Do or Do Not, There is No Tri

It appears that the fitness binge I have been on has dramatically altered the content of this blog. For those of you who read regularly, expecting to be regaled with tales of drunken debauchery, I must disappoint you for another month. After all, this month I have to detail my first foray into the world of competitive triathlons. This past weekend, 2/3rds of Team BBK took a trip down to Champaign to race in Tri-the-Illini, U of I's annual sprint triathlon. Competing against hundreds of college kids who were not yet alive when Nintendo released Track and Field and the accompanying power pad, we had to swim 300 meters, bike 14.5 miles, and run a 5K.

While I had been training for this ever since I returned from my bike trip across Iowa in July, my first triathlon experience was almost derailed before it even started. Champaign is roughly 150 miles from Chicago, just long enough to be considered a road trip. As such, everyone knows that you're letting the terrorists win if you don't indulge in America's finest fast food establishments while on a road trip. There was just something about the rhythm of the asphalt under the car and the countless rows of corn whipping past my window that made me crave both Steak and Shake and Chik-Fil-A. I was halfway through my chicken nuggets when I snapped from my fast food induced reverie just long enough to realize that my dining choices might not bode well for my performance the following morning. I immediately had a vision of myself tethered to a toilet in a gym locker room, just close enough to hear the starter's pistol signifying the beginning of the race.

Fortunately my dining options did not come back to haunt me. I was well rested and in good shape gastrointestinally when we got to the campus the next morning. Upon our arrival, I realized that we would not just be competing against a slew of college kids. There were various age groups present, including a pair of 79 year old's, that could potentially embarrass me throughout the race. However, as the race got under way, it became evident that my apprehension was unwarranted to a certain degree. During the biking portion of the race, my strongest leg of the three, I was able to overtake the septuagenarians as well as various baby-boomers. I knew the age of each person I passed because the race officials kindly wrote our ages on our calves with a thick sharpie. I'm not sure if this was done to embarrass people as they got passed by older racers, but it got me to thinking about how I could potentially bring home some hardware during my next triathlon. Upon signing in, I noticed that no one took the time to verify my age. What's to stop me from fudging my age on my registration? That way I could compete against the 40-somethings for an age group victory rather than go up against young bucks in the 25-29 range. I don't think I'll have any trouble passing as a 40-something, and any guilt I might feel would certainly be diminished by the fact that my alcohol and drug abuse over the past 10-15 years has taken decades off my life, leaving me with a body that is actually more reminiscent of a 50 year old's than a 29 year old's.

While I've enjoyed the adrenaline rush that comes along with competitive racing, I'm afraid that this new sport is robbing me of a bit of my street cred. Prior to the bike trip across Iowa and the triathlon, the whitest thing I ever did was stay at a quaint B&B while taking a winery tour through the Finger Lakes region (attending a phish show was a close second but even there you could expect the random Rastafarian to add to the diversity). However, these races are about as white as it gets. The only people of any color at these events are the obese racers who have turned firetruck red as they strain to climb the steepest hills on their bikes.

Most of you might be thinking that I didn't have much street cred to begin with, but at least when I was playing basketball I learned which moisturizers are the best to use when I was all ashy and I knew how to properly mix Hennessy and Alize to make a perfect Thug Passion. And when I was playing baseball I knew how to say ""I've seen better moves at an 8th grade dance" in Spanish when the opposing pitcher would attempt his pick-off move with a runner on first. Losing what little street cred I had is particularly disturbing to me because I witnessed first-hand what it means to be a Midwestern Caucasian during these races. When we were in Iowa, we were surprised by the locals complete inability to pick up on any sense of sarcasm, irony, or the dryness of our wit. For example, one morning Neil asked a high school girl serving biscuits and gravy, "How much would it cost to have my water bottle filled with gravy?" The girl could not wrap her head around this simple attempt at humor and nervously stammered, "uh..uh..uh...I don't know...I'll have to go ask the manager." Due to encounters like this, I started to become fearful that if I continued to participate in these ultra white sporting events, I could become as bland and vanilla as that simple Iowa farm girl standing behind the delicious vat of gravy.

