UPS = 8, Me = 1

UPS drivers are normally ridiculous for the game that they play in trying to drop the box, ring the doorbell, run back to the truck, and drive away before you can even get to the door.  It’s like spotting the Loch Ness monster or Bigfoot to catch one before they drive off.  Well, with the Christmas holiday right around the corner, they have upped their game.  They are now traveling in pairs…a driver and a runner.  When they are at the house next door, the runner leaps out of the truck and runs up to the house.  All the while, the driver keeps the truck rolling by.  When the runner has done his or her drop and ring, he or she sprints back to the moving truck, hops in, and away they go.

Well, today, I heard the bell ring, and I took off into the bonus room next door.  It has windows that overlook the street.  I got there just in time to catch the runner jumping back in the truck before they raced off around the corner.  I got you UPS!  Score one for me.

Scottish Me

So, you know how when you hear your voice on a recording, you sound differently than you do to your own “ears”?  Medically speaking, this is because you aren’t normally hearing your voice with your ears.  You’re hearing it through the vibrations traveling through your jawbone up to your ear bones.  So, you’re technically hearing a purer version of yourself than everyone else is, because they’re getting the distorted version of your voice…the voice that has had to travel through the air; through pollution, and molecules, and other people’s voices floating in the way.

Well, a while back, I was recording myself singing, because I wanted to see if I sounded as good to everyone else as I do to me.  Which was a great big, fat “negative, Ghost Rider.”  I vowed never to sing again.  This commitment lasted all of about 20 min, when I decided that it was probably more practical to not record me singing anymore.

Well, today, I took it a step further.  I was sitting here wondering if me doing an accent or impersonation actually sounded differently to everyone else as well.  And you know what?  IT DOES!  If the recording is anything to go by, then I, in fact, sound even better doing an accent to everyone else!  You’re welcome. 

My Scottish voice sounded better on the recording than it did to my own ear bones.  I thought I was authentic.  I may never speak in a normal voice again.  Then again, maybe I’ll try other accents and see how those go.  I might be onto something here!

Wedding Memories – Conclusion (Happily Ever After)

At our reception, we gave out little scrolls on yellowed, parchment paper.  Each was tied with a black satin ribbon and placed in front of the plates on the tables.  This was what they said:

Come, Traveler, and listen whilst I relate to you a tale of forever love and the union of two hearts, of nature and its beauty and the bonds of holy matrimony, of exotic people and far away lands, and did I mention…marriage.  ‘Tis sure that you have ne’er heard a tale quite like this one.

Once upon a time there lived two souls as different as the cultures that birthed them.  The Lady A was a sweet child with a beaming smile and rosy cheeks, always happy and brimming over with life.  Master D on the other hand was dark and mysterious, locking away secrets and emotions behind his dark façade.  As fate would have it, they had resided in the same village for on six months without e’er crossing paths.  Then one bristling autumn day the Lady A met a man while doing the washing, and destiny was set into motion.  The man would soon become the unlikely messenger that would bring these two hearts together.  You see the man was roommate to none other than Master D.  But I tarry too long on this story, and anyway you can probably imagine that love grew and progressed between A and D.

It would be a full two years before destiny would be satisfied, though.  Our lovers traveled to a land northwest of San Antonio, in what is known in present day as Lost Maples.  It was here among the changing trees, the glistening ponds, and the mighty mountains that these two became one.  So on an autumn day much like the day they first met, Lady A and Master D were joined in the eyes of God.

Now you might think that this is where the tale ends, but actually this is just the beginning.  You see this was only the first of three weddings that would join these same two hearts.  Due to the remoteness of this first spot, not all of the family was able to attend.  So, on the following day a second wedding took place upon the vast green lawns that surrounded the home of a wealthy man named Meyer.  Now Meyer was known for his hospitality and would often rent out his spare rooms to wayfaring travelers…it was even rumored that he provided his guests with breakfast every morning before they set off.  So, on his lawns overlooking the creek and surrounded by ancient cypress trees, A and D took their vows for a second time.

Now if you were paying attention you remember me saying that there were three weddings.  And three weddings there were.  We move our tale to a land where titans roam the earth and crumbling ruins can be found on every corner.  It was here in the exotic land of Greece that the most traditional of the three weddings took place.  In a small church overflowing with people, an ancient tongue could be heard resonating from beneath the shadows of the cross.  And this ceremony would unite our young lovers for the third and final time in what could only be called a very crazy month.

And now here you are to join in their celebration.  For you yourself have now become a part of their amazing tale.  May your life be filled with as much happiness and good fortune as you will find here among these happy hearts.

Wedding Memories – Part 5 (Cake)

Me:  Two weeks after the last wedding, we finally had a reception in the United States.  We rented out a greenhouse at the Gardens of River Oaks, which afforded us a beautiful scenic view, lots of light, and the perfect space to end our crazy month of wedding events.  Since we had kept the wedding itself to just close family, we opened up the reception to everyone else.  We had a pretty good turnout, not too large and not too small.  Just the intimate kind of thing we were hoping for.

We did all of the traditional things that people do at wedding receptions; toasts, first dance, etc.  But the thing that really stuck out was the cake.  My mother had made the cake with several tiers separated by Greek columns.  There were little stairways going off one of the main tiers to smaller tiers on the side, and there was a groomsman and bridesmaid on the stairways for each of our wedding party.  Laying haphazardly all over the cake were beautiful orange, red, and gold maple leaves made out of sugar.  The cake encompassed all the parts of all of our weddings perfectly.

Spousal Unit:  I was really looking forward to the reception in Houston.  It was the first time I was going to be able to share my happiness with my friends and colleagues, and it meant that all of this was finally winding down.  We could finally start to live a normal life.  My new hubby did a perfect job picking out the location.  The greenhouse was beautiful.  It was just a small affair, but it felt cozy, like everyone there was family.  We kept it laid back, which was perfect.

