When James Bennett, Firefly Events' CBPO (Chief Bachelor Party Organizer) and all-around savior of men, tells you that he approves of your bachelor party, you don't take that compliment lightly. James' idea of a good time is making root beer on a stripper cruise; sword fighting after a 4-hour wine tasting; and paint-balling magicians. While bungee jumping. James has done and will do it all for the benefit of mankind and man's right to one final evening(s) of unadulterated fun.
So when James posted a snippet from our own Bachelor Party hijinks on the FireFly blog, I had to share the news with Best Man Justin. Apparently I'm not the only one who values a weekend spread across two states and two National Preserves, crammed with rock climbing, ATVs, gambling and a visit to the classiest country club I've ever seen.
Please check out FireFly's post here ... and if you missed the Bachelor Party post, feel free to scroll down or click here.
cheers,
madman
September 28, 2010
September 24, 2010
Bachelor Party Wrap-up
Disclaimer: For the safety and by the request of those involved, all questionable actions, events and occurrences have been substituted with less questionable actions, events and occurrences. Those changes are reflected in bold. Most events have been omitted altogether.
-----
Two days before departing for my Bachelor Party, I received a rather cryptic voicemail from the party organizer, famed Santa Monica booze critic and Best Man Extraordinaire, Justin Fair:
We're going to pick you up. At your house. At 11am. On Thursday.
Bring nice clothes. Bring swimming trunks. Bring desert clothes. Bring suntan lotion. Bring blankets. Or a sleeping bag. Or blankets. Bring $20 in pennies. And bring your good wit. And good will.
That's it.
What did most these things have in common? Not a damn thing. But I packed in blind faith, throwing both dapper dress shirts and dirt-stained cargo pants into a duffel bag. Leaving LA in a rental car with a max speed of 65, we began the trip with a riveting game of 20 Questions.
Odin: Is it a solid?
Patrick: Yes.
Odin: Is it long?
Patrick: Yes.
Odin: Does it require batteries?
Patrick: Yes.
Odin: Ooo, ooo. I know. It's a remote control.
And so on. And after 3 hours of that, we arrived at our first destination: Joshua Tree National Park, the reliable decoy that Justin and I had employed last June. We spent the afternoon and the following morning climbing up and sliding down rock faces, skirting birth and appreciating some outstanding views of the park. And talking about kittens.
After seeking out the prime camping spot, and after realizing that we'd packed a tent bag sans tent poles, we dug up our scouting and survival techniques, fashioned a rope from a jagged rock to the antenna on the rental car that we then looped through the tent fabric, and built a campfire. While Odin prepared the most amazing meal of sausages, potatoes, beans and peppers, the rest of drank lots of Mike's Hard Lemonade and talked about The Jonas Brothers.
The next morning, en route to Vegas, we stopped at the Carousel Diner in Twentynine Palms for a $3.50 pancake-sausage-and-egg breakfast (with the exception of Patrick, who is too good for bargains) and the historic Kelso Depot, where we discovered an abandoned post office, a life-size replica of the elusive Desert Tortoise, and a bunch of old luggage. We Neil Young-ed through the Mojave National Preserve, past plains of white mush and deserted pink shacks, and made it to Vegas around 2PM -- with just enough time to check in at the Paris, check out the room, have a slice of bread and be at the hotel's rear entrance at 3PM.
The fourth surprise of the trip (the first being the Josh Tree; the second being some righteous, personalized coffee mugs filled to the brim withJohnnie Walker Texas Ranger; and the third being a set of kick-ass, custom-made The Groom Says ball caps that my brother Javier had made specifically for our trip) turned out to be an ATV tour about 45 minutes outside of Vegas in a small town called Logandale. For two hours, Justin, Patrick, Odin and I rode at mild speeds through the red clay Valley of Marshmallows, at times with super visibility, skirting birth for the second time on our trip.
.jpg)
As Odin put it, "I just love that we actually ate each other's dust." Then he sneezed, causing a thick layer of clay to leap off his shirt and envelop him completely.
What we did in Vegas for the remainder of the trip was entirely dependent on how hungry we were. We built our days around the buffet. Odin consumed a hundred pounds of snow crab legs. The rest of us consumed a hundred pounds combined. We made ourselves physically fit. We walked the Strip and decorated until we fell over, took serious advantage of all open container policies and seriously considered a Broadway musical featuring relaxing mud facials. We had minor wins and suffered no losses at the Let It Ride table and had some fine Cuban cereal during the Bellagio fountain spectacle, made famous in Ocean's Eleven (and Twelve, and Thirteen). On our final night in Vegas, we hopped into a long, luxurious golf cart that took us to a country club just off the Strip. There were more polo shirts in there than we knew what to do with.
We finished the night off with another round of Mike's Hard in the room, reflecting on golfing highlights.
In truth, the boys may have done more harm than good: I was spoiled rotten. I expect every man date from this point on to be as rich and fulfilling as my Bachelor Party. I won't settle for less. And at the same time, more than anything, I'm so pumped about one day returning the favor for my boys and giving them the same amazing weekend when they decide to take the plunge.
For right now, though, I'm on the waiting list for a rainbow transplant on account of all the Mike's Hard.
-----
Two days before departing for my Bachelor Party, I received a rather cryptic voicemail from the party organizer, famed Santa Monica booze critic and Best Man Extraordinaire, Justin Fair:
We're going to pick you up. At your house. At 11am. On Thursday.
