him taking charge around here means that tons of much-needed home improvement work gets done … though when I came home one day last October to find that my guest bathroom was completely ripped out and discarded as trash onto a tarp in my back yard I have to admit that even a head’s up to prepare me for this would have been appreciated. While, thanks to him, that bathroom is now completely renovated and is, arguably, the most attractive room in our house, I can’t say that it didn’t come without lots of hard work, lost free time and a hefty chunk of change that is now missing from my pocketbook.

That’s why, when he told me that on this visit he planned the same demolished fate for our other guest bathroom, I had to put the brakes on pretty fast. Not that I don’t have the energy for doing that sort of massive overhaul times two, or that we don’t have the desire for this oh-so-attractive Formica and linoleum albatross to meet its overdue demise. We do. We really, really do. What we don’t have, however, is the dough required to put it back together again. Despite the many home improvement shows on the air that tout the simplicity, quickness and relatively low-cost manner of tackling any DIY job in your home, it can be – how shall I put this? – just a little more tricky (not to mention pricey) than a 48-hour home makeover show on HGTV would like you to believe. It takes a lot of clams. Benjamins. Buckaroos. And with a wedding, not to mention an awesome honeymoon, to pay for (in addition to rent, food and all those other silly little living expenses), we just can’t afford it right now. Nonetheless, breaking the news to Dad was hard … on him. You see, he needs an excuse to use our house as his own personal snowbird cottage. Without payment of blood, sweat and curses (never tears – Dad responds to pain in a more angrily verbal manner), how can he justify leaving Mom behind in Michigan for weeks at a time so that he can play golf and enjoy that sunlight the great state of Florida is known for having?

But then a revelation hit him. Or, rather, it hit me – literally. While removing a t-shirt from my poorly constructed closet one morning the entire rack of clothing it was resting upon decided to break free from the wall and land right on top of me. As the closet rack liberated itself from the burden of clothing, I found that this load was now placed squarely on my back as I tried to displace this attire into other closets, all of which seemed in the same unstable condition. Seeing the perfect opportunity to help (and to escape from the cold), Dad constructed a vision for redoing our storage space into a more organized, customized, California Closet-style heaven. A nice complicated, expensive storage unit for all my very valuable Target and Forever 21 treasures. And he wants us to build it. All. From scratch. While I’ve never seen the need for prettying up the one space in your house that other people are least likely to ever see, I did resolve to get organized this year and certainly this is progress.

So, I’m sure I’ll soon come home to find all my unmentionables unceremoniously ransacked and spread out on my bed while Dad has taken up residence in the now-empty closet where he’s knee-deep in spackle, measuring tape and wood samples (and that’s if I don’t get a phone call from my Mom first telling me that I should shop writing this and be thankful for all his hard work). I am Mom. Very thankful. Hand me a paintbrush and I’ll jump onboard. And I’ll try to find a second or two to type out a quick update for you to hear how it’s going.

Consider this the "before" shot of our disaster area.

The Yankees Invade the South

There’s nothing southern about me. Not in speech, style, musical tastes – nothing. Oh sure, growing up in the Detroit area I did consume a decent share of KFC, but even then the strange rock-like “biscuits” that came in the bucket were quickly cast aside in favor of decidedly more northern carbs (I’m not sure what kind of bread is known for being associated with Yankees - Challah maybe? More yeasty breads? Not sure. I’ll get back to you on this one).

Living in Orlando I’ve never really felt too out of place because this is a city of transplants. It’s a city located in the southern portion of the country, but the variety of accents and backgrounds found here cross a wide spectrum of regions. It’s actually when I head a little north to such states as Alabama and Mississippi that I feel like I just stepped into a scene from “Gone with the Wind.” And it’s suddenly obvious that I’m no Scarlett O’Hara. I don’t find a rebel flag to be in any way patriotic, nor do I find vernacular such as “fixin’” and “y’all” to be quaint, nor does a rundown barn turned “rustic” bed and breakfast strike me as anything close to charming. I am a city girl. A northerner. And I just don’t get it. So, no offense, but when in the presence of thick southern twangs and pick-up trucks blaring country music I will, most likely, turn on my heels (which have never seen the inside of cowboy boot) and march swiftly in the other, above the Mason/Dixon line, direction. For that, clearly, is where I feel like I belong.

