Thursday, February 23, 2006
"Go Ink To Da Chap Hell Endive Gone A Get Mary!" (Or “Dat Tux Would Really Look Good Sleepin’ Wit Da Fishes...")
I originally wrote this on August 20th, 2001.
So planning a wedding turns out to be hard work.
Coordinating an Allied invasion of Germany, for instance, was probably not this confusing. The Allied leaders pretty much knew what their objective was (invade Germany), and probably didn’t spend much time debating whether the tanks would look better in Dusty Rose or Chartreuse (the answer is Mint) or worrying about the seating arrangement of the troops in the Armored Personnel Carrier (O’Brien can’t sit next to Washington, and Sanchez gets more kills if he doesn’t sit next to Dombrowski). Our wedding, however, is completely different.
There were countless decisions that had to be made, including, but certainly not limited to, picking a date, changing the date, choosing the people in our wedding party, changing the people in our wedding party, finding the perfect bridesmaids’ dress color (lavender), changing the bridesmaids’ dresses to an even more perfect color (silver), making up the guest list, increasing the size of the guest list, adding more people to the already expanded guest list, booking the church, and finding the ideal Filipino priest to officiate the ceremony.
His name is Father Peter and he is a Catholic priest from the Philippines, and an all-around wonderful guy, even if he is a little on the short side. I’m sure he will bring a lot of color to the proceedings, especially due to his unique method of pronouncing normal English words. During one of his recent sermons, I had the pleasure of hearing him attempt the phrase “sometimes it takes people unawares” and coming out with “Shom Time It Taking People’s Underwear”. This, of course, is awesome. Can you imagine the fun we’ll have with “In Sink Neigh Shin Hell Till Debt Do You Park” or “I Know Pronouns You Manna Wife”?
Another fact that factored into the Father Peter factor was the fact that he’s vital to fill in an empty ethnic slot. Anyone who’s ever watched a World War II movie can tell you that you need a certain blend of ethnicities, or else the mission will fail. Our wedding party is no different. We have the Italian, the Polskie, the mixed breed (played with ghetto style by my brother), and, finally, the Asian (F. Peter). The wedding will be a success for sure!
Other necessary strategic decisions included whether or not to have a ceremony with no mass, actually with a mass, but maybe not, but probably yes, choosing the best location for the reception, finding a new best location for the reception, getting my fiancee's uncle to cater the party and getting everybody involved to agree upon the dishes to be served, adding salmon to those dishes, arguing with the reception hall manager about the prices of soda (in Canada it’s called “pop” – be forewarned) and linens and place settings and server fees, choosing and ordering our invitations, addressing and assembling our invitations (this is comparable to the procedure used to assemble, say, an M-1 Abrams tank), sealing our invitations, realizing we (meaning “I”, not my fiancee) didn’t put stamps on our (“my”) reply card envelopes, opening up all the invitations to put stamps on those little envelopes, then realizing that the inner envelopes had no glue on them, cursing, reaching for the blue stick of paste, re-addressing and sealing all the envelopes, hoping nobody would notice, and not telling my fiancee for two months.
(deep breath)
We also had to pick our wedding favors (which required a fair bit of assembly themselves, like a sniper rifle), purchase gifts and bags and cards and trinkets and whatnots for the members of our wedding party, hire a DJ, hire a photographer, hire a videographer (turned out to be free because it’s a family member – whew!), choose a wedding song, choose a different wedding song, choose a different wedding song, choose a different wedding song, choose a different wedding song, help our parents choose colors and what to wear (answer: desert fatigues), get a marriage license, book rental cars, book hotel rooms, create an itinerary for the wedding weekend, create a shower and wedding registry at various stores, and act really, really, really, really, really surprised when the shower occurred, even though we knew exactly when it was, where it was, and pretty much every gift that was going to be given that day.
That brings us to August 20th. Only 47 more days to go!
I must confess that nearly every decision listed above was made capably by my fiancee (with the exception of that invitation fiasco). I really do think that men are fairly extraneous with regards to planning a wedding, except at the actual ceremony part. I did, however, get to do one thing entirely on my own. I got to pick out a tuxedo, with the assistance of Vic, the proprietor of a local menswear store called Torino.
Vic and I considered a wide variety of tuxedo styles, from the standard red bowtie/red cummerbund model (very popular with a certain “cool cat” type of “hipster”, especially those born before 1950), to the pretentious fancy European fop model (ruffled shirt, shiny round lapels, paisley vest and tie, fifty buttons, and optional hair gel), to the classic Jersey Shore Mobster model, replete with black jacket, black vest, black shirt, black pants, and, naturally, a skinny white tie. I would have gone with the last one, but they couldn’t find cement shoes in size 9 ½ wide. I went with a nice, elegant, modern tux instead. It has two buttons, and actual pointy lapels. It’s going to look sharp as I belly-slither down the aisle, with my groomsmen offering cover fire. If I don't make it, at least the chaplain can give last rites.