Me:  We cut the cake, and I forked up a piece to feed it to my wife.  We had agreed that we didn’t want to smash it into each other’s faces, so I teased her with the fork moving it around so she couldn’t bite it.  Finally, she grabbed my wrist to stop my movement, and that was when disaster struck.  The piece of cake, which was sitting lightly on the fork, flew up in the air.  I watched in slow motion as it arced perfectly and dropped right down the front of my new wife’s dress, sliding cozily between her cleavage.  Being the gentleman that I am, I graciously and anxiously agreed to go in after it.

Spousal Unit:  The myriad of weddings, stress, and running around over the last month had caused me to lose quite a bit of weight.  My wedding dress, which had been snug when all of this had started, was now barely hanging on.  My bridesmaids had had to use quite a few pins to cinch it up and keep it from sliding right off me.  I was doing okay, until I had grabbed my new hubby’s wrist and watched in slow-motion horror as that piece of cake flew right down the front of my dress.  Had it been a few weeks earlier, and it would have just harmlessly bounced off my breasts.  But with my dress being baggier, it went right in and made a home in my cleavage. 

I instantly slapped my hands over my breasts and started laughing in disbelief.  When my new hubby offered to go in after it, I started laughing so hard that tears were coming out of my eyes.  I eventually fished it out of there and somehow managed to feed a piece to him.  Truth be told, I was very tempted to smash it in his face after that.

Wedding Memories – Part 4 (Argument)

Me:  Our wedding was filled with drama.  I was so busy running around coordinating the whole event that I don’t remember half of it.  But I do remember an incident that happened with my father, stepmother, mother-in-law, and brother-in-law.  There is a custom in Greece that when someone is coming to your country for the first time, or you’re meeting them for the first time, that you go out of your way to make them feel welcome.  That was how my in-laws made me feel when I first visited Greece.  Naturally, they expected the same thing when they came to the United States for our wedding.

My mother-in-law and brother-in-law took to my mother right off the bat.  I think that was because she had agreed to go pick them up from the airport and then had gotten them settled in.  They thoroughly loved talking to her, and they still ask about her wellbeing to this day.

My father and stepmother, however, did not get off on the right foot.  The moment they showed up at the bed and breakfast, they instantly gravitated to my brother and his family.  They did not seek out my soon to be in-laws and properly welcome them to this country, which my soon to be in-laws took as a slight to the highest degree.

Spousal Unit:  There was an issue with my husband’s father and stepmother.  The expectation was that they would seek out my family to meet them and welcome them.  That is what we do in Greece.  To not do so is considered rude and unforgiveable.  We just don’t treat people like that, so we don’t expect to be treated like that.  Well, the first thing they did was start talking to their other son and playing with their granddaughters.  They couldn’t even take five minutes to greet my family.  Needless to say, my brother pulled me aside and let me hear all about it.

He was livid.  He went on and on about how rude this was and about how he couldn’t figure out how my fiancé had turned out so well coming from people like this.  He further expounded on the fact that they were the exact opposite of my fiancé’s mother, who he adored.  I tried to calm him down.  He agreed to get through the wedding without incident, but he would not forgive this slight.  He and my mother forbid me to tell anyone about this conversation, especially my fiancé.

Me:  Late on the night before the wedding, I got a knock on the door to my room.  I opened the door and found my fiancé standing in the pale light.  She asked me to come outside and talk, so I grabbed my jacket and went out.  She conveyed to me the conversation she’d had with her brother and mother about the snubbing by my father and stepmother, which of course instantly set me off.  Not so much that they were upset, which was understandable, but that they had forbid her to tell me.  I felt like it was my right to know.

I instantly marched over to my father’s room and asked to speak with him.  He listened to my explanation about how his actions were perceived as rude and culturally unacceptable…before blowing up in a tirade.  He had an excuse for everything, but none of it held water.  His actions were perceived as rude and intention didn’t play into it.  I told him that my fiancé was upset and begged him to try to remedy the situation, so that it didn’t ruin our wedding.  Instead, he decided that he was going to just pack up and leave.

Spousal Unit:  I was afraid to tell my fiancé about the conversation with my brother, but I needed to tell someone.  He was my best friend, and I didn’t want to start off our marriage with secrets and lies.  I’m not sure what I expected him to do about it exactly…nothing, I guess.  I just wanted him to know.  I wanted him to share my burden.

I was not expecting him to get mad and march off to his father’s room.  He was so in charge and commanding at that moment.  I was both proud and scared at the same time.  I had never seen him like that before.  I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I was freaking out that it was going to get back to my brother that I had told.

Me:  I left my father’s room more upset than when I had gone there.  I was disappointed in his behavior and mad that he would ruin my wedding out of his own selfish pride.  I went and found my fiancé to let her know about my conversation, spewing expletives throughout.  I had just finished conveying my father’s response, when the man himself walked up, my stepmother in tow.

Apparently, cooler heads had prevailed, my stepmother’s, and they wanted to talk about how to repair the situation.  In other words, my stepmother wanted to talk, my father wanted to sulk at being forced to admit he was wrong.  So, we found a little sitting area in between the buildings and we talked it out.  It got heated in parts, but we came to a mutual understanding and decided on a plan.  They were going to make an over-the-top effort the next morning at breakfast and apologize profusely for not welcoming my in-laws properly the day before.  My father was less than thrilled with the idea, but he begrudgingly agreed.

Spousal Unit:  I didn’t know what to expect when my fiancé’s father and stepmother walked up to us.  His father looked pissed and just stood there with a scowl on his face and his hands thrust into his pockets.  We found a place to sit and talk, which was dark and poorly lit.  The bugs kept buzzing around as they tried to decide if they wanted to go toward the light or away from it.  The conversation went about as well as could be expected with my fiancé and his stepmother doing most of the talking.  I was regretting ever having said anything about this.  It was a disaster.

Me:  The next day, I ran into my grandmother at breakfast, and I asked how she had slept.  “Terrible,” she said.  When I asked her why, she added, “Somebody was up arguing outside my window all night.  It kept me awake.”  I blushed and hastily excused myself to check on the arrangements for the day.