Bring nice clothes. Bring swimming trunks. Bring desert clothes. Bring suntan lotion. Bring blankets. Or a sleeping bag. Or blankets. Bring $20 in pennies. And bring your good wit. And good will.
That's it.
What did most these things have in common? Not a damn thing. But I packed in blind faith, throwing both dapper dress shirts and dirt-stained cargo pants into a duffel bag. Leaving LA in a rental car with a max speed of 65, we began the trip with a riveting game of 20 Questions.
Odin: Is it a solid?
Patrick: Yes.
Odin: Is it long?
Patrick: Yes.
Odin: Does it require batteries?
Patrick: Yes.
Odin: Ooo, ooo. I know. It's a remote control.
And so on. And after 3 hours of that, we arrived at our first destination: Joshua Tree National Park, the reliable decoy that Justin and I had employed last June. We spent the afternoon and the following morning climbing up and sliding down rock faces, skirting birth and appreciating some outstanding views of the park. And talking about kittens.
After seeking out the prime camping spot, and after realizing that we'd packed a tent bag sans tent poles, we dug up our scouting and survival techniques, fashioned a rope from a jagged rock to the antenna on the rental car that we then looped through the tent fabric, and built a campfire. While Odin prepared the most amazing meal of sausages, potatoes, beans and peppers, the rest of drank lots of Mike's Hard Lemonade and talked about The Jonas Brothers.
Our first "oh shit" moment of the weekend
The next morning, en route to Vegas, we stopped at the Carousel Diner in Twentynine Palms for a $3.50 pancake-sausage-and-egg breakfast (with the exception of Patrick, who is too good for bargains) and the historic Kelso Depot, where we discovered an abandoned post office, a life-size replica of the elusive Desert Tortoise, and a bunch of old luggage. We Neil Young-ed through the Mojave National Preserve, past plains of white mush and deserted pink shacks, and made it to Vegas around 2PM -- with just enough time to check in at the Paris, check out the room, have a slice of bread and be at the hotel's rear entrance at 3PM.
The fourth surprise of the trip (the first being the Josh Tree; the second being some righteous, personalized coffee mugs filled to the brim with
.jpg)
As Odin put it, "I just love that we actually ate each other's dust." Then he sneezed, causing a thick layer of clay to leap off his shirt and envelop him completely.
What we did in Vegas for the remainder of the trip was entirely dependent on how hungry we were. We built our days around the buffet. Odin consumed a hundred pounds of snow crab legs. The rest of us consumed a hundred pounds combined. We made ourselves physically fit. We walked the Strip and decorated until we fell over, took serious advantage of all open container policies and seriously considered a Broadway musical featuring relaxing mud facials. We had minor wins and suffered no losses at the Let It Ride table and had some fine Cuban cereal during the Bellagio fountain spectacle, made famous in Ocean's Eleven (and Twelve, and Thirteen). On our final night in Vegas, we hopped into a long, luxurious golf cart that took us to a country club just off the Strip. There were more polo shirts in there than we knew what to do with.
We finished the night off with another round of Mike's Hard in the room, reflecting on golfing highlights.
Bad asses
In truth, the boys may have done more harm than good: I was spoiled rotten. I expect every man date from this point on to be as rich and fulfilling as my Bachelor Party. I won't settle for less. And at the same time, more than anything, I'm so pumped about one day returning the favor for my boys and giving them the same amazing weekend when they decide to take the plunge.
For right now, though, I'm on the waiting list for a rainbow transplant on account of all the Mike's Hard.
We've Stopped Showering/Ice Cream & Soda
The last Man Registry guest post was no exaggeration. And neither is the title of today's entry. We're foul. We reek.
I imagine our biggest faux pas thus far has been our countdown. We've been telling ourselves that we have n number of days left ... completely ignoring the fact that we're leaving for New York five days before our wedding date.
We don't have 8 days. We have 3.
With the big day only days away, 2E's and I are spending this last week confirming rental orders, rushing to secure groomsmen attire (future post) and fighting the urge to run into on-coming traffic.
Oh, Madman, you're so morose!
I know, I know, but I think I'm entitled. Need I remind you? We don't have 8 days left. We have 3. Our mornings are good; our afternoons could be better; and by the evening we're shivering and strung out, verbally abusing sales reps who don't abide by estimated shipping dates (those are GUARANTEED, RIGHT?!).
But at the end of this torturous road is this beautiful event and all of the love and joy and nerves that come with it. I reread my vows and begin to feel OK again, not because I'm satisfied with them -- oh god no, they're by far the toughest thing I've ever had to write, and I'll keep revising them until the hour before, no joke -- but because the promise that I've put on paper reminds me what this whole thing is about.
"Quit thinking about yourself," Best Man Justin reminds me. "This day has so little to do with you. I'm totally bringing a cardboard cut-out of you in case of an emergency."
2E's has been jonesing for some ice cream sandwiches. She's convinced that the ones at our wedding are to taste even better than usual. Just because. And she was thrilled to learn that Natasha (one of the co-creators of Coolhaus) is going to be traveling to New York to be at our reception -- Coolhaus' first east coast wedding gig!! How friggin' cool is that? I've never been so excited to not have cake.
Click here to read about Coolhaus' wedding services.
As for the ceremony -- 2E's and I knew we needed something that would set the tone for the evening, that would (in essence) tell our guests, Loosen your tie. This is not your traditional wedding. Get onboard.