However, this fear quickly dissipated when I remembered that there is one non-white characteristic that I will never lose: the ability to own a room with my dance moves. My moves are so transcendent that the Retar's decided that they needed to share them with the world. Check me out in the video below, (the dance solo at the end has caused a firestorm on youtube as Retar fans across the world have demanded that I be featured in more videos) and be sure to check out their new album that was just recently released. As always, it's free to download at http://www.theretarcrew.com/

"Is this Heaven?...No, It's Iowa"

I had hoped to write a running diary of the events that transpired during our week biking across Iowa. However, because Iowa is apparently a third world country, there were no wifi capabilities in any of the towns that we visited. So I've decided to condense my musings into one post. Enjoy...

Day 1 - The entire trip was thrown into immediate peril before we even biked a single mile. The night before we were to leave, Chicago received an onslaught of rain as Lori and I awoke to find that our basement possessed a foot and a half of water. Fortunately, the rain began to subside, the water levels receded, and Lori, being the saint that she is, gave me the green light to take off. Rather than dwell on Lori slogging through countless soggy boxes, I decided to regard the flood as a good luck charm, something akin to rain on your wedding day.

However, things did not get much better that first day. While driving to the westernmost part of the state, I experience a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. As our rented SUV strained to climb hill after rolling hill, I immediately realize that Iowa isn't the flat prairie that I assumed it was. I come to the horrifying realization that the completely flat trail along Lake Michigan in no way prepared me for what was in store. Unprecedented trepidation sets in, and I immediately begin to concoct schemes to get out of the situation. I decide it's best to begin to lay the groundwork for some sort of injury, so I can bow out gracefully and with my dignity in tact.

Day 2 - During our first day of riding, we come to the realization that most bikers on the trip are actually a part of highly organized teams, complete with matching uniforms. We decide that our rag-tag team of four guys riding in cargo shorts and tee shirts at least needs a name. We decide that for the rest of the trip we'll be known as "Team Four Guys, One Tent." To cope with the awkwardness of having a close friend's hot, steamy breath bear down on your neck as you try to sleep, we take to drinking copious amounts of alcohol just prior to bedding down each night.

Day 3 - Each town along the route rolls out the red carpet for the RAGBRAI bikers. After all, the presence of over 10,000 riders is easily the most exciting thing to ever happen to most of these places. As such, we feel it is our duty to support the local economy during these trying times by stopping into each watering hole that we pass. On this day, all the drinking puts me in a great mood, despite the hills and over 80 miles of riding. In a fit of alcohol-induced merriment, I decide that this trip should become an annual tradition. In fact, I even go so far as to propose that we change our name to "Team Three Guys, Two Newlyweds, One Tent." I'm sure that with a small degree of cajoling I can convince Lori that the 2011 ride is an ideal honeymoon location.

One of the many highly-organized teams is a group of riders from the Air Force. Despite their aerodynamic blue uniforms, undoubtedly designed by NASA for optimal speed, I fly past their team and reach the final town minutes before them due to my 5th wind of the day. I can only assume that several privates were water-tortured later that night for allowing the slovenly civilian to beat them. If they can't chase down a 250 lb hippie in Iowa, it's no wonder they have such a difficult time subduing insurgents in the Middles East

Day 4 - The ubiquitous niceness of small-town Iowans begins to rub off on Jackson. He is usually rather cantankerous when at home in Chicago. However, during the ride he can't help but curb his snarky comments. For example, during one beer pit stop, Jackson commented, "It's interesting how all the riders on this tour come in all shapes and sizes." This made me laugh because what he really meant was, "I can't believe how many fat-asses are on this tour."

Most towns arrange for a dj or a cover band to entertain the masses that descend upon their communities. However, on this particular day, Clear Lake, a particularly wealthy resort community, goes the extra mile and books The Spin Doctors for our listening pleasure. It may have been the endorphins still coursing through my body after the ride, but I feel fairly confident that I achieved a state of total enlightenment while sitting in a porta-potty and listening to Alexi Lalas's doppelganger belt out "Two Princes" a mere 100 feet away. So I got that going for me...