Wedding Memories – Part 3 (Unpredictable)

Me:  Our first wedding took place in Lost Maples Natural Area.  We had come here on vacation one year and fell in love with the place.  We had picked out a spot about a two-mile hike down the trail that was situated under a grove of maple trees, right near a small picturesque pond.  To get to it, one had to not only hike the trail itself, which wound through the trees and up and down the hills, but also leap across uneven stones that were placed precariously in the middle of several rivers.

What we hadn’t accounted for was the remoteness of the spot and the fact that there were no buildings within two miles.  So, either the girls would have to wear their wedding dresses while hiking down the trail, or we would have to come up with an alternative plan.   The alternative came in the form of a small, free-standing awning that my groomsmen and I had to carry all the way down the trail and set up just down from the pond.  Thus, burdened with the awning, some sheets that we attached to the sides to enclose it, and other items needed for the ceremony; we did not have the luxury of carrying our clothes and changing at the pond.  We hiked the entire two miles adorned in our wedding outfits.

Spousal Unit:  Getting married in Lost Maples seemed like a great idea, until we had to hike the five miles down the trail, carrying armfuls of wedding dresses.  My dress was by far the heaviest, so we took turns, heaving it along the path and lifting it over our heads as we crossed the stepping stones in the rivers.  The entire time the photographer was following along and snapping pictures of our plight.

Me:  Several hikers that passed us along the trail, seeing us dressed in medieval garb and carrying non-descript bags, mistook us for a band.  They stopped us to ask why we were performing in the park, and we simply told them that we were going to a wedding, which seemed to satisfy them.  One couple actually followed us back to the pond to check out the wedding festivities.  We set up the awning a little way away from the pond, around a bend in the trail, so that it wasn’t visible.  We attached sheets to the sides to enclose it, and then set off to scope out the spot we had chosen for our ceremony.

Spousal Unit:  It was unusually hot for October in Texas, so we were sweating profusely by the time we finally made it to the tent that the boys had set up for us.  It was off the path a little ways and had been fully enclosed to give us privacy while we changed.  We set about stripping off our sweaty clothes and shimmying into our dresses, stopping to touch up hair and make-up on each other as we went.

Me:  Now one of the things that the park ranger had previously told us was that they did not reserve areas of the park for ceremonies such as this.  It was on a first-come, first-serve basis.  At the time, this didn’t seem like such a big deal, but as we rounded the bend in the trail, we realized how wrong we were.  There in the exact spot that we had chosen for our wedding, under our picturesque trees and in our still little pond, was over a hundred Boy Scouts; swimming, running, and playing.  A hundred half-naked, bony little boys traipsing all over the entire area.

I couldn’t believe it.  I stopped right in the middle of the trail and just stared.  The one thought that flashed through my mind was, “My wedding is ruined.”  I actually think my groomsmen were more upset than I was.  One was about to go on a rampage, plowing through those scrawny Scouts and flinging their unconscious bodies into the pond.  I actually had to take a moment to try to calm him down before he went on a blood rage.  There was nothing for it, they had pitched their tents off to one side and were over-running the spot we had picked a year before.

After a slight readjustment of location and a lot of deep breaths, I went to talk to the Scout Master.  I explained the situation to him and asked if they wouldn’t mind vacating the pond during the ceremony.  He looked me dead in the eyes, not a hint of a smile on his face, and said, “On one condition.” 

A million thoughts ran through my head, as I tried to figure out what he was going to ask.  Did he want money?  Could we scrounge enough together between the four of us to pay him off?  Uncertainly, I asked, “And what’s that?”

And then he replied with the absolute last words I expected to hear; four unexpected words.  “You let us watch.”

Before my mind could fully process, my mouth was already saying, “Of course.”  And with that, his face broke into a grin, he shook my hand, patted me on the back, and offered his congratulations.  True to his word, he herded up all of the boys and had them sit off to the side.  One hundred still half-naked Scouts; legs crossed, chins perched on their hands, pond water dripping from their hair, eyes attentively fixed on the scene they were about to watch, and completely and utterly silent; sat in a group under the trees.

Spousal Unit:  When we were ready, we headed down the trail toward the pond.  The exact spot was still out of sight, hidden by a bend, so I had no idea until I was almost there that we had an audience.  A couple of hikers were stopped on the trail watching the scene, and off to one side was a large group of young boys, sitting cross-legged and shirtless.  I was so focused on the boys, that I almost tripped on a tree root going down the hill.  Not wanting to face-plant on my way down the aisle, I turned my attention instead to my husband-to-be, standing by the pastor and looking absolutely adorable in his white puffy-sleeved shirt and shimmering-black velvet vest.

“This was it,” I thought.  “The moment was finally here.  After today, this man would be my husband, and I would be his wife.”  My brother, holding on to my arm and walking me down the aisle, leaned over and whispered, “I wish you all of the happiness in the world, my sister.  I wish our father could be here to see how beautiful you look.  We are all proud of you.  And if this American doesn’t treat you like you deserve, then I want you to know that we are always here for you…and that I have several large friends that will take him apart.”

Me:  The trail itself afforded a natural aisle that the procession could come down, winding around the pond and down through the trees before meeting up with the pastor and me at the edge of the pond.  The moment I saw the first flash of color off of the first bridesmaid’s dress, my stomach started to churn.  Despite all of the preparation and planning, I was still nervous.

When my wife-to-be finally made her way through the trees, her white dresses dragging through the multi-colored leaves along the ground, I thought, “This was it.  This woman was going to be mine forever.  How did I ever get so lucky?”

Wedding Memories – Part 2 (Toast)

Me:  We had had over five hundred people packing the church with us for the ceremony.  There were so many people that those who couldn’t find a chair were standing looking in the windows and doorways.  Every available space was filled.  If we had known it was going to be like this, we probably could have set up huge screens and done a video feed outside.  As it was, I think there were still people in the back that had to have the information relayed back to them.

The strange thing about the church in Greece is that while in the United States everyone is quiet during the ceremony, here everyone was talking.  It was like being in a restaurant where each little group of people were having an independent conversation.  I’m sure at least some were talking about the actual wedding; whereas others might have been talking about their day, or the price of oranges in the street markets, or whether the Greek football team was ever going to win the Euro Cup (Greece would go on to win it the very next year!).