See you in the trenches!
So planning a wedding turns out to be hard work.
Coordinating an Allied invasion of Germany, for instance, was probably not this confusing. The Allied leaders pretty much knew what their objective was (invade Germany), and probably didn’t spend much time debating whether the tanks would look better in Dusty Rose or Chartreuse (the answer is Mint) or worrying about the seating arrangement of the troops in the Armored Personnel Carrier (O’Brien can’t sit next to Washington, and Sanchez gets more kills if he doesn’t sit next to Dombrowski). Our wedding, however, is completely different.
There were countless decisions that had to be made, including, but certainly not limited to, picking a date, changing the date, choosing the people in our wedding party, changing the people in our wedding party, finding the perfect bridesmaids’ dress color (lavender), changing the bridesmaids’ dresses to an even more perfect color (silver), making up the guest list, increasing the size of the guest list, adding more people to the already expanded guest list, booking the church, and finding the ideal Filipino priest to officiate the ceremony.
His name is Father Peter and he is a Catholic priest from the Philippines, and an all-around wonderful guy, even if he is a little on the short side. I’m sure he will bring a lot of color to the proceedings, especially due to his unique method of pronouncing normal English words. During one of his recent sermons, I had the pleasure of hearing him attempt the phrase “sometimes it takes people unawares” and coming out with “Shom Time It Taking People’s Underwear”. This, of course, is awesome. Can you imagine the fun we’ll have with “In Sink Neigh Shin Hell Till Debt Do You Park” or “I Know Pronouns You Manna Wife”?
Another fact that factored into the Father Peter factor was the fact that he’s vital to fill in an empty ethnic slot. Anyone who’s ever watched a World War II movie can tell you that you need a certain blend of ethnicities, or else the mission will fail. Our wedding party is no different. We have the Italian, the Polskie, the mixed breed (played with ghetto style by my brother), and, finally, the Asian (F. Peter). The wedding will be a success for sure!
Other necessary strategic decisions included whether or not to have a ceremony with no mass, actually with a mass, but maybe not, but probably yes, choosing the best location for the reception, finding a new best location for the reception, getting my fiancee's uncle to cater the party and getting everybody involved to agree upon the dishes to be served, adding salmon to those dishes, arguing with the reception hall manager about the prices of soda (in Canada it’s called “pop” – be forewarned) and linens and place settings and server fees, choosing and ordering our invitations, addressing and assembling our invitations (this is comparable to the procedure used to assemble, say, an M-1 Abrams tank), sealing our invitations, realizing we (meaning “I”, not my fiancee) didn’t put stamps on our (“my”) reply card envelopes, opening up all the invitations to put stamps on those little envelopes, then realizing that the inner envelopes had no glue on them, cursing, reaching for the blue stick of paste, re-addressing and sealing all the envelopes, hoping nobody would notice, and not telling my fiancee for two months.
(deep breath)
We also had to pick our wedding favors (which required a fair bit of assembly themselves, like a sniper rifle), purchase gifts and bags and cards and trinkets and whatnots for the members of our wedding party, hire a DJ, hire a photographer, hire a videographer (turned out to be free because it’s a family member – whew!), choose a wedding song, choose a different wedding song, choose a different wedding song, choose a different wedding song, choose a different wedding song, help our parents choose colors and what to wear (answer: desert fatigues), get a marriage license, book rental cars, book hotel rooms, create an itinerary for the wedding weekend, create a shower and wedding registry at various stores, and act really, really, really, really, really surprised when the shower occurred, even though we knew exactly when it was, where it was, and pretty much every gift that was going to be given that day.
That brings us to August 20th. Only 47 more days to go!
I must confess that nearly every decision listed above was made capably by my fiancee (with the exception of that invitation fiasco). I really do think that men are fairly extraneous with regards to planning a wedding, except at the actual ceremony part. I did, however, get to do one thing entirely on my own. I got to pick out a tuxedo, with the assistance of Vic, the proprietor of a local menswear store called Torino.
Vic and I considered a wide variety of tuxedo styles, from the standard red bowtie/red cummerbund model (very popular with a certain “cool cat” type of “hipster”, especially those born before 1950), to the pretentious fancy European fop model (ruffled shirt, shiny round lapels, paisley vest and tie, fifty buttons, and optional hair gel), to the classic Jersey Shore Mobster model, replete with black jacket, black vest, black shirt, black pants, and, naturally, a skinny white tie. I would have gone with the last one, but they couldn’t find cement shoes in size 9 ½ wide. I went with a nice, elegant, modern tux instead. It has two buttons, and actual pointy lapels. It’s going to look sharp as I belly-slither down the aisle, with my groomsmen offering cover fire. If I don't make it, at least the chaplain can give last rites.