Drinking all day makes us, as you might expect, have to relieve ourselves in the middle of the night. However, this proves to be a problem when you are camping in a sea of tents and the porta potties are roughly a hundred yards away. Jackson was particularly stubborn when it came to making this late night trek. He began experimenting with various ways in which he could relieve himself without having to exit the tent. After much trial and error, he finally developed a technique that would not soil the tent or its inhabitants. I don't want to go into too much detail here because this is a family-oriented blog after all. However, for those camping fanatics among you who have struggled with this problem, I don't want to leave you hanging. Imagine Jackson as the center on an offensive line, with his head in the tent and his backside pointing out the mouth of the tent. I'll leave it to your imagination to figure out how he completes the technique that has come to be known as the "long snap."

Neil also experimented with some progressive methods of gastrointestinal-relief. He found an entire roll of toilet paper to be too burdensome for our already heavy bag, so he took to carrying a single banana each day on the route. While squatting in the middle of a corn field, he would proceed to eat said banana and then afterwards put the peel to other uses. Local Indian tribes remain astounded by his resourcefullness.

Day 5 - The fake injury that I had been planning to stage becomes an actual one when my quad muscle starts to hurt. This is particularly bothersome to me because I have have no insurance and I've been told that reconstructive knee surgery can get pricey. During a pit stop I decide to consult the three doctors in my family via text message. When only one of the three uses the term "MRI," I decide the odds are in my favor and that I should press on, ignoring the pain.

Day 6 - After 5 days of relatively nice weather, we get hit with our first thunderstorm. Flying down the backside of a steep hill at over 30 mph is particularly scary when coupled with a slick road and pelting rain fogging up your glasses. However, despite the treacherous road conditions, I decided it was safer than being in my neighborhood, where an armed convict was being hunted by swat teams (for those of you visiting this month, don't let this deter you. We've been assured that this was an isolated incident).

Day 7 - We play catch on the "Field of Dreams." Words can not do this place justice, so I won't try. In fact I'm getting a little misty-eyed just thinking about it. Aftewards, we proceed to Dubuque where we touch our tires in the Mississippi River, signifying that our trip across the entire state has come to an end. Thousands of dollars change hands as the multitude of people across the country who bet against me are shocked to learn that I actually rode each of the roughly 450 miles.

During this trip, I learned that the endorphins released through rigorous exercise are almost as good as actual drugs. So I think I'll try to continue this exercise binge. Any suggestions concerning another challenge to take on???

To Ease Her Pain, I will Go the Distance: My Jaunt Through Iowa

I’m happy to report that my days of homelessness are finally over! Even though the renovations are not yet complete, Lori and I have been able to spend the past week in our new house. While I’m certainly happy to be sleeping in my own bed, I was not prepared mentally for the fact that my transition from carefree, couch-surfing bachelor to engaged homeowner would bring about such an onslaught of new responsibilities so quickly. For example, now that we have officially moved in, the wildly out-of-control weeds, grass, and shrubs were no longer a laughing matter, but rather a serious indictment against us as homeowners. Every time I tried to rectify the situation, I was quickly overwhelmed by the enormity of the landscaping task at hand, and I promptly found an excuse to abort the mission. However, I was afraid that if I didn’t take care of this situation, we would quickly become known as the hillbillys of the neighborhood. I suspect the neighbors have already begun referring to us as the "Ewells" or some other fictitious family of trashballs. And trust me, earning that kind of nickname in this neighborhood is no small feat. It’s quite an accomplishment being known as the trashiest family in a neighborhood that features a public pool that is frequented by Pollocks in their underwear. The lifeguards there have a hell of a time trying to convince these big-headed Euros that tighty-whities do not qualify as swimsuits.

Eventually I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. Our annual block party was quickly approaching, and our house happens to be at the epicenter of the festivities. So with the prospect of the entire neighborhood congregating in front of our house, I was finally shamed into doing something about the lawn. Cutting six inches of grass with a non-electric push mower is a pretty tall order, but I eventually got through it. Now I’m confident we’ll no longer be the Ewells, and I can assume some other persona. In fact, I’m fairly certain we’re quickly gaining a reputation as the neighborhood exhibitionists. After all, during the block party one of our neighbors commented, “I’m glad to see you finally bought a lawn mower. Now you just need to buy some drapes and you’ll be all set.” In my defense, we did go shopping for drapes so my neighbors wouldn’t have to see me in my birthday suit every morning and most afternoons (I get pretty hot and sweaty watching the Tour De France, but I think that’s a topic best left unexplored). However, as we were shopping, I asked several times “Do you think these drapes will match our carpets?” while giggling uncontrollably. About the fifth time I posed this question Lori got fed up and walked out of store, and we were unable to accomplish anything with regard to covering our windows.