The other thing that struck me as odd was the fact that both of our families stood at the altar with us during the ceremony.  All of them, right there in a ring around us.  And throughout the entire service, they also were having their own independent conversation with each other.  I think it was mostly my in-laws-to-be translating for my parents, but it’s still a little unnerving to hear so many conversations going on around you while you’re trying to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing up there.

Spousal Unit:  We had a lot of people at our wedding.  There was our family, teachers and school mates from my past, family friends, and I’m sure even a few people that saw a wedding and just decided to stop in.  The place was packed, and it made the church hot and stuffy.

Me:  If I thought the number of people at the service was overwhelming, the reception was just as bad.  We arrived at the reception hall after all of our guests.  I could tell right away that this was also not going to be a small affair.  Not quite five hundred people, but well over one hundred and fifty had shown up to prolong the festivities with us.  There was one long table for the wedding party and our parents against one wall, and everyone else was situated six or seven to a table around a central, open space on the floor.

Spousal Unit:  After the wedding, we had to rush back to the house, so that I could change dresses.  I had gotten a beautiful black and white satin dress for the reception.  My mother and cousin went with me to help me change, and when they unzipped my dress, I heard a loud “whoosh!” as piles and piles of rice poured out of my dress and scattered across the hardwood floors.  It took several minutes to get it out of my underwear, hair, and every other crevice you can imagine.

Clothed once again, we rushed over to the reception hall, where people were already packed inside enjoying the open bar.  The first thing I noticed was my family sitting at a long table along one wall.  I remember my father, my mother, and my grandmother there.  My father was attempting to entertain my new in-laws, which was probably pretty difficult, since he doesn’t know much English, and they don’t know much Greek.

Me:  We were quickly shuffled over to one side of the hall to open the buffet lines, so that our guests could begin to get their food.  I hadn’t eaten all day, and I was starving.  I piled up my plate with every manner of delicious-looking morsel and went to my seat to eat like it was my last meal on earth.  I was not, however, able to taste even a single bite before someone was grabbing my arm and dragging me off to my next task.  Apparently, the entire aim of a Geek marriage is to completely and utterly exhaust the newlyweds without actually letting them have even a moment to absorb or enjoy any part of the experience.

Spousal Unit:  When I first saw the buffet, I remember thinking, “Look at all of this food!”  Then the smells hit me, and my mouth was watering.  I wanted to try a little bit of everything.  It all looked wonderful.  But we didn’t get a chance to try any of the food before we were told to greet and toast with the guests present in the hall.  So, one by one, we went to each table and toasted everyone.  I was so excited to see so many familiar faces.  I loved catching up with people that I hadn’t seen in years.

Me:  Before I knew it, someone was thrusting a glass of champagne into our hands…yes, more alcohol…and sending us off to toast our guests.  Unlike weddings in the United States, the toast is not done while standing at the front of the room.  The happy couple is expected to go to each table and toast them one by one.  That is each table repeating the same routine of saying “stin ygeía sas,” taking a sip of champagne, shaking some hands, and moving on to the next table…twenty-eight of them.  That’s right, twenty-eight tables of me taking sip after sip of champagne!  And to make matters worse, there was a waiter following us around with the bottle, refilling our glasses after every table.

The temporary reprieve I had had from my inebriated state was gone.  I could feel the amber liquid doing its trick as my cheeks grew hotter and hotter.  By the last couple of tables, I was slurring the toast.  When we were finally done, I was desperately looking forward to getting some food inside of me, fantasizing about the piled-high plate I had left behind.  Imagine my disappointment when I arrived back at the table to find it gone!  Someone had plate-knapped my dinner.

Spousal Unit:  When we were done toasting the tables, they rolled out the wedding cake.  It was a beautiful six-tiered masterpiece that spiraled up from the large base to the delicate icing ornamentation at the top.  It was so beautiful that I didn’t want to cut into it.  But the next thing I know, I’m holding a very large knife in my hand and being led over to the cake.  We pressed the metal through the soft, moist cake to cheers and applause.  And then as the waiters served cake to the guests, we were taken to the middle of the floor for the toasts.

Me:  I eyed our wedding cake hungrily out of the corner of my eye, but decorum dictated that we had to receive the toasts from the maid of honor and the best man.  My wife’s cousin did her toast in Greek, which was totally lost on me.  But my wife cried, and people laughed, so I suppose it was good. 

My best man was a friend of the family named Georgios.  However, nobody called him that.  He was always affectionately known as “Dr. Body,” which was partly due to the fact that he’d always wanted to go into medicine and partly due to the fact that he was skinny as a rail.  I had met him on one of my previous trips, and I liked him instantly.  Since my own brother couldn’t make it, I had asked Dr. Body to fill in for me.  He declined at first.  He explained that he didn’t want the responsibility that went along with being a best man.  He didn’t want to screw it up and ruin my day.  I told him that I was marrying the most beautiful girl in the world; there was nothing that could screw that up.  So, he reluctantly agreed.

He was the perfect best man.  He took his role seriously, and he went out of his way to make sure that he followed everything by the letter.  His best man speech was in English to honor me, and he was stern and stoic throughout it.

Spousal Unit:  When we were done with the toasts, they cleared the floor for dancing.  We had our first dance, a slow dance which we stumbled through, and then other people started pouring onto the floor to dance around us.  I remember dancing with my cousins and friends in little groups, bouncing and gyrating to the music, like I was back in the clubs back in England.  I was hot and sweaty, and it was hard to move in my dress, because it was so heavy; but I had a blast.

Me:  The first dance was painful.  I wish I had known we were going to be doing it, so we could have practiced.  Then the club music started, and I was instantly out of my element.  The only thing that helped was being essentially drunk the entire time.  The alcohol had long-ago kicked in, and the lack of food was starting to take its toll.  I felt my inhibitions disappear as I busted my move like a spasmodic, featherless chicken.  I kept telling myself that I probably wouldn’t see any of these people again, so I might as well just have fun with it.