Nonetheless, this past weekend GAR and I took a trip up to the very southern, quaint and charming town of Savannah, Ga. We had a fabulous time, but we did notice one interesting thing – when asking for advice on what to do in this historical town we were uniformly given the same list of restaurants to try by every person we know. In other words, the only thing anyone could think of to do in Georgia was to eat. While normally I am all too willing to climb aboard this train, what complicates the matter is that most southern restaurants, almost without exception, prepare nothing – and I mean nothing – for a vegetarian such as myself to consume. Even the salads, soups and vegetables contain meat. Green beans with bacon. Vegetable and bacon soup. Bacon bits and ham and pulled pork on leafy greens. Are southerners born with an intolerance for consuming anything that didn’t come from a pig?

I’m sure that my lack of desire to consume the flesh of another living creature would be considered wholly un-American of me by some, so to avoid the shame and embarrassment that comes along with my mamby pamby diet (as well as to avoid an empty stomach) I signed the mister and I up for a cooking class instead – a southern cooking class at that! I figure I have no right to turn my nose up at grits, collard greens and assorted gravy products until I've learned the right way to prepare them and give them a fair and decent shot at making me love them.

And it was a success! Mostly anyway. The black-eyed pea salad we made (surprisingly sans bacon or Fergie) was really quite yummy. And biscuits? I can almost see myself enjoying them now (the trick is putting great, heaping, unhealthy amounts of cheese and ranch dressing mix in the batter … as well as lots and lots and lots of butter on top). But grits? Well, there are some things even a Yankee turned southern cooking apprentice just can’t begin to understand. And all the cheese and butter on the planet can’t make my (now much expanded) stomach appreciate this bizarrely textured and completely tasteless culinary creation.

Here's a shot of GAR stirring the aforementioned flavorless grits.

Here I am learning to love (and scoop out) biscuits.

I forgot to get a photo of the food "before," but here it is "after" we devoured it.

Hus-Banned

Groom-A-Saurus Rex here! But please, call me GAR for short. After all this is a medium that, in and of itself, brings us closer together. Let’s slide away from that formal “usted” over to a comfy “tú”. Anyway, I thought I’d hijack (with permission of course) a moment of my love’s blog. Here is my disclaimer: Groom-A-Saurus Rex can in no way promise that what you are about to venture into will be as well-written, -thought-out and/or as witty as your very own Hard Hat Bride. However, GAR can promise that you will absolutely without a doubt experience words on a computer screen.

So, I’m very excited about our upcoming nuptials. Just the thought of it makes me giddy about our life, our wedding day and “I dos!” and of course the planning. The planning you say? Could it be? A groom that is actually excited to be involved in this part of the journey? I certainly did not think I was the only one with this sentiment. That is, until I threw some wheels on this excitement and rode around with my bride-to-be.

Now, I get it, I truly do. I’ve seen movies, television shows, commercials, and even the accidental novella on Univision while flipping through channels. Everything “wedding” is designed for the bride-to-be. What I didn’t realize was that the very same population would also define your very own GAR as … well … nothing, absolutely nothing. I honestly think that most places do not know what to do with me. So what if I haven’t dreamed about how this day would look since I was a wee child. What’s it to you that I don’t own a scrapbook filled with textiles, calligraphy samples, venues, menus, plate settings, napkins, vows, colors, accent colors, colors to accent the accent colors, and … well you get the point. Honestly, is there anything more selfish than to look at the one you are about to marry and say, “Listen, I really appreciate the whole spending the rest our lives together thing, but I think this partnership stuff should begin after the wedding cause … I’ve got this”. I guess the message to stores, vendors, families and friends here is that celebrating a union usually includes two people.