Perhaps the drapes-shopping incident proves that I’m not mature enough to be a homeowner. For this reason I’ve decided to skip town and allow Lori to make all the big decisions regarding decorating and arranging our furniture. As I told you in my last blog entry, I will be taking my sophomoric humor on a bike ride across Iowa. In lieu of tending to my property, I have been training rather arduously for this ride. Though some have questioned BBK's training methods (apparently serious bikers don't end each ride by trying drink the same amount of calories that they just burned), riding with my krew has gotten me to the point where I can ride well over 40 miles without much difficulty at all. Now if I can just figure out a way to do two of those 40 mile rides in one day I’ll be all set for Ragbrai. However, I’m pretty sure that if I ever hit a wall and I feel like I won’t be able to finish all 450 miles, the thought of dancing blissfully to this band on the last day will get me through.

Despite my trepidation, I’m excited for the trip. I’m going to try to update the blog daily (or whenever we're in a town that has free WIFI somewhere), so be on the lookout for that in the week to come!

Ridin' Shirtless With #88

My foray into homelessness (see below for details if you missed this month’s first post) has eclipsed the three week mark, and with no end in sight, I think it’s starting to have some profoundly adverse effects on me. At first I embraced the freedom that was unjustly denied me simply because I possessed a roof and lived with Lori. I figured my time as a carefree couch-surfer would be a nice break from the comfortable monotony of betrothed cohabitation. Indeed, in the beginning, this freedom was everything that I hoped it would be. I came and went as I pleased, drank with grad school friends and Retars, frequented after-hour 5 am bars, left the toilet seat up, and survived on a diet that consisted entirely of pork rinds, cheese curds, those KFC sandwiches where the bun is two pieces of fried chicken, and mountain dew. However, after a few weeks of this solipsistic lifestyle, it is evident that I am starting to deteriorate mentally, physically, and spiritually.

The first sign of trouble was when I missed a 7:30 am meeting with Lori and Steve the Romanian Contractor. In my defense, we had an action packed itinerary the previous night. My softball team won its first game of the year after a rocky start to the season as I jump started our offense with a solo dinger in the 2nd (it was actually a triple with a throwing error, but our score-keeper likes to overlook such technicalities and I felt no need to quibble). Later that night, the Blackhawks won Lord Stanley’s Cup, setting off a week-long celebration that proudly exhibited all the best this city has to offer. My arch nemesis the Boston Sports Guy summed it best when he said in a recent column on ESPN.com, “By the way, I'd like to thank Chicago for single-handedly keeping the following American big-city traditions alive: smoking, drinking during the day, eating terrible food, congeniality and breasts. It's noble work you're doing, Chicago. We're all proud of you.” The series clinching game of the Cup Finals was a particularly rough night for me. At some point during the third period I thought it would be a good idea to take my shirt off so that I would be fully prepared when Patrick Kane arived in his limo with the Cup and girls in tow.

However, Kaner never showed up, and I, still with my shirt off, subsequently became the first heterosexual man in the history of the world to have a motorboat performed on him by a beautiful, blonde girl, instead of the other way around. It was at that point that I realized that it might be a good idea to switch over to the KFC sandwiches where the bun is two pieces of grilled chicken. When Kaner eventually slipped one past the goalie (nickel) to win the Cup in overtime, I didn’t know how to react, having never actually cared about a hockey game in my life. So, I decided to celebrate the same way I celebrate all of life’s big events, including weddings, baptisms, brises, elementary school graduation ceremonies, and Avon Breast Cancer Walks: I ordered car bombs. Several of them. These were what ultimately led to my truancy the next morning. When Lori did see me later that day, she was not particularly pleased as you could imagine, stating in earnestness that I looked like a “bloated corpse.”