That was until a strange man grabbed me, put one arm around my shoulder, and started to Greek dance.  It consisted of holding my arm out to one side; lifting and crossing my legs in time to the music; snapping; and moving in a side-to-side, front-to-back rhythmic motion.  I stunk at it, but I loved every minute of it.  I felt like an adopted Greek at that moment…like I was finally a part of the family.

Wedding Memories – Part 1 (Wine)

Me:  The priest handed me a gold, ornamental goblet with an opening the size of a trashcan lid.  It was massive.  It took two hands to hold it, and even then I struggled with it in my grip.  The goblet was filled to the brim with dark, red wine; and with every breath, I was afraid of spilling it.

My eyes became almost as big as the opening on the goblet as the aroma of the rich alcohol hit my nose.  I am not a drinker…at all.  I stood staring down into that red liquid, telling myself, “You can do this.  It’s just a sip.  You’ll be okay.”  The priest was saying something in Greek in his deep, melodic voice, but I wasn’t really paying attention.  I was trying to keep the panic from washing over me.

Spousal Unit:  The priest handed him a normal-sized gold goblet.  In fact, it was so ornamental that it barely held any wine in it at all.  He held it with both hands, not because he had to, but because he was being careful with such a holy artifact.  Honestly, it was a little overkill, but I grinned nevertheless, as he realized that it was real wine in there. 

He never drinks alcohol.  In fact, I don’t remember having ever seen him drink the entire time we were together.  The priest was explaining the sacrament of holy communion and that this cup represented the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ poured out for our sins.  He instructed that my soon-to-be husband was the head of the household, and as such would need to lead the household in spiritual matters.  Therefore, he would need to drink three-fourths of the contents of the goblet, and I would drink the rest.

Me:  After the priest finished speaking, he motioned for my wife-to-be to translate for me.  I looked over at her, watching her rosy lips move, as she told me that I was to drink from the cup.  She might have mentioned how much I was to drink, but I didn’t hear, so mesmerized as I was by her beautiful lips.  Then again, she might have omitted that part for her own amusement.  When she nodded at me, I raised the goblet to my lips and took a sip.  As I started to pull the cup down, the priest raised one of his gnarled hands and tilted the base of the cup up with one finger.  I felt the warm wine travel down my throat and into my empty stomach.  My whole core felt like it was on fire, and the heat spread outward, consuming all of me in its warmth.

I was choking, trying to swallow as more and more of the red liquid poured down my throat.  Finally, the priest removed his finger, and I was able to pull the cup down and gasp for air.  My face felt like it was on fire, and I was sure that there was a flush to my cheeks.  I looked down into the massive goblet and saw only a small amount of the wine left.  It sloshed gently back and forth as I passed the goblet to my wife-to-be.  In one quick motion, she down what was left and handed the cup back to the priest.

Spousal Unit:  When the priest finished explaining the sacrament, he nodded for me to translate for my husband-to-be.  He was looking at me with the biggest eyes.  I could tell that all of this was making him uncomfortable.  He’s not used to being the center of attention for hundreds of people, all of their eyes watching his every move.  Not to mention that he had no idea what was going on and couldn’t understand a word that the priest was saying.  I simply told him that we were taking communion, and he needed to drink from the cup first.

I nodded at him, and he started to drink.  When he started to pull the cup down after only a sip, the priest tipped it back up so that he’d drink more.  I could see the flush spread across his cheeks almost instantly as the wine took its affect on him.  After a minute, the priest let him stop, and my husband-to-be passed the goblet to me.  He looked so cute, so vulnerable, with his rosy cheeks.  I took the goblet and drank the small amount of wine that was left and then handed it back to the priest.

Me:  The priest started to read from his positively massive Bible, which was gilded with gold and ornamentation, then he raised out his hand over us and said something else in Greek which I couldn’t understand, but which I presumed was some sort of benediction.  At that moment, our best man and maid of honor stepped up behind us and placed these white, flowered crowns on our heads.  I could see out of the corner of my eye that they were attached to each other by a single, white, satin ribbon.  

Before I could even get a translation or an idea of what was going on, the priest grabbed my right hand and started tugging me around the altar.  I felt my wife-to-be’s hand slide into my other hand, as I tugged her along after me.  Around and around we went around that altar, as those standing closest tossed handfuls of rice over us.  Some more enthusiastic guests were winding up like baseball pitchers and throwing the rice at us as hard as they could.  Others, like my father, didn’t understand how this worked and simply threw the whole bag at us at once.

As I tried to ward off the flying rice, which was difficult since both of my hands were occupied, I suddenly realized why the priest had such a massive Bible and why he hadn’t put it down before grabbing my hand.  He was holding it up in front of his face and literally using it as a shield.  Tiny grains of rice were ricocheting off the gold and ornamentation and flying in a myriad of directions, as the priest hunkered down safely behind it.

I have to say that the dizzying effect of walking in circles around the altar was not helping my inebriated state.  The guest’s faces were a blur of color, swirling around me, going faster and faster.  Their laughter and voices blending together into an indistinguishable cacophony of sound.  All of it was making my head spin, so I closed my eyes until the priest let go of my hand.

Spousal Unit:  The priest read a verse from the Bible about two flesh becoming one, and then he explained that we would now be taking our first steps together as husband and wife.  Our best man and maid of honor placed the wedding crowns on our heads and straightened out the ribbon that attached them together.  Suddenly, I saw my husband-to-be getting pulled away from me, so I scurried after him and grabbed his hand.  The priest was leading him around the altar.

People started throwing rice at us, which is a custom that signifies blessings bestowed upon the happy couple.  The more rice that gets stuck in your hair and in your clothing, the more blessings you’ll have in your marriage.  When I later changed from my wedding dress to my reception dress, I had over two kilos (about 4.5 pounds) of rice pour out onto the floor of my parent’s house.  It was everywhere.  Down my dress, in my underwear, and stuck in the curls of my hair.  I was still picking it out days later.

Me:  At this point, several other priests standing in the back started to chant in a melodic harmony of their three voices.  Someone took the crowns off of our heads, but I continued to hold onto my wife-to-be’s hand.  When the chanting stopped, the priest said something else I couldn’t understand in Greek, and motioned toward the door.  My wife turned and pulled me down the aisle toward the exit.