See you in the trenches!
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
"Hello from the Great White North!" (or, "Bear wounded in skate-by shooting! MTV News up next...")
(Originally written on October 8, 2001)
I am writing to you from the land of Mounties, moose, and Molson, and since you're reading this, it means that I got here alive and well, albeit a little cold. (It's remarkable how fast a laptop runs when it's inside an igloo!)
Actually, it's hot here. Some days have been as hot as 30 degrees. (That's not another snow joke - it's only Celsius. Nobody panic!) The weather has been beautiful and the countryside is awesome and breathtaking.
In my short time here, I've already done a number of Canadian-type activities, such as taking a motorboat fishing on the Thompson River, gone to Family Day at Riverside Park, roasted wieners and marshmallows over a midnight campfire, and picked apricots and apples from the family's backyard. I've also had conversations with complete strangers. Not bad for 10 days.
It occurred to me that most Americans (myself included) think that Canadians have eternal winter, live in igloos, trust their law-enforcement to men in red suits and black hats and bear and moose run rampant in the streets. That is, of course, not true at all. That is only true of the 9,000,000,000,000,000 square kilometers (140,000,024 cubits) to the north of Kamloops. The other 1% of the country (i.e., the 'populated portion') has the full range of seasons (spring, fall, and winter), has a sturdy modern law-enforcement agency in serious blue uniforms called the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I'm not kidding. But they aren't mounted to anything as far as I can tell.), and the bear and moose keep a wary, respectful distance. Also, Canadian beer is stronger than the States'.
So armed with my newfound perspective on Canadian life, I've prepared a helpful guide to 'What's Different?' between life in New York and life in British Columbia. It should be helpful if any of you plan to come up for a future visit:
In New York...
You may not turn right on red.
In British Columbia...
You can turn right on red AND left on red (if you're entering a one-way street).
In New York...
You have a 3-4-2 digit Social Security Number, and you've memorized it since EVERYTHING uses it.
In British Columbia...
You have a 3-3-3 digit Social Insurance Number, and you keep it on a card in your wallet since you very, very occasionally need to use it.
In New York...
You can legally get tanked at 21.
In British Columbia...
You can legally get hammered at 19.
In New York...
You probably never, ever think about Canada. American flags show up in very few logos or signs.
In British Columbia...
You are keenly aware of your proximity to the United States, and have developed a complex about it. Most businesses have designed logos that include a maple leaf or a red and white stripe, even such American mainstays as McDonalds and Sears have modified logos.
In New York...
There are American flags in schools, hospitals, government buildings, parks, and sports facilities. Patriotic citizens even display them on their front lawns.
In British Columbia...
There are Canadian flags in schools, hospitals, government buildings, sports facilities, restaurants, department stores, movie theaters, fast food restaurants, and gas stations. Strangely, almost no homes display the flag.
In New York...
The National Anthem begins with "O".
In British Columbia...
The National Anthem begins with "O".
In New York...
Baseball, football, and basketball are obsessive topics of conversation among sports fans. Most people are bored by hockey, dislike rugby, and hate soccer.
In British Columbia...
Hockey, soccer, and rugby are obsessive topics of conversation among sports fans. Most people are bored by football, dislike basketball, and hate baseball.
In New York...
'Yankees' are a powerful baseball team.
In British Columbia...
'Yankees' are a powerful anti-American epithet. (I thought I was in Georgia at times!)
In New York...
If you drive at 40 mph on a city street, you're way too fast.
In British Columbia...
If you drive at 40 kph on a city street, you're way too slow.
In New York...
One dollar is worth $1.50 Canadian.
In British Columbia...
One dollar is worth $0.66 US. It's also called the 'loonie'.
In New York...
You have to carry a wad of cash, credit cards, debit cards, and checks, since many establishments accept some or none of these as payment.
In British Columbia...
They have a system called 'Interac' which allows you to use your ATM card EVERYWHERE. (I swear to god, even at McDonalds drive-thru.) There's no service charge, and no fee per transaction. It's VERY cool.
In New York...
"Ain't" actually seems to be a word, and grunting passes for semi-intelligent conversation.
In British Columbia...
I heard a radio advertisement whose central joke relied on knowledge of grammar rules. I almost cried.
In New York...
People use pounds, not kilograms.
In British Columbia...
Ok, people use pounds here too. And feet and inches. But they're not SUPPOSED to!