Not wanting to go through life looking like a bloated corpse, I’ve since resolved to improve my physical health, hoping the mental and spiritual side will follow suit. It is for this reason that I have decided to go on a seven day bike tour across Iowa next month. For the past week I have been training with BBK, the most extreme, bad-ass bike krew in the city of Chicago, for this trek through America’s heartland that will cover as many as 80 miles a day. Having never been on such a journey, I’m not sure what to expect, so I’ve started eliciting advice from people. One close friend told me to bring a life-time’s supply of baby powder (If you’re not sure why this is important, then you’re evidently not familiar with what happens to a corpulent man’s thighs when walking, running, or riding a bike in the heat of July. If you’re not privy to such information, I’ll spare you the details, but rest assured it is not pleasant). With this solid piece of advice in mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to implore the rest of you to use the comments section to provide me with any other pieces of advice, information, or words of caution that you think might be of use to me as I prepare for and eventually undertake this journey.

Home is Where the Aeromattress Is

I was hoping to write this latest blog from the comfort of my new home. Instead, I’m writing this latest blog with intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be homeless. I’m currently sitting in the Maplewood Bar (JQ of the Retar Crew’s basement bar), which happens to be moonlighting as my bedroom. Many of you have probably jumped to the conclusion that Lori has already kicked me out of the house. I would probably put my money on this as well, but in actuality I’m living in a bar because the lease on our apartment has run out and the renovation project on the new house has run long. So while Lori lives in the clean and air-conditioned opulence of her childhood home, I’m trying to sleep through Jackson continuing his Dimaggio-like streak of consecutive days of drunkenness in the Maplewood (Those of you who think I have some alcoholic tendencies have never met Jackson. In the analogy mentioned above, I'm certainly a Dom to Jackon's Joe D.)

Steve, our Romanian contractor, is a great guy, but it’s tough not to get frustrated with him now that this project has run two weeks late and counting. The frustration began when he tried to impose his unique Eastern European aesthetic on our new home. We are doing extensive renovations as we try to restore the bungalow back to its original design (wood floors, original oak moulding, etc. while extracting the 70’s influences including orange, green, and white dangling beads separating the living and dining rooms ). Lori has raided the local library taking out books about traditional Chicago bungalows. So her newfound bungalow knowledge directly contradicts the Eastern-Euro post-fall of Ceausescu era sensibilities of the contractor. She wants vintage door knobs and light fixtures while he wants to install speakers in every room of the house, just like his place, "so when my wife is cleaning the house, she doesn't have to move the radio from room to room. It’s easier to get speakers for every room than it is to get radios for every room.” I couldn’t argue with that logic, but Lori shot down the idea nonetheless.

My frustration grew even stronger this morning when I was awoken to Steve fixing the bathroom of the Maplewood. Upon noticing that his incessant banging woke me up, he promptly tried to hit me up for cash. “Oh hey, Tom! Did you get a chance to go to the bank yet to pay for the moulding?” he queried as I rubbed my eyes. So just to clarify the situation, not only was his lack of progress preventing me from sleeping in my own home, but now his vehement dedication to fixing the Maplewood was also preventing me from sleeping in my makeshift bedroom.

So while I’m acclimating myself to living sans roof, I’ve tried to focus on the positives. Every time Romanian Steve barges in on my bar-bedroom, I try to remind myself of the great aspects of our future home. For example, our new neighborhood definitely features an upgrade in celebrities. Our old hood featured disgraced Celebrity Apprentice Rod Blagojevich, one half of the Retar Crew, and my personal favorite, Sandra Cisneros (for those of you saying “Who the hell is Sandra Cisneros?” right now, rest assured every 8th grade English teacher who reads this blog is wetting themselves with jealously that I get my haircut at the same place as the writer of The House on Mango Street). However, the new hood features rock-genius Jeff Tweedy of Wilco fame. This fact added to my intention to learn the upright bass this summer means I could have a whole new career arc in the new place.

The most disconcerting part of my fall on hard times is that it has coincided with an explosion in popularity of the Retar Crew. Their "We Love the Hawks" bandwagon song has taken off in this city as Hawks fever has spiraled out of control. They have been featured in the local newspaper, the mornning news, and sports talk radio. This means that there are long nights of celebration in the Maplewood while I try to sleep and/or write my final grad school papers with graduation looming just days away. Check out the Hawks dance craze that is sweeping the nation:

Our Engagement: Following in McDreamy's Footsteps

Many of you have been clamoring for a blog update. I admit I have been negligent in keeping you apprised on the latest happenings, but it has been for good reason.