Just going with the flow at this point, I guessed we were through.  We were officially married.  As we walked down the aisle toward the entrance of the church, I said to my wife, “Whatever you do, don’t let me go.”  “Why?” she asked through her gritted teeth, keeping the smile plastered on her face.  “Because I think the priest got me drunk,” I responded leaning into her as we walked.

My wife looked over at my dopey eyes and goofy smile and said, “Just hang on, we’re almost outside.  And whatever you do, don’t take me down with you.”  As the doors opened, the cool, crisp November air washed into the church and blew across my flushed cheeks.  Almost instantly, I felt my strength and senses returning.  I could feel my eyesight and my head starting to clear, and I stood a little more upright.

Spousal Unit:  After our journey around the altar, the priest introduced us to the audience as husband and wife and motioned for us to make our way out of the church.  My husband and I were still holding hands, so I gently tugged him toward the door.  He seemed to be swaying a little bit as he walked, so I looked over at him with concern.

His cheeks were bright red, his eyes seemed to be defocused, and he had this happy grin on his face.  I asked him if he was all right, and he slurred, “I think I’m drunk!”  Luckily, we were close to the exit, and I hoped that the cold air would help sober him up a little.  One thought kept running through my mind, “Do not fall.  Do not fall.”

Wedding Memories - Intro (He Said, She Said)

My wife and I get a lot of questions about our wedding.  I'm not sure if it's because we got married three times, or if it's because we got married on two different continents.  Whatever the reason, we have plenty of stories, and we love to tell them!  However, we don't always tell them the same way.  Usually she thinks I embellish too much, while I think she leaves out all of the good parts!  After all of this time, the truth is probably somewhere in the middle.

So, in honor of my beautiful wife and our wacky wedding experience, I thought I would devote the next series of posts to memories of our wedding.  However, I'm going to attempt to tell them from both of our perspectives, so you can get the full effect of the experiences.  They will be told in no particular order, just whatever pops into my head that day.

So, sit back and imagine you're there with us as we travel from the United States to Greece.  The whirlwind of our two-week adventure is about to begin!

Audible Oops!

We were on the way home today from Thanksgiving, and we decided to stop in Waco for some lunch.  For some reason my wife had a craving for Whataburger; so we pulled in, ordered, and situated ourselves in a booth in the very crowded restaurant. 

The booths at this Whataburger are just ergonomic fiberglass; no padding, no fabric.  I had had an upset stomach all day, which was probably a direct result of the large volume of broccoli and egg nod I had consumed over the last three days, and my stomach was gurgling.  So, after they had brought our food and my wife had started to unwrap it, I took a moment to expel some of the gas that was uncomfortably expanding inside me.

As always, I had hoped to whiff it out like a ninja in the night.  What I got instead was a very loud, very audible tuba note that was only enhanced by the naked fiberglass I was sitting on.  At first I was hoping that the noisy din of conversation in the restaurant had covered up the vulgar noise…that was until I saw my wife’s face.  Her eyebrows were raised in question, her mouth was open in surprise, and her eyes were looking at me like I had just committed the greatest atrocity of man.  I also noticed that the conversation of the family of six in the booth behind me had mysteriously stopped. 

It was at this moment, that I was struck with a thought.  The booth I was sitting on was one of those double booths, where one seat faces one table and the other seat faces the other table.  It was made even worse by the fact that the booth at the table behind me was actually a semi-circle of one solid piece of fiberglass.  So, I was literally connected to the entire family.  And I started to imagine that they had actually felt the vibrations in addition to hearing it.  An image of all six people of varying ages wrinkling their noses and casting me disgusted looks ran through my head, and I lost it.

I started to smile, then chuckle, then full on laugh.  If I was hoping to cover my guilt before, it was lost when I was laughing so hard that I was turning red and crying into my French fries.  The more I thought about the absurdity of the situation and how the fiberglass booth had betrayed me, the harder I laughed.  My wife just continued to look at me like I had lost my mind.

Whether because they were done eating or because they were so appalled by this behavior, the family behind me left soon afterwards.  This only sent me into another fit of laughing, thinking that I had actually run an entire family off with that single, audible oops.  Nobody else seemed to have noticed, and I was eventually able to calm down enough to eat my lunch.

Shelby

I spent thanksgiving with my father and stepmother this year.  I was amazed and saddened at how old their dog Shelby is looking.  He’s fifteen now, my dad having gotten him just before my wife and I got married.  I remember the day my father brought him home, this little black and white fur ball.  He was so skittish and shy at first, not knowing what to make of all of these new people that were suddenly looming up around him.  I remember getting down in the grass with him so he wouldn’t feel so small and scared.  Slowly, slowly he walked towards me, sniffed me, and climbed into my lap.  He curled up in a little ball, chewing on my finger yet still watching everyone with one eye.  

Ever since that moment, we had a bond.  I played with him all the time, trying to wear out his inexhaustible energy.  Whenever we would watch movies on Friday nights, he would lay next to me on the couch...much to my father’s disappointment and irritation.  As much as my father likes to think that Shelby was his dog, he was wrong.  He was always my dog...my boy...from that first moment in the yard.  Even when I got married and moved away, Shelby was my dog.  Whenever I would come home, he would excitedly greet me at the door.  Something he would never do with my father.  Lately, his greetings are less exuberant than they once were, but he still stiffly lifts himself up and comes waddling to the door to greet me.  Nowadays, he has no interest in running around or playing.  He just likes to lean against my leg while I stroke his head and that spot right behind his ears.  He closes his eyes and drifts away into blissful happiness.  For a moment, he doesn’t hurt anymore.  For a moment, he just relaxes into the knowledge that he is totally and completely loved.

He’s still my boy.  Maybe a little skinnier.  Maybe a little grayer around the snout.  But still my dog.  I wish I could see him more, especially as he nears the end.  I want his last moments to be the best, where someone always has time to stroke that spot behind his ears that he loves so much.  I want him to always remember that I love him.  My dog.  My boy.