Our inspiration came from a roadside organic market in North Carolina where we stopped for smoothies and snacks before a 3-hour drive. The market featured an entire fridge full of "old fashioned pop," including a personal favorite of mine -- Black Cherry Boylan Sodas.
It comes as no surprise that Boylan uses pure cane sugar as opposed to syrup (hence, it doesn't taste like syrupy crap), and their bottles have an awesome vintage look that make them the ideal non-alcoholic option at any ceremony or reception. Loosen your tie. Have an orange soda. Get onboard, people.
While there are lots of regular and diet options to choose from (full Bottleworks flavors available on their website), 2E's and I decided to keep it simple and old-school with Black Cherry, Root Beer and the original Cane Cola. Groomsmen will be handing them out to guests as they arrive, adding an air of sophistication to the whole charade.
Yeah, we're pretty damn sophisticated if I may say so myself.
Boylan Bottling Co. was kind enough to supply us with some complimentary sodas in exchange for this here post and the stock photo I've inserted above. Blogspot.com and its affiliates are in no way endorsing Boylan Sodas -- though, if they had them, they would immediately know that I was right all along.
I imagine our biggest faux pas thus far has been our countdown. We've been telling ourselves that we have n number of days left ... completely ignoring the fact that we're leaving for New York five days before our wedding date.
We don't have 8 days. We have 3.
- - -
Oh, Madman, you're so morose!
I know, I know, but I think I'm entitled. Need I remind you? We don't have 8 days left. We have 3. Our mornings are good; our afternoons could be better; and by the evening we're shivering and strung out, verbally abusing sales reps who don't abide by estimated shipping dates (those are GUARANTEED, RIGHT?!).
But at the end of this torturous road is this beautiful event and all of the love and joy and nerves that come with it. I reread my vows and begin to feel OK again, not because I'm satisfied with them -- oh god no, they're by far the toughest thing I've ever had to write, and I'll keep revising them until the hour before, no joke -- but because the promise that I've put on paper reminds me what this whole thing is about.
"Quit thinking about yourself," Best Man Justin reminds me. "This day has so little to do with you. I'm totally bringing a cardboard cut-out of you in case of an emergency."
"OMG. How did they get Zac Efron to come to their wedding?!"
"I don't know, but he's kind of stiff."
"I don't know, but he's kind of stiff."
- - -
2E's has been jonesing for some ice cream sandwiches. She's convinced that the ones at our wedding are to taste even better than usual. Just because. And she was thrilled to learn that Natasha (one of the co-creators of Coolhaus) is going to be traveling to New York to be at our reception -- Coolhaus' first east coast wedding gig!! How friggin' cool is that? I've never been so excited to not have cake.
Click here to read about Coolhaus' wedding services.
As for the ceremony -- 2E's and I knew we needed something that would set the tone for the evening, that would (in essence) tell our guests, Loosen your tie. This is not your traditional wedding. Get onboard.
Our inspiration came from a roadside organic market in North Carolina where we stopped for smoothies and snacks before a 3-hour drive. The market featured an entire fridge full of "old fashioned pop," including a personal favorite of mine -- Black Cherry Boylan Sodas.
My no-hesitation answer to the "if you could have one thing on a deserted island" question
It comes as no surprise that Boylan uses pure cane sugar as opposed to syrup (hence, it doesn't taste like syrupy crap), and their bottles have an awesome vintage look that make them the ideal non-alcoholic option at any ceremony or reception. Loosen your tie. Have an orange soda. Get onboard, people.
While there are lots of regular and diet options to choose from (full Bottleworks flavors available on their website), 2E's and I decided to keep it simple and old-school with Black Cherry, Root Beer and the original Cane Cola. Groomsmen will be handing them out to guests as they arrive, adding an air of sophistication to the whole charade.
Yeah, we're pretty damn sophisticated if I may say so myself.
- - -
Boylan Bottling Co. was kind enough to supply us with some complimentary sodas in exchange for this here post and the stock photo I've inserted above. Blogspot.com and its affiliates are in no way endorsing Boylan Sodas -- though, if they had them, they would immediately know that I was right all along.
September 9, 2010
Guest Post: When You're Expecting
Hi readers,
Check out today's guest post, courtesy of The Man Registry. Men -- you may want to sit down for this one:
What To Expect In Your Third Trimester (of Wedding Planning)
Yes, the waddling is normal.
much love,
madman
Check out today's guest post, courtesy of The Man Registry. Men -- you may want to sit down for this one:
What To Expect In Your Third Trimester (of Wedding Planning)
Yes, the waddling is normal.
much love,
madman
September 7, 2010
Not-To-Miss in NYC
Join my good friend, renowned celebrity event designer David Beahm, at the "Pre-Wedding" Wedding Party with special guest Darcy Miller from Martha Stewart Weddings. It's where I would be if I wasn't, well, 3000 miles in the other direction.
p.s. There's also a cake tasting c/o Ron Ben-Israel. It didn't come from me.
Tuesday, September 14th from 6-9pm
The Registry on 6
59th Street
Bloomingdale's
The Registry on 6
59th Street
Bloomingdale's
Please RSVP to (212) 705-3340
My Side of the Story
We say we officially became a couple on April 26th, 2004. By New Years Day, 2009, I knew that a proposal was in my near future. And it only took me seven months and a handful of outright lies to get there.