As we can see, the differences between Americans and their Upper American neighbors to the north are vast, but relations constantly improve. Already, the younger generations are fed a steady diet of MTV, hip-hop, and illegal American satellite feeds. I can already foresee a future where I'll smile nostalgically as I dive behind my igloo to avoid the booby-trapped moose-bomb down the street. Ain't it beautiful?
I am writing to you from the land of Mounties, moose, and Molson, and since you're reading this, it means that I got here alive and well, albeit a little cold. (It's remarkable how fast a laptop runs when it's inside an igloo!)
Actually, it's hot here. Some days have been as hot as 30 degrees. (That's not another snow joke - it's only Celsius. Nobody panic!) The weather has been beautiful and the countryside is awesome and breathtaking.
In my short time here, I've already done a number of Canadian-type activities, such as taking a motorboat fishing on the Thompson River, gone to Family Day at Riverside Park, roasted wieners and marshmallows over a midnight campfire, and picked apricots and apples from the family's backyard. I've also had conversations with complete strangers. Not bad for 10 days.
It occurred to me that most Americans (myself included) think that Canadians have eternal winter, live in igloos, trust their law-enforcement to men in red suits and black hats and bear and moose run rampant in the streets. That is, of course, not true at all. That is only true of the 9,000,000,000,000,000 square kilometers (140,000,024 cubits) to the north of Kamloops. The other 1% of the country (i.e., the 'populated portion') has the full range of seasons (spring, fall, and winter), has a sturdy modern law-enforcement agency in serious blue uniforms called the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I'm not kidding. But they aren't mounted to anything as far as I can tell.), and the bear and moose keep a wary, respectful distance. Also, Canadian beer is stronger than the States'.
So armed with my newfound perspective on Canadian life, I've prepared a helpful guide to 'What's Different?' between life in New York and life in British Columbia. It should be helpful if any of you plan to come up for a future visit:
In New York...
You may not turn right on red.
In British Columbia...
You can turn right on red AND left on red (if you're entering a one-way street).
In New York...
You have a 3-4-2 digit Social Security Number, and you've memorized it since EVERYTHING uses it.
In British Columbia...
You have a 3-3-3 digit Social Insurance Number, and you keep it on a card in your wallet since you very, very occasionally need to use it.
In New York...
You can legally get tanked at 21.
In British Columbia...
You can legally get hammered at 19.
In New York...
You probably never, ever think about Canada. American flags show up in very few logos or signs.
In British Columbia...
You are keenly aware of your proximity to the United States, and have developed a complex about it. Most businesses have designed logos that include a maple leaf or a red and white stripe, even such American mainstays as McDonalds and Sears have modified logos.
In New York...
There are American flags in schools, hospitals, government buildings, parks, and sports facilities. Patriotic citizens even display them on their front lawns.
In British Columbia...
There are Canadian flags in schools, hospitals, government buildings, sports facilities, restaurants, department stores, movie theaters, fast food restaurants, and gas stations. Strangely, almost no homes display the flag.
In New York...
The National Anthem begins with "O".
In British Columbia...
The National Anthem begins with "O".
In New York...
Baseball, football, and basketball are obsessive topics of conversation among sports fans. Most people are bored by hockey, dislike rugby, and hate soccer.
In British Columbia...
Hockey, soccer, and rugby are obsessive topics of conversation among sports fans. Most people are bored by football, dislike basketball, and hate baseball.
In New York...
'Yankees' are a powerful baseball team.
In British Columbia...
'Yankees' are a powerful anti-American epithet. (I thought I was in Georgia at times!)
In New York...
If you drive at 40 mph on a city street, you're way too fast.
In British Columbia...
If you drive at 40 kph on a city street, you're way too slow.
In New York...
One dollar is worth $1.50 Canadian.
In British Columbia...
One dollar is worth $0.66 US. It's also called the 'loonie'.
In New York...
You have to carry a wad of cash, credit cards, debit cards, and checks, since many establishments accept some or none of these as payment.
In British Columbia...
They have a system called 'Interac' which allows you to use your ATM card EVERYWHERE. (I swear to god, even at McDonalds drive-thru.) There's no service charge, and no fee per transaction. It's VERY cool.
In New York...
"Ain't" actually seems to be a word, and grunting passes for semi-intelligent conversation.
In British Columbia...
I heard a radio advertisement whose central joke relied on knowledge of grammar rules. I almost cried.
In New York...
People use pounds, not kilograms.
In British Columbia...
Ok, people use pounds here too. And feet and inches. But they're not SUPPOSED to!
As we can see, the differences between Americans and their Upper American neighbors to the north are vast, but relations constantly improve. Already, the younger generations are fed a steady diet of MTV, hip-hop, and illegal American satellite feeds. I can already foresee a future where I'll smile nostalgically as I dive behind my igloo to avoid the booby-trapped moose-bomb down the street. Ain't it beautiful?