Life Through the Door

When I was a child, my father worked for the Houston Police Department, first as a patrolman and later in the computer fraud department.  Unfortunately, police pay wasn’t the best, and he found it difficult at times to be the sole bread winner tasked to support a family of four.  So, he took on a lot of extra jobs to supplement his pay; working the prisoner intake desk, security detail, and event protection.  While this significantly increased his income, it meant that my brother and I didn’t see him much throughout our childhood.

When he did come home, he would grab the newspaper, head straight to the bathroom, change clothes, and then shut himself in there for hours until dinner was ready.  He claimed that it was his decompression time, where he finally got to relax and de-stress from the day.  My brother and I were told to leave him alone while he was in there, which we obediently complied with…for 5-10 minutes.  Then, one of us would sneak up to the bathroom door and tap on it.  We were greeted with a sigh and a resigned, “Yes?”  Taking this as an invitation, we would excitedly launch into whatever it was that we wanted to share with our father.

Sometimes, it was as simple as wanting to show him our latest report card or artwork.  Sometimes, especially as we got older, it was wanting to ask for the sports page out of the newspaper.  It was not uncommon for the conversation to be initiated simply by sliding something under the door to him.  We’d push it halfway and wait.  If we saw it disappear, then we knew we had our opening.

Other times, we wanted to ask for his opinion on something or to relate a story about our day.  He would never open the door, so we’re not for certain that he was actually listening to us.  He could have just been reading the newspaper the whole time.  But that didn’t matter to us.  We would prattle on happily in our ignorance.

When I think back, almost all of my entire childhood interactions with my father were through a door.  I don’t remember having much time with him in person.  I have scattered memories here and there.  But I remember our interactions through the bathroom door.  It’s a strange way to grow up, and I guess psychologically speaking, we were looking for more of a relationship with our father.  We craved his attention and time, which was sparse and not freely given.  So, children being resilient like they are, we improvised and interjected ourselves into his life wherever and however we could.

The Best Part of Waking Up

I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror, and was amazed that I had gotten even better looking than yesterday.  This isn’t vanity or conceit, it’s just a fact.  I was struck by how sexy I was, and I was suddenly tempted to become self-gay, if such a thing is possible.  

Of course I could barely see through the sleep that was still clouding my eyes, and I was having to squint at the bathroom light that was blinding my overly-sensitive pupils, so I could have in fact been looking at the swan painting on the wall or the flower arrangement on our sink.  Either way, something in that bathroom was giving off major “How you doin?” vibes.

Only the Best

When I take my wife out on a date, I do it up right.  I know a lot of guys are money-conscious, so they try to steer their date to a less-expensive alternative.  But that’s not me.  I want to lavish my wife.  So, when we go to a really fancy dinner, somewhere like McDonald’s, I let her choose anything off the menu.  None of that dollar menu stuff.  She gets only the best.

Filaki, Filaki, Filaki

My first job out of college was in retail sales in a computer and electronics store named Altex.  It was not a glamorous job.  I spent eight hours a day on my feet, trying to convince people that they needed things that they had no idea that they needed.  As an introvert, that was one of the hardest jobs I have ever had.  I had to approach complete strangers and start conversations with them, sometimes pretending like I knew more than I actually did.

My fiancé liked to call me at work to check on me during my down times.  It wasn’t uncommon for me to take phone calls from new or returning customers, but it was tricky to mislead my manager.  He was always watching us and timing how long we spent on the phone.  My fiancé wanted to end every phone call by sending me kisses, which I obviously couldn’t return with my manager watching.  She understood, but was also hurt by this.  So I had to improvise, and I took to saying, “filaki, filaki, filaki,” which is Greek for “little kisses.”  Now, whenever we’re in a public situation where blowing kisses at each other wouldn’t be appropriate, we simply say, “filaki, filaki, filaki,” and it’s our own private romantic moment.

Blink

I’m so tired today that I’m afraid that if I blink for one second longer than normal that I might not open my eyes again. I have to force myself to keep my eyes open, which means I have been sitting in meetings staring at people all day long. Most people look away uncomfortably, but several people have been defiant enough to stare back. I’m too tired to care, so a long staring contest ensues. I’m not sure if I won or not because I spaced out at some point.

20th High School Reunion

My 20th high school reunions is next week. They thought it would be a good idea to have it the day after Thanksgiving.  I guess they assumed that everyone would be in town visiting family anyway.  The stupid thing is that I only found the announcement by chance.  They posted it on Facebook, which I’m never on.  If I hadn’t happened to log on for the first time all year, I would have missed it.

As I went to the website to purchase tickets, I noticed a list of people that had already signed up.  As I scrolled through the list of a little over 100 people, I realized that while I recognized some of the names, none of them were people that I had ever actually talked to in high school.  They were the outgoing people, the cool people, the popular people.  They were people that had actually been active in high school.  I was not one of those people.  

I was the guy that hung out on the back fields to eat lunch.  I was the guy that was introverted and kept a low profile.  With sadness, I realized that none of them would even recognize my name.  Nobody would care if I went or not.  I slowly closed the webpage without buying a ticket.  I had been waiting 20 years for this moment, and now that it had arrived, I couldn’t figure out what I had been waiting for.  I regret not being more involved.  I can think of so many ways I could have inserted myself in the happenings of the school, but I didn’t.  I just tried to get through it and move on.  I don’t have a lot of fond memories of high school, but I feel that is largely my own fault.  I had the chance and didn’t take it. Now there doesn’t seem like much point in going back.  I kept in touch with the people I cared about back then, so I guess that’ll have to suffice.

To those who do go, happy 20th anniversary, Bellaire HS Class of ‘97, from the anonymous introvert on the football fields.

Hold Your Breath

I hate those suspenseful moments in a game where you’re waiting for something to happen.  Because you sit there not even wanting to blink, because you know that as soon as you do, that crap will get real.

Copy-Cats

I think it’s interesting that every time someone mentions that I have a blog, that I used to write poetry, or that I’m working on writing a novel; that the other person always replies that they’re a writer too.  There’s always a story about how they wrote a poem in high school, or a short story in college, or a postcard on vacation.  Something to try to relate.  I don’t really think it’s the same thing as maintaining a blog for over ten years.  And that’s okay.  We don’t have to be in competition.  I’m sure there are things that they do well that I don’t do.  We can all have our special thing and appreciate the special things in each other.