Last time we were in contact Lori and I had just gotten engaged. However, the wedding planning was going far too smoothly. We experienced no drama whatsoever in getting the church and reception hall that we wanted (June 18th 2011. Consider this your pre-save the date notification). If romantic comedies and reality television shows have taught us anything (and I’m quite confident they’ve taught me quite a bit), it’s that planning a wedding is supposed to be really stressful, filled with over-bearing in-laws, meddling protagonists who just realized they are actually in love with their best-friend the bride, and a last minute plea to stop the ceremony. Therefore, we were obviously a bit concerned when the stress failed to come to fruition in the days following the engagement. Were we going about this the wrong way? What were we doing wrong? Rom-Coms teach us that it doesn’t bode well for the long-term happiness of our marriage if there isn't a whole lot of drama leading up to the exciting final scene. After all, Patrick Dempsey, in Made of Honor, had to go through all sorts of stress, including wearing a mini-skirt kilt and planning a highly inappropriate wedding shower that included an erotic gift saleswoman, before he could convince the girl from Gone Baby Gone to ditch the hulking Scottish guy (who inexplicably didn’t know you were allowed to dunk a basketball during a pickup game! I realize that b-ball isn’t huge in the UK, but surely this Highland haggis-eater must have seen some form of professional basketball at some point in his life! After all I’ve never played rugby but I’m fairly attuned to the principles of the game. This movie would have you believe the Scots are as isolated as the Kumbai tribe!) and live with him happily ever after.

So if the wedding planning wasn’t going to bring about the required stress, we figured we should try to manufacture some. That is why in the middle of our wedding planning we have also decided to purchase a house. For the past six or seven weeks we have been dealing with all the hassles that come along with negotiations, inspections, and convincing banks that they won’t have to foreclose on the house 6 months from now (For some reason the banks are a bit gun-shy these days when it comes to giving loans worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to 29 year old full-time grad students).

However, despite all stress inherent in this process, we finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, and we should be closing on the house on March 30th. This means that all of you who have neglected to visit us thus far no longer have any excuses as there are plenty of bedrooms that can be converted into guest rooms in the absence of children (our own children that is. Feel free to bring yours). And a special invitation is also extended to any of you with home remodeling experience. Feel free to make your summer vacation a “staycation,” as in stay with us and help fix up the place.

I also wanted to give you some updates on the wedding front. In addition to setting the date, church, and reception hall, we’ve also registered at Williams Sonoma (the store made specifically for classy, up-scale alcoholics), Dick’s Sporting Goods, and the National Mustard Museum in Madison, Wisconsin. Lori caused quite a stir at the museum when she announced that her last name meant "mustard seed." The women at the counter doling out samples rushed off to find the "curator." After the entire staff fawned over her for 20 minutes (which simultaneously prevented anyone from serving me a brat and made us late to a brewery tour. I was obviously far from pleased), the creepy curator insisted posing in a picture with Lori. This photo-op is now featured in their latest newsletter (unfortunately I couldn't get the link).

Finally, I want to enlist your help. We are starting to look at caterers for the reception. Lori and I are at odds over what kind of food to get. I want Connie’s Pizza, but she wants anything but Connie’s Pizza. So please feel free to use the comments section to give us any advice concerning appetizers, dinner, desert, and most importantly booze.

A Commitment to Last a Lifetime

As many of you know by now, Lori and I have some HUGE news. We’ve decided that after seven years of dating, we are finally ready to make a commitment that will last for eternity: we are going to get a lifetime membership to the Y. It just makes so much sense from an economic standpoint. In other news, we’ve also decided to get married. I know this may come as a shock to most of you. I bet many of you are thinking A. “Weren’t they already common law married by now?” B. “I can’t believe she said ‘Yes.’ She’s way out of his league” or C. “I thought he was gay.” Well, what can I say? If you had one of those reactions then you had a 66.6% chance of being 100% accurate.

Many of you have been wondering how the proposal went down, so I thought I’d satiate everyone’s curiosity with a blog post. To fully understand the intricacies of the proposal, I first need to give you some background information on the early days of our relationship.