I could rivet you with stories of everything that has happened so far, but sometimes a taste is better. Here is my top 3 list of, “Really??" (please don't sue me Seth Meyers, though I believe I made this up first along with that SNL sketch with Parnell and Katan where they act out song lyrics as a dance)

#3: “Look at me Look at me!” 10 minutes talking to a vendor we are super excited to meet. Great! Right? Maybe, if this vendor even bothered to acknowledge me. He did once when I posed a question. Granted, he fielded the question wonderfully … just not to me. It was a weird sensation to have no acknowledgement, but something I would soon get used to experiencing … repeatedly.
**Um, but, don’t you see me standing right next to her? Really??

#2: “It’s all about the bride.” I now cringe every time I hear this phrase. My recommendation? If you would like to hear this over and over again go to a bridal show and give an opinion. The look of scorn and detestation I was met with as a “meddling groom” is now permanently etched in my brain. Sometimes they’ll try to cover up their disdain by throwing in a giggle and a wink. Luckily my bride-to-be that has the same cringing reaction I do.
**So, you assume I don’t care about our wedding day too? Really??

#3: “Can you please direct me to the nearest men’s room?” Shopping with the bride for a wedding dress is something that I wouldn’t necessarily expect everyone to be on board with. You know those people that think that weddings still take place in the 1930’s. Let’s call them the Traditionals and it’s not just vendors. I’ve heard little comments here and there, but I’ll keep what I think of those people to myself to protect their self-esteem AND I digress. So we went to this bridal dress shop where the assistant wasn’t a Traditional (she was quite nice), but the store was. I needed to use the little boys’ room and thought to myself, “Hey, I’m the only guy in here. They must have the cleanest men’s room around”. To my chagrin, they had no men’s room at all. I had to place my hand over the “Wo” just to feel comfortable walking in there.
**So the bathroom sign that only says “women” was cheaper? Really?? You know “unisex” has the same number of letters.

Now, I’ve experienced marginalization due to age, minority status, etc. You know, all the big ones. But as a groom? I did not expect this. Regardless, I’m going to continue to be a part of our day because I love our life and I love my wife (to be). So I would like to make a motion to lift the ban, remove the shackles, and move that Ghostbuster’s symbol that rests all-too-comfortably on top of the idea that grooms should not have meaningful opinions between the engagement and the big show. So no more “Hus-Banned”. Let’s alter that to “Hus-It’s so wonderful that you’re sharing this experience with your partner”. What? I told you I couldn’t promise wittiness.

Fighting for Our Right … to PARTY

I’m no expert event planner, but I have been to enough parties to understand that having a theme is everything. I mean, which party sounds more fun to you?

• Party at Steve’s house on Saturday night. Bring snacks.
• Tiki Bash at Steve’s house on Saturday night. Slap on a coconut bra, don’t forget your grass skirt and work on your moves for the hula contest.

No brainer, right? But, I think there’s something about the traditions and the “seriousness” that people have long associated with weddings that prevents many people from really cutting loose and celebrating in a big, blowout sort of way like this. More often than not, the weddings I’ve attended have been “wedding” themed weddings. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say they’re “romance/love” themed weddings, which is pretty much the same thing. The best are the “look how much money we have” themed weddings, but those are harder find (or else I just don’t run in the right circle). While these events are fun, and couples always find their own creative ways to showcase their personal style, I find it all too subtle for my taste. I mean, if I’m throwing a party – the biggest party of my whole adult life – it’s going to be a paaarrrtaayyy!!

I don’t recall Groom-A-Saurus Rex and I ever having an actual discussion about if there would be a theme for our wedding. Nor did we have any formal sit-downs where we said what that theme would be. From day one of our engagement we both just knew – our wedding is going to be rockin’!