Dear Blog

CS was asking me about my blog and whether it was like a diary.  I told him that I didn’t start every entry with “Dear Blog” or anything, but that it did contain my thoughts and observations about life. However, I don’t put secrets in it, and it’s open to the public.  So, no I guess it’s not like a diary.  It’s like a…well, a blog.

How are you?

I always hate when someone asks how I’m doing, because I don’t feel like they really want to know how I am.  It’s just a socially-accepted greeting, and really just equates to “Hi.”  But it’s worse than “Hi,” because someone actually expects an answer to that question.  So, any answer I give will then be a lie to appease them without giving the awkward truth that they don’t really want to hear and that I don’t really want to have to explain further. 

My default answer lately has been, “I’m surviving.”  But that usually just makes people uncomfortable, because I insinuated that something might be off in my little universe, but now the burden is on them to either ask about it or chuckle and walk away slowly.  So, I think I’m going to switch to, “I’m in good health.”  That way I am not insinuating or revealing anything, and everyone can feel good about themselves that they asked and escaped without an awkward situation.  I AM in good health, so it won’t be a lie, and I’ll be able to live with myself after the encounter as well.  It’s a win-win.

The Fan That Divides Us – the Revisit

So, we have gone several nights now without the fan, and last night my wife woke me up at 2 a.m. as she not-so-quietly extricated herself from the covers, grabbed her pillow, and huffed her way out of the room.  I stopped her to ask why she was leaving, and she said that I was breathing heavy and it was keeping her awake.  Breathing heavy?  What does that even mean?  I wasn’t snoring.  I was breathing heavy.  I mean, what do I do with that?  Stop breathing?

I laughed at the absurdity of this, because the only reason she heard me breathing heavy was that it was so quiet in the room.  That’s right.  Ironically, the quiet that she so desperately craves is now causing her angst.  The fan that she has so much hatred for was actually covering up these noises all of these years, but she never gave it the respect or credit that it deserved.  Now, I think she wants the fan back, but she can’t bring herself to ask for it after she talked so much smack about it.

So, we shall both be uncomfortable.  I will be holding my breath, and she will have to hear me gasp for air every 30 seconds.  I guess now it will be the silence that divides us.

The Plagues of the Elements

I was watching the “Prince of Egypt” recently, and I was struck by a thought that I had never thought about before.  I was enamored with the 10 Plagues of Egypt and God’s use of all of the elements to accomplish his goals.  Many believe that everything boils down to four basic elements ; that is Air, Water, Fire, and Earth.  In each of the plagues God used one of these elements to create the plague, and each plague affected one of these elements…except the last one.

The last plague was performed by the Angel of the Lord against man himself.  And since man was made in the image of God, it was the fifth element against the fifth element.  The element of Man.

·         Water into blood – Water

o   Take your staff and stretch out your hand over the waters of Egypt, over their rivers, over their streams, and over their pools, and over all their reservoirs of water, that they may become blood; and there will be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood and in vessels of stone.  Exodus 7:19

·         Frogs – Water

o   Stretch out your hand with your staff over the rivers, over the streams and over the pools, and make frogs come up on the land of Egypt.  Exodus 8:5

·         Gnats – Earth

o   Stretch out your staff and strike the dust of the earth, that it may become gnats through all the land of Egypt.  Exodus 8:16

·         Flies – Earth

o   Then the Lord did so. And there came great swarms of flies into the house of Pharaoh and the houses of his servants and the land was laid waste because of the swarms of flies in all the land of Egypt.  Exodus 8:24

·         Cattle Die – Earth

o   For if you refuse to let them go and continue to hold them, behold, the hand of the Lord will come with a very severe pestilence on your livestock which are in the field, on the horses, on the donkeys, on the camels, on the herds, and on the flocks.  Exodus 9:2-3

·         Boils – Fire & Air

o   So they took soot from a kiln, and stood before Pharaoh; and Moses threw it toward the sky, and it became boils breaking out with sores on man and beast.  Exodus 9:10

·         Hail – Air & Fire

o   Stretch out your hand toward the sky, that hail may fall on all the land of Egypt, on man and on beast and on every plant of the field, throughout the land of Egypt.  Exodus 9:22

o   So there was hail, and fire flashing continually in the midst of the hail, very severe, such as had not been in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation.  Exodus 9:24

·         Locusts – Earth

o   Stretch out your hand over the land of Egypt for the locusts, that they may come up on the land of Egypt and eat every plant of the land, even all that the hail has left.  Exodus 10:12

·         Darkness - Air

o   Stretch out your hand toward the sky, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even a darkness which may be felt.  Exodus 10:21

·         First Born – Man

o   and all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of the Pharaoh who sits on his throne, even to the firstborn of the slave girl who is behind the millstones; all the firstborn of the cattle as well.  Exodus 11:5

The Fan That Divides Us

Ever since I was a kid, I have slept with a fan.  I use it mostly to circulate the air in the room, because my nose get stopped up, and I can’t breathe if it gets too stuffy.  However, it has come to have other uses as well, such as cooling me down in the hotter months and covering up the myriad of noises that break the stillness of the night.

When I got married, my wife took an immediate hatred to my fan.  Something about the constant, consistent rhythm of the whirring of the blades…the even cadence of the noise…angers her.  Even though I know it’s a lie, she claims that she can’t sleep when I have the fan on (her snoring would lend credence to my claims).  But after fourteen years of living with the fan, she suddenly  has had enough.  On occasion, we have even taken to sleeping in separate rooms, because she refuses to deal with it anymore.

So, something as stupid and innocent as a fan is tearing our marriage apart.  Who would have thought that the mistress that would one day come between us is made from metal, wire, and an electrical motor.  Well, for the sake of keeping my wife happy and keeping us together, I have taken to turning off the fan on the odd night, so we have a sort of compromising truce.  Of course, she won’t be satisfied until it’s off permanently, but I’m not quite ready to go that far yet.  So for now, we have an uneasy cease fire.