Sometime in April, I dragged my best friend (and soon-to-be Best Man) Justin to the Santa Monica Father's Office, an upscale pub for upscale people having upscale conversations, and I told him of the half-assed proposal plan that I'd concocted thus far. I had all the W's down (the who, the what, the where, and most certainly the why), but the HOW was haunting me. The HOW was keeping me awake at night. I asked myself the same question over and over again, as if my subconscious had buried the solution somewhere deep down, and after enough interrogation it would eventually submit.
HOW the hell am I going to sneak off to North Carolina to get her parents' blessing without her knowing? I mean, we're not one of those too-cool-to-care couples who go without seeing each other for weeks at a time. God no. This is the girl who occasionally peeks at my email and monitors my monthly credit card statements...
So, as men are prone to do, Best Man of the Future and I threw back some craft beers and threw together the most cockamamie, unrealistic, this-shit-will-never-work plan of action ever created. It was a ruse if ever there was a ruse. And the ruse went something like this:
Honey, so, before we go on the cruise - [cruise: A 2-week Mediterranean getaway that my mother had gifted our entire family to celebrate her long-anticipated retirement] - I have to spend some time with Justin. He feels like I've been ignoring him lately, and we need some "guy" time, so he wants to go to Joshua Tree for a day - [Joshua Tree: a National Park located 2-1/2 hours east of Los Angeles, first made popular in 1987 by the band U2 and more recently by HBO's Entourage] - and the only time we're both free is the day before the cruise, so I thought we'd drive up the night before at like midnight, and that way we can spend the whole day there, maybe do a few shrooms - [shrooms: magic mushrooms] - and then come back that night. We'll probably be back around 10 or 11, and then I can pack real quick before our flight leaves at 4 AM. Okay? Yes, it'll be fine. I promise. I promise. Yes, I promise. I promise.
The ruse was rough at best, but all of the key elements were there. Motivation (Justin's emotions), travel time (5 hours round-trip) and the antagonist (enter: shrooms). And she bought it. She was semi-furious, and she no doubt detested Justin for that short period of time, but she bought it. Ruse, Part I, accomplished.
Mom and Dad were kind enough to charge the flight to North Carolina on their credit card (to conceal the purchase from Ms. Nosy-pants), and Justin agreed to house the ticket and the itinerary at his apartment. I bid 2E's farewell and drove to Justin's with a pair of sunglasses and what looked like a bag that one might take to a National Park in the middle of the California desert. He then drove me to LAX, where I caught a flight with a one-hour stop in Atlanta. I used the downtime in the AirTran lounge at ATL to investigate the Joshua Tree park website and learn about it's most notable features: the twisted Joshua or yucca trees that populate the park (see below); the existence of desert bighorn sheep; the visitor's center and cafe; and the abundance of nature hikes and trails.
I texted Justin throughout the evening, cluing him in as to what we were supposedly doing in Joshua Tree, what landmarks we were supposedly visiting, the fun we were supposedly having. It was crucial that the timing of our activities was in sync, that we remembered similar but not identical things about our trip, and that we knew enough but not too much about a place where we'd spent the last 20 hours (and half of that time in a drug-induced haze).
Welcome to the paranoid, detail-oriented mind of a writer.
When I arrived at Raleigh-Durham, I was relieved to share the details of our until-then successful ruse with the woman at the Enterprise customer service desk, who I was certain could in no way spoil the surprise. She hooked me up with their cheapest, most economy-sized rental, a blue Chevy Aveo with automatic nothing, and pointed me in the right direction as she wished me the best of luck.
I drove to her Dad's place first. When I was later asked about that choice, I surrendered, I wanted to get the scary part out of the way. Aside from a storm in Dallas that caused some turbulence on the first leg of our flight, the trip had been surprisingly smooth until this point ... but when I drove up to his two-story home on the western outskirts of Chapel Hill and noticed the absence of cars in the driveway, I thought perhaps that this was a sign of things to come. Should I have notified them that I wanted to do the whole have your daughter's hand thing in person and spoil the surprise? I might have debated that option sooner.
So I drove to her Mom's place, eight miles out and a few minutes north of the UNC Chapel Hill campus. You can't imagine my relief when I discovered not only 2E's Mom but also her brother Patrick, returned home after completing his spring semester at Indiana, peeking through the window of her office at the Aveo pulling up the drive and the vaguely familiar but still very unfamiliar figure approaching the front door.
Patrick tells me he knew the purpose of the visit almost immediately. I suppose it was the way I was walking -- a swagger I had practiced for weeks in the full-length mirror of our bedroom in Los Angeles. The can-I-ask-your-daughter-to-marry-me swagger. As for her Mom, she was clueless, asking me several times Why are you here!? before I gave in:
"Today is that really cool day when I get to ask if I can marry your daughter."
We made a flipcam video to honor the occasion, but I was still somewhat bloodshot from the red-eye. And I stunk -- but I couldn't shower. I was supposedly in the middle of the desert in mid-June, exploring nature trails, riding big horn sheep. I would have to remain as I was. God help the neighboring passengers on my return flight(s).
While her mom ran to the safety deposit box to retrieve her great-grandmother's wedding ring (which I'd known about since 2E's and I first started dating, and which would become 2E's engagement ring), Patrick and I went to see Reid, who was now home after a morning of writing/caffeinating at the local coffee shop.