For those of you who lived in the Bronx back in the early 2000s, you’ll recall that Lori and I started dating my senior year of college. I don’t remember much from the spring semester of that year. This was due in large part to the 800 dollar credit card bill that I racked up at Mount Carmel Wine and Spirits in the first month that we started dating. I think I was trying to impress Lori and more importantly get on the good side of her friends with my extravagant liquor purchases, but it’s more likely that the lion’s share of that drinking was done in my basement with my friend Matt while betting each other chugs of Jameson on the outcome of Madden 2002 plays(Regardless of the cause of the exorbitant bill, it landed me in hot water with my mother because my credit cards statements were still being sent home at that point. I got a scolding, but my mother’s anger must not have resonated because I promptly went out that same day and put 300 dollars worth of liquor on my card for the Princeton Men’s Lacrosse team. It occurs to me that that last sentence sounds pretty gay, but I assure you I was just trying to help them out on their 4 hour post-game bus ride. It was my friend Pete who acted a little suspicious when he kept on making remarks like, “Did you tell the Princeton boys I helped you get the booze?” and “I wish I could ride the bus back with the Princeton boys!”).

Despite the the massive credit card bill and the havoc it caused, I do have a few clear memories of senior year. I remember that my hair was quite long and that I was referred to, on more than one occasion, as “Air Jesus” on the intramural basketball court. I remember having a steamy, homo-erotic relationship with my physics professor, Dr. Mancini (Oh wait. That wasn't me. That was my roommate Ed). I remember wearing the same velour jumpsuit five days a week.

But most of all, I remember our first date in vivid detail. It was Valentine’s Day, and I told Lori that I would cook her dinner. She must have been skeptical of me because when I arrived at her apartment that evening, I discovered that I was actually cooking a romantic dinner for three. I was uninformed that her roommate and best-friend Maureen would be joining us (Subsequently, this third wheel would become a permanent fixture in our relationship. Maureen was there for many our firsts. For example, in addition to our first date, she was there the first time we polished off an entire crave case from White Castle, although Moe was of little use eating only three of the 30 sliders. She was also there the first time I bought Lori an engagement ring. Thanks for the help, Moe!). When we started eating that night, the two of them became even more skeptical of me. But it wasn’t because of how I was behaving, but rather they were stunned by the transcendent nature of the chicken parm that I made. They both insisted that my mother must have prepared the meal.

To this day, Lori does not believe that I made that chicken parm myself. So I thought that on the night that I proposed, I would once again make her the same meal I had made nearly 7 years earlier to the day. When she got home from work last Saturday to find that dinner was made, she was not the least bit suspicious. She knows full well my love of fried cutlets, and therefore thought nothing of the tray of chicken keeping warm in the oven. I thought cracking open a two dollar bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot from Trader Joe’s would give her an indication that this night was a little more special, but she surprisingly still didn’t get the hint. Finally when she asked for dessert, I found my opportunity to give her the ring. Earlier in the day the jeweler had given me a complimentary box of chocolates. Apparently when you drop a boat load of cash on a diamond they’ll throw in some cheap candy and a bottle of jewelry cleaner as a token of their gratitude. So I decided to hide the ring in the box of chocolates for Lori to find. Luckily she said yes, and I set about the task of devouring the box of chocolate.

When dessert was finished, I took her to a wine bar where I had arranged for a bunch of our friends to meet us. After the hugs and congratulatory remarks, the night began to spiral out of control. Married life must be taking its toll on me already because I passed out at a bar for the first time since I was 19. I now regret mocking all of you who became really lame post-nuptials because I finally understand the deleterious effect marriage, or at least the threat it, can have!

As far as our wedding plans go, first and foremost, we must decide on the evening’s entertainment. I’m trying to decide if we should book the Non-Jovis (the Bon Jovi cover band that I front) or these guys. Check out their two new videos: Dead Celebrities and 96 Beers (there’s even an homage to me in one of them if you keep your eyes peeled).

Please weigh in on the comments section with your thoughts on the evening’s entertainment, advice on what we should have at our wedding, or anything else you think might be helpful to us as we start to plan this thing!

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