How I Nearly Ended Up Getting Married in a White Tux With Tails (that I never ordered).

I don’t like lettuce.  I’ll eat lettuce, like in a salad, but it’s not my favorite.  What I won’t do is eat lettuce outside of a salad, where lettuce belongs.  I won’t eat salad on a sandwich, or a burger.  Or Good God, on a taco.  Never on a taco.  Never.  Lettuce on regular food doesn’t make sense in my mind or my mouth. 

Unfortunately, many of my favorite foods—such as burgers or tacos—come with lettuce.  So when I eat out, pretty much anything I ever order ever I have to order without something.  Hold the something.  Usually lettuce.  I also hold, in general, tomatoes and onions.  And mushrooms.  This has been an ever-present aspect of my life.  It’s the way it is.

So something that bothers me—more specifically—something that makes me very anxious—is those waiters or waitresses who refuse to write anything down.  Oh, it’s fine.  I’ve got it.  Right, no red onions.  No spinach.  Got it.  Do you? 

I don’t mind a cavalier attitude, most of the time.  But I mind a cavalier attitude when it’s something super important.  Like not having mushrooms on my patty melt.  Or my wedding.  Say, like, the music at the wedding.  Or the tuxedos.  Or the cake.  But that’s all we got (referring to when dealing with the people in charge of providing things like wedding music or wedding tuxedos or wedding cake): cavalier attitudes.  Oh yeah, got it.  We got it.  No problem.  Do this all the time.  Write it down?  Ho-hum.  And what did we get?  Patty melt, covered in mushrooms.

Let’s start with Frank.  Frank is a DJ.  Turns out, Frank is also a jackass.

Let’s write a play starring Frank:

FRANK:  Hello, nice to meet you.  I’m Frank. 

LIZ (my wife): Nice to meet you, Frank.  I’m Liz.  This is my fiancé, Bill.  He doesn’t speak.

FRANK:  Thanks for meeting me outside of this Starbucks, where I won’t be ordering anything and where I hold my business meetings because I don’t have an office even though I receive nine hundred dollars every time I spend six hours playing mp3s on my computer hooked up to these two speakers I keep in my trunk. 

LIZ:  Our pleasure.  Did you receive the seven-page document wherein I listed all songs to be played before the wedding, during the wedding, after the wedding, on the way to the reception, at the reception, along with a detailed script of precisely at what moment each song should be played?

FRANK:  I printed it out!

LIZ:  Great.  So you were able to find all of the songs?

FRANK:  Oh, yeah.  No problem.  I’ll be able to find them.  Do this all the time.

LIZ:  So you saw that I’ll be walking the aisle to the Scala and Kolacny Brothers version of “Use Somebody”?

FRANK:  Oh, yeah.  Do this all the time.

LIZ:  Now we don’t want to use the Kings of Leon version, which is a fine song that Bill and I enjoy but which unless you’re seventeen and pregnant or white trash or a little of both is a bit inappropriate for a wedding—tonally.

FRANK:  La, la, la.

LIZ:  We were so happy to find this slower, more muted version of the song.  It’s really perfect.  It means a lot to us.

FRANK:  Hey, have I told you about the wedding I did where the bride walked down the aisle to The Fishing Song by Brad Paisley?

Here’s what went through my head, at my wedding, as Frank began playing “Use Somebody” by Kings of Leon:  Oh, shit.  Frank is playing the wrong song.  He’s playing the Kings of Leon version, which would be appropriate for Liz to walk down the aisle to if she were seventeen and pregnant or white trash or a bit of both.  This is neither slow not muted.  What are you doing, Frank?  Wait a minute.  Of course Frank is playing the wrong song.  Frank is a jackass.  We know that.  Just look at him.  He didn’t write anything down.  We wrote stuff down, but he didn’t read it.  He didn’t need to.  He does this all the time.  He’s got it.

Next post:  I’ll actually get to the part about the tux.