As it turns out, he was napping when we arrived. We crawled into bed with him (don't ask), but he was deep in the fog of his waking sleep. So Patrick and I caught up and read the paper until he came out into the living room, at which point I asked him what I intended to ask. And when he asked me if I would love and protect and support his daughter, I'm almost certain I said, Well, I know at the very least that she can support me.
And while I fudged "the talk" with the FOB ... Justin, in essence, disappeared. For those 20 hours, he did not exist. He revisited old movies and walked around Santa Monica, doing nothing, speaking to no one, not existing.
With engagement ring and two parental permission slips in hand, I drove back to RDU with time to spare. Who knows -- perhaps I could catch an earlier flight and arrive home a little earlier than expected. Sweeeeet.
Of course, life never works that way, never the way you'd want or expect it to. The storm in Dallas (the cause of those 30 minutes of turbulence en route to Atlanta) had now developed into "tornado weather," and all flights west had been canceled. I downright panicked. I went from airline to airline, hauling ass from terminal to terminal, hoping to get a flight anywhere that would then get me to LAX. Or Bob Hope. Or the OC airport. I just needed to get out of Raleigh.
In less than 12 hours, 2E's and I were supposed to be boarding a flight from LAX to JFK, where we would then board an international flight to Barcelona. If I missed any one of those flights, I could potentially miss the entire cruise. Granted, I could meet them all in New York, but it would entail 2E's packing for me, locating my passport and flying solo to LAX, which would require some sort of explanation. Inevitably, I'd have to spoil the biggest surprise of her life.
And yes - this is where everyone goes Well WHY did you WAIT so LONG to do this??? WHY did you do it SO last MINUTE?!?!
Look, her parents were both out of town in the month before the cruise (her Mom traveling here and there on business, her Dad in Africa or Australia or one of those continents that begins with an A), and this was the one 20-hour period that was available. These 20 hours were sacred. So there.
The first leg to Atlanta was canceled, then it wasn't. Then it was. I tried to read a book but What the hell am I reading??? I can't focus on anything! 2E's Mom sprang into action and texted me updates throughout the evening, but it was code red at all airlines, total chaos, all ticketing desks overwhelmed and overbooked and understaffed and we all assumed that we'd be spending the night in the airport with a carry-on for a pillow and one of those meal coupons for Church's Chicken.
After a two-hour setback, the flight to Atlanta decided to officially depart. I got on, praying that the storms in Texas were clearing and that the second leg of my flight was also conveniently delayed. "It is," the gate attendant assured me. "It'll be there when you get to Atlanta." And I kissed him. Her. Them.
People were batshit in Atlanta. There were hundreds of travelers crowding each and every gate, everyone late to whatever they were headed to, the entire airport in low spirits and high stress, but in my mind I know that no one is in the same shitstorm as I. 2E's Mom continued to send me reassuring text messages even though it was past midnight on the east coast. I did the one thing I could do -- I sat patiently on the floor like everyone else, waiting for the improbable news that my flight was by some remote chance actually leaving tonight.
And you never dream of the day you'll say it -- but thank god I booked with AirTran, a company that cares so little about the safety of its passengers that it will fly in pitch black through miles of tornado weather. When no one else would get me home, AirTran would.
I did the math as I boarded. It's 12:30am on the east coast; that's 9:30pm on the west coast. 5-hour flight. I would be home at 2:30am. I texted Justin furiously. I was coming home.
The plane figure skated around the runway for half an hour -- surprise, surprise -- and I fidgeted in my seat, unable to sleep while all the other passengers passed out around me. I counted the minutes until landing. And I prayed that Justin had come up with some amazing excuse as to why we weren't home. He would have to explain a 5-hour delay.
We landed just before 3AM, and Justin was there at Arrivals looking ragged, looking almost as beat as if he'd driven for five hours through the desert, hiked several nature trails and consumed a ziploc baggie worth of shrooms. We raced home, and I showed him the ring -- which in his mind, for all this trouble, should have come with a built-in hologram or something. It was 3:30AM, and 2E's had passed out from concern. Her bags were packed and at the door, and an extra bag was set out on the living room floor. I showered and dressed and threw all of the clothing I owned into the luggage she'd set out and located my passport and unplugged all the appliances and by the time I was through just after 4AM. It was time to leave.
On the flight from LAX and JFK, 2E's and I played my least favorite road trip game: Where the Hell Were You? Justin had given her a litany of excuses --
I verified his story. I said the same things, but not word for word. I remembered everything he remembered, only slightly differently. I did well for not having slept at all the night before. I texted Justin now and then to praise him for building a solid foundation. He had executed the ruse to perfection.
And while she vented to her mother on the phone (oh, the dramatic irony), I snuck off to the Hudson News shop in the airport to purchase a $10 phone card. I tried to phone the restaurant in Brussels, but I couldn't figure out the damn international code. I decided to wait until Europe to make the call.
The vacation was out of this world. We spent two days in Barcelona before boarding the ship. We had excursions in Naples, Sorrento, Tuscany, Rome, Nice, Cannes and that small, Italian city on a hill that acts as the backdrop in Clooney's The American.
We then flew to Paris, spending three more days with my parents, my siblings and their families, soaking up every minute of it. All the while, I carried a small ring box in the second pocket of my backpack, tucked in a pouch beneath two traveler's size packs of Kleenex.