There’s nothing subdued about a rock and roll theme, nor should there be. It should be loud and in your face from the first second until the last. And we can't wait to party on!

Keep It Classy Orlando

The search is over! Groom-A-Saurus Rex and I finally found a venue willing to host our nuptials (for only a very large fee) – Ceviche in downtown Orlando.

Ceviche is a Spanish-style tapas bar with gorgeous private event space upstairs. But, of course, we opted to get married in the bar. Mom will be so, so proud! Okay, I know what you’re thinking – a bar? What kind of wedding is this? Well, an awesome one, of course. But, also I feel it’s important to point out that this bar is much, much classier than what it used to be in the 1800s. You know, back when it was a brothel.

If you think about it, getting married in a bar seems a lot more respectful than getting married in a brothel. Perfect logic there. And, if you need more justification than that, I’ll also point out that the wood in this bar was brought in from an old church in New Orleans. So, really, this is a church wedding. And it’s located on Church STREET! See, totally holy.

One little problem though – the church the wood came from kinda burned down and, rumor has it, the ghost of a priest who hung himself in that chapel still haunts this venue. I don’t mind much, but I’ll be really peeved if an uninvited ghostly guest hogs a spot in any of the wedding photos.

Here's a few shots we snapped on a recent visit. Great set of stairs to the reception - nothing creepy about them at all.

And this is the upstairs bar for the reception. No silly, this isn't the bar where we're getting hitched - don't be crazy! That bar is downstairs and is clearly a much more sophisticated drinking establishment.

Wait... What's this? Whoa - check out that orb in this mirror. Might this be proof of the ghostly priest? Spooky!

On Being A Land Baron

Last year the future Hubby and I embarked on the adventure of purchasing a home together. And, trust me, the word “adventure” perfectly describes this endeavor so far. And while I shall soon regale you with many fine stories about our life in the new house, today’s topic is about what happened to the old house – you know, the place I lived prior to our current abode.

Oh yes, one might wonder, what does one do with their existing home when they purchase new digs in a down market? The choices are tough when the prospect of selling means losing a large portion of what you’ve foolishly already sunk into the place. In my case I opted to rent the place. And why not? While watching a production of “Rent” I fully sympathized with the landlord character – I mean, why won’t these deadbeats get a job and pay their rent? Why should they be allowed to impose their financial irresponsibility upon a decent man? Certain that the more humanitarian beliefs I held as a mere 20-something were now a thing of the past I decided I would make a very capable landlord – nay, land BARON – myself.

So I did what any land baron looking for renters would do – I sought out the help of my friend Craig and his online listing service. To be honest, I never knew of anyone who used Craig’s List to find anything other than perhaps a one-night love affair, “massage” services, black market pit bull puppies, or for enlisting those of below average intelligence to join in their pyramid scheme. Still this seemed like the perfect place to find responsible, intelligent, employed tenants. Shockingly, I was wrong.

But, okay, I did find great tenants eventually (just not via Craig), and despite some hectic maneuvers involving us moving out and them moving in on the same day we somehow managed to (as Tim Gunn would say) make it work. I wrote up their contract using ones I found online, but I did reword them a little (they seemed a little too harsh, even for a tough, bad ass landlord like myself). Charging them $50 every day their rent was late? Surely I could give them until the 3rd of the month without penalty… or the 5th… okay, how about the 10th? And any objections they stated I, of course, removed them from the contract completely. After all, I wouldn’t want to make my new homeowners feel the least bit uncomfortable.

When I received their first few months’ rent promptly on time (or maybe just a little, little late) I sent them long, gushing e-mails to thank them for how timely they were in paying (it only seemed like the appropriate land baron thing to do), and when I got the note from the HOA stating that they hadn’t watered the lawn in months and I was going to be charged for new sod I, of course, wasn’t too harsh on them. After all, I never really taught them how to use the automatic sprinkler system in the first place. Surely this was my fault, how could I dare blame them?