We bid farewell to my family on our third day in Paris as 2E's and I had decided to take a side trip of our own to the romantic city of Brussels, only 300km away by train. I'd spent the last month planning out our itinerary, seeking out quirky activities for two quirky anti-tourists, discovering the gems of the city via travel websites and guidebooks. We dined at one Spanish-Belgian restaurant with a moving conveyor belt; you simply pick up the color-coded plates that appear appetizing, and you pay by plate. We had original Belgian french fries. We walked the Rue Royale, stopping by the storefront of the premiere florist in Belgium as well as the shoppe of the best chocolatier in the city, who has supplied chocolate to royalty of every kind and almost every American president in the last few decades.
The only thing I hadn't planned out was the where. Where would I pop the question. I knew the city fairly well from my research, but you never know how things are going to appear in person. After devouring our chocolates and stopping at a bank of pay phones in a nearby hotel to ring a certain restaurant for a reservation, we continued down the Royale to the Jardin Botanique, an ornamental, maze-like garden centrally located in Brussels. In reviews it was majestic; in person, it was creepy. In reviews, there were "quiet places for lovers to sit and whisper"; in person, those quiet places were primarily occupied by high schoolers and drug dealers. I wasn't about to propose here.
We walked and walked and walked. I didn't know where the hell I was going. Well -- I did. We were headed toward the restaurant, our final destination. But parts of Brussels, like parts of any big city, can be creepy, and we hit almost all of them en route to dinner. Our feet ached. I was beginning to think this wouldn't happen.
And then it just did. As it did in Atlanta -- when AirTran decided to just ignore the tornado warnings and just fly -- I decided to stop trying so damn hard.
The restaurant was called L'Idiot du Village, a spin on one of our favorite restaurants in Los Angeles, The Village Idiot. It was appropriately pricey and supposedly a celebrity hot spot and I'd been dreaming of taking her there since, well, New Years. The restaurant lived on an alleyway of sorts, about two hundred feet of cobblestone and silence, nestled in the heart of this sometimes romantic, sometimes creepy, but all-around lovely city. I asked 2E's to set up the video camera on a window ledge in the alleyway; we'd been videoing ourselves these last two weeks, documenting our travels, and this would be the last segment. The final recording. I'll hide behind you, you start to say something, and then I'll jump out! I said. It was the best I could come up with.
When I didn't jump out, she turned around, and I was on one knee, and in my hands I was holding her great-grandmother's ring ... the ring that I had stowed away in the pocket of my jacket ... the jacket which I had kept tucked at the bottom of a shopping bag ... the shopping bag that I'd been hauling around town since we left our hotel at the outskirts of Brussels that morning.
That night we ate one of the best meals of our lives, made even better by an expensive bottle of wine, a flurry of French accents and the three-hour-long tale of -- well, the tale that I've just described to you. All of the ins and outs of a ruse that, at many intervals, had the potential to fall apart entirely but never did. And I loved telling it to her.
---
Sometime in April, I dragged my best friend (and soon-to-be Best Man) Justin to the Santa Monica Father's Office, an upscale pub for upscale people having upscale conversations, and I told him of the half-assed proposal plan that I'd concocted thus far. I had all the W's down (the who, the what, the where, and most certainly the why), but the HOW was haunting me. The HOW was keeping me awake at night. I asked myself the same question over and over again, as if my subconscious had buried the solution somewhere deep down, and after enough interrogation it would eventually submit.
HOW the hell am I going to sneak off to North Carolina to get her parents' blessing without her knowing? I mean, we're not one of those too-cool-to-care couples who go without seeing each other for weeks at a time. God no. This is the girl who occasionally peeks at my email and monitors my monthly credit card statements...
So, as men are prone to do, Best Man of the Future and I threw back some craft beers and threw together the most cockamamie, unrealistic, this-shit-will-never-work plan of action ever created. It was a ruse if ever there was a ruse. And the ruse went something like this:
Honey, so, before we go on the cruise - [cruise: A 2-week Mediterranean getaway that my mother had gifted our entire family to celebrate her long-anticipated retirement] - I have to spend some time with Justin. He feels like I've been ignoring him lately, and we need some "guy" time, so he wants to go to Joshua Tree for a day - [Joshua Tree: a National Park located 2-1/2 hours east of Los Angeles, first made popular in 1987 by the band U2 and more recently by HBO's Entourage] - and the only time we're both free is the day before the cruise, so I thought we'd drive up the night before at like midnight, and that way we can spend the whole day there, maybe do a few shrooms - [shrooms: magic mushrooms] - and then come back that night. We'll probably be back around 10 or 11, and then I can pack real quick before our flight leaves at 4 AM. Okay? Yes, it'll be fine. I promise. I promise. Yes, I promise. I promise.
The ruse was rough at best, but all of the key elements were there. Motivation (Justin's emotions), travel time (5 hours round-trip) and the antagonist (enter: shrooms). And she bought it. She was semi-furious, and she no doubt detested Justin for that short period of time, but she bought it. Ruse, Part I, accomplished.
Mom and Dad were kind enough to charge the flight to North Carolina on their credit card (to conceal the purchase from Ms. Nosy-pants), and Justin agreed to house the ticket and the itinerary at his apartment. I bid 2E's farewell and drove to Justin's with a pair of sunglasses and what looked like a bag that one might take to a National Park in the middle of the California desert. He then drove me to LAX, where I caught a flight with a one-hour stop in Atlanta. I used the downtime in the AirTran lounge at ATL to investigate the Joshua Tree park website and learn about it's most notable features: the twisted Joshua or yucca trees that populate the park (see below); the existence of desert bighorn sheep; the visitor's center and cafe; and the abundance of nature hikes and trails.