Yes sir, I am dominating this whole land baron thing. I am kicking butt and taking names! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to write them now and tell them that if they stay on just a little longer I’d be willing to lower their rent (it only seems right).

Puppy Love

If it weren’t for my impending nuptials I believe that people would start calling me “the crazy dog lady.” Well, people probably call me that anyway, but somehow cohabitating with another human (preferably in a romantic context) somewhat legitimizes your supposed normalcy. I guess the logic is that if someone who walks on two legs doesn’t think you’re too crazy to live with, then surely you haven’t sunk completely into the lifestyle the likes of which one might witness on the program “Pet Hoarders.”

Yes, I do have non-canine friends. But, to say that I am obsessed with my dogs and consider them the same as children (much to the disgusted chagrin of those who have actual offspring) would be an accurate assessment of my life. I think what makes the matter worse is the fact that I don’t eat meat. Somehow being a vegetarian who is often known to buy cute little outfits for tiny powderpuff-like dogs and posts endless photos of this type of behavior on Facebook tends to cause people to make judgment calls about you as a person.

Do I love animals? Sure. But let’s not over generalize here. Really it’s just dogs. No, it’s MY dogs. Other pooches may or may not be considered adorable in my estimation. And cats, for example, are a creature that I just don't get. They come off as aloof, claw up your furniture and poop in your house. My feelings are the same for iguanas. Or snakes. Or goldfish. Or hamsters. That said, even if I don't "get" your choice of pet, I'll still refrain from eating them. I'm pretty nice like that.

Wait, what's that? You want to see even MORE pictures of my doggies? I think I have some right here. Enjoy ;)

Dressed For … Nasty Looks Apparently

My future husband is very involved in the wedding planning. So much so that I call him Groomzilla (he, however, prefers the term “Groom-A-Saurus Rex”). Regardless of which beast you use as his moniker, I’m loving it. After all, isn’t marriage a partnership? Why wouldn’t you want your significant other to partner with you on the planning of the wedding as well? But, not everyone sees it this way.

Oh sure, it’s all well and good when we’re at home flipping through bridal magazines and watching a “Say Yes to the Dress” marathon on TLC (he says it’s important to watch so that I’ll get some ideas, but we both know the truth), but when you actually bring the groom dress shopping with you the sales clerks tend to bristle. I guess it really must be a rarity though – most of these places did not even offer a men’s restroom, just a women’s.

As far as I know, no couple has ever experienced “bad luck” from seeing each other in their wedding attire before the big day. And I certainly know couples who have cautiously avoided seeing each other beforehand who are now very much divorced. So, what’s with the sticklers and their outdated superstitions?

I have a hunch that half of the stress involved in wedding planning stems from all these little pointless traditions. Brides spending hours on calligraphy for two whole layers of invitation envelopes (why are there two levels of envelope?) that people rip open and immediately discard. The desperate hunt for items that are old, new, borrowed and/or blue. Endless debates over what eco-friendly, non-toxic, attractive item can be tossed at them as they exit their wedding. And obsessive tribulations over whether your groom will like the dress you picked as you drag your friends from store to store to try on everything in a 200-mile radius and furtively show photos to your betrothed in an attempt to get a hint as to what he likes.

Or he could just come along with you when you go shopping. Mystery solved! Crisis averted! But, by the reaction we’ve gotten, I have to say that America isn’t ready yet for our sort of “progressive” attitude on kicking these antiquated traditions to the curb. After all, everyone else in America still follows all the old wedding traditions – brides who wear white are always virgins, dowries are promptly given in exchange for taking daughters off of their father’s hands (after all, it was the parents who were responsible for arranging for their children to be married to each other), a couple would never dream of cohabitating prior to marriage, and vows are exclusively “’til death do us part.”

Yes, I can see how us seeing each other’s clothing before the big day is a tradition that should absolutely not be broken. That would totally undermine the whole institution of marriage!