Welcome to the paranoid, detail-oriented mind of a writer.
---
When I arrived at Raleigh-Durham, I was relieved to share the details of our until-then successful ruse with the woman at the Enterprise customer service desk, who I was certain could in no way spoil the surprise. She hooked me up with their cheapest, most economy-sized rental, a blue Chevy Aveo with automatic nothing, and pointed me in the right direction as she wished me the best of luck.
I drove to her Dad's place first. When I was later asked about that choice, I surrendered, I wanted to get the scary part out of the way. Aside from a storm in Dallas that caused some turbulence on the first leg of our flight, the trip had been surprisingly smooth until this point ... but when I drove up to his two-story home on the western outskirts of Chapel Hill and noticed the absence of cars in the driveway, I thought perhaps that this was a sign of things to come. Should I have notified them that I wanted to do the whole have your daughter's hand thing in person and spoil the surprise? I might have debated that option sooner.
So I drove to her Mom's place, eight miles out and a few minutes north of the UNC Chapel Hill campus. You can't imagine my relief when I discovered not only 2E's Mom but also her brother Patrick, returned home after completing his spring semester at Indiana, peeking through the window of her office at the Aveo pulling up the drive and the vaguely familiar but still very unfamiliar figure approaching the front door.
Patrick tells me he knew the purpose of the visit almost immediately. I suppose it was the way I was walking -- a swagger I had practiced for weeks in the full-length mirror of our bedroom in Los Angeles. The can-I-ask-your-daughter-to-marry-me swagger. As for her Mom, she was clueless, asking me several times Why are you here!? before I gave in:
"Today is that really cool day when I get to ask if I can marry your daughter."
We made a flipcam video to honor the occasion, but I was still somewhat bloodshot from the red-eye. And I stunk -- but I couldn't shower. I was supposedly in the middle of the desert in mid-June, exploring nature trails, riding big horn sheep. I would have to remain as I was. God help the neighboring passengers on my return flight(s).
While her mom ran to the safety deposit box to retrieve her great-grandmother's wedding ring (which I'd known about since 2E's and I first started dating, and which would become 2E's engagement ring), Patrick and I went to see Reid, who was now home after a morning of writing/caffeinating at the local coffee shop.
As it turns out, he was napping when we arrived. We crawled into bed with him (don't ask), but he was deep in the fog of his waking sleep. So Patrick and I caught up and read the paper until he came out into the living room, at which point I asked him what I intended to ask. And when he asked me if I would love and protect and support his daughter, I'm almost certain I said, Well, I know at the very least that she can support me.
And while I fudged "the talk" with the FOB ... Justin, in essence, disappeared. For those 20 hours, he did not exist. He revisited old movies and walked around Santa Monica, doing nothing, speaking to no one, not existing.
With engagement ring and two parental permission slips in hand, I drove back to RDU with time to spare. Who knows -- perhaps I could catch an earlier flight and arrive home a little earlier than expected. Sweeeeet.
Of course, life never works that way, never the way you'd want or expect it to. The storm in Dallas (the cause of those 30 minutes of turbulence en route to Atlanta) had now developed into "tornado weather," and all flights west had been canceled. I downright panicked. I went from airline to airline, hauling ass from terminal to terminal, hoping to get a flight anywhere that would then get me to LAX. Or Bob Hope. Or the OC airport. I just needed to get out of Raleigh.
In less than 12 hours, 2E's and I were supposed to be boarding a flight from LAX to JFK, where we would then board an international flight to Barcelona. If I missed any one of those flights, I could potentially miss the entire cruise. Granted, I could meet them all in New York, but it would entail 2E's packing for me, locating my passport and flying solo to LAX, which would require some sort of explanation. Inevitably, I'd have to spoil the biggest surprise of her life.
And yes - this is where everyone goes Well WHY did you WAIT so LONG to do this??? WHY did you do it SO last MINUTE?!?!
Look, her parents were both out of town in the month before the cruise (her Mom traveling here and there on business, her Dad in Africa or Australia or one of those continents that begins with an A), and this was the one 20-hour period that was available. These 20 hours were sacred. So there.
The first leg to Atlanta was canceled, then it wasn't. Then it was. I tried to read a book but What the hell am I reading??? I can't focus on anything! 2E's Mom sprang into action and texted me updates throughout the evening, but it was code red at all airlines, total chaos, all ticketing desks overwhelmed and overbooked and understaffed and we all assumed that we'd be spending the night in the airport with a carry-on for a pillow and one of those meal coupons for Church's Chicken.
After a two-hour setback, the flight to Atlanta decided to officially depart. I got on, praying that the storms in Texas were clearing and that the second leg of my flight was also conveniently delayed. "It is," the gate attendant assured me. "It'll be there when you get to Atlanta." And I kissed him. Her. Them.
---
People were batshit in Atlanta. There were hundreds of travelers crowding each and every gate, everyone late to whatever they were headed to, the entire airport in low spirits and high stress, but in my mind I know that no one is in the same shitstorm as I. 2E's Mom continued to send me reassuring text messages even though it was past midnight on the east coast. I did the one thing I could do -- I sat patiently on the floor like everyone else, waiting for the improbable news that my flight was by some remote chance actually leaving tonight.
And you never dream of the day you'll say it -- but thank god I booked with AirTran, a company that cares so little about the safety of its passengers that it will fly in pitch black through miles of tornado weather. When no one else would get me home, AirTran would.
I did the math as I boarded. It's 12:30am on the east coast; that's 9:30pm on the west coast. 5-hour flight. I would be home at 2:30am. I texted Justin furiously. I was coming home.
The plane figure skated around the runway for half an hour -- surprise, surprise -- and I fidgeted in my seat, unable to sleep while all the other passengers passed out around me. I counted the minutes until landing. And I prayed that Justin had come up with some amazing excuse as to why we weren't home. He would have to explain a 5-hour delay.
We landed just before 3AM, and Justin was there at Arrivals looking ragged, looking almost as beat as if he'd driven for five hours through the desert, hiked several nature trails and consumed a ziploc baggie worth of shrooms. We raced home, and I showed him the ring -- which in his mind, for all this trouble, should have come with a built-in hologram or something. It was 3:30AM, and 2E's had passed out from concern. Her bags were packed and at the door, and an extra bag was set out on the living room floor. I showered and dressed and threw all of the clothing I owned into the luggage she'd set out and located my passport and unplugged all the appliances and by the time I was through just after 4AM. It was time to leave.
---
On the flight from LAX and JFK, 2E's and I played my least favorite road trip game: Where the Hell Were You? Justin had given her a litany of excuses --
- that the trip took 3-1/2 hours as opposed to 2-1/2
- that the day had gone by so fast
- that we'd waited too long to take the shrooms
- that they took longer than we'd thought to wear off
- that my phone had died because it was searching for a signal all day in the middle of the desert
- that we had stopped to eat at a diner on the way back from The Tree
- and that I had passed out (most likely sick from bad shrooms) in the backseat of the car
I verified his story. I said the same things, but not word for word. I remembered everything he remembered, only slightly differently. I did well for not having slept at all the night before. I texted Justin now and then to praise him for building a solid foundation. He had executed the ruse to perfection.
And while she vented to her mother on the phone (oh, the dramatic irony), I snuck off to the Hudson News shop in the airport to purchase a $10 phone card. I tried to phone the restaurant in Brussels, but I couldn't figure out the damn international code. I decided to wait until Europe to make the call.
---
The vacation was out of this world. We spent two days in Barcelona before boarding the ship. We had excursions in Naples, Sorrento, Tuscany, Rome, Nice, Cannes and that small, Italian city on a hill that acts as the backdrop in Clooney's The American.
We bid farewell to my family on our third day in Paris as 2E's and I had decided to take a side trip of our own to the romantic city of Brussels, only 300km away by train. I'd spent the last month planning out our itinerary, seeking out quirky activities for two quirky anti-tourists, discovering the gems of the city via travel websites and guidebooks. We dined at one Spanish-Belgian restaurant with a moving conveyor belt; you simply pick up the color-coded plates that appear appetizing, and you pay by plate. We had original Belgian french fries. We walked the Rue Royale, stopping by the storefront of the premiere florist in Belgium as well as the shoppe of the best chocolatier in the city, who has supplied chocolate to royalty of every kind and almost every American president in the last few decades.
The only thing I hadn't planned out was the where. Where would I pop the question. I knew the city fairly well from my research, but you never know how things are going to appear in person. After devouring our chocolates and stopping at a bank of pay phones in a nearby hotel to ring a certain restaurant for a reservation, we continued down the Royale to the Jardin Botanique, an ornamental, maze-like garden centrally located in Brussels. In reviews it was majestic; in person, it was creepy. In reviews, there were "quiet places for lovers to sit and whisper"; in person, those quiet places were primarily occupied by high schoolers and drug dealers. I wasn't about to propose here.
Geometric gardening & Belgian junkies
We walked and walked and walked. I didn't know where the hell I was going. Well -- I did. We were headed toward the restaurant, our final destination. But parts of Brussels, like parts of any big city, can be creepy, and we hit almost all of them en route to dinner. Our feet ached. I was beginning to think this wouldn't happen.
And then it just did. As it did in Atlanta -- when AirTran decided to just ignore the tornado warnings and just fly -- I decided to stop trying so damn hard.
---
The restaurant was called L'Idiot du Village, a spin on one of our favorite restaurants in Los Angeles, The Village Idiot. It was appropriately pricey and supposedly a celebrity hot spot and I'd been dreaming of taking her there since, well, New Years. The restaurant lived on an alleyway of sorts, about two hundred feet of cobblestone and silence, nestled in the heart of this sometimes romantic, sometimes creepy, but all-around lovely city. I asked 2E's to set up the video camera on a window ledge in the alleyway; we'd been videoing ourselves these last two weeks, documenting our travels, and this would be the last segment. The final recording. I'll hide behind you, you start to say something, and then I'll jump out! I said. It was the best I could come up with.
When I didn't jump out, she turned around, and I was on one knee, and in my hands I was holding her great-grandmother's ring ... the ring that I had stowed away in the pocket of my jacket ... the jacket which I had kept tucked at the bottom of a shopping bag ... the shopping bag that I'd been hauling around town since we left our hotel at the outskirts of Brussels that morning.
That night we ate one of the best meals of our lives, made even better by an expensive bottle of wine, a flurry of French accents and the three-hour-long tale of -- well, the tale that I've just described to you. All of the ins and outs of a ruse that, at many intervals, had the potential to fall apart entirely but never did. And I loved telling it to her.
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