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Series

Wedding Disagreements

When Tom proposed it stuck. I'd proposed a few times before  but since the Supremes had not ruled it so, we waited. When it was time, you'd think things would settle down. You'd be wrong. 

Wedding Disagreements is a modern-gay version of The Bickermans. It's true we bicker, we banter, but we also lecture, and laugh and love all the while.

Wedding Disagreement #747

I relented about the ceremony being in the front yard. (No, really, the front yard.) Mostly because my relationship with Tom is often like a marathon of "Green Acres" episodes (It does not pass my notice that Tom's parents actually live on a street called "Green Acres Way".) I envisioned well manicured walls of green in an intimate setting ("Times Square!"). Tom envisions... the valley's equivalent of 40 acres, no mule ("Fresh Air!"). Today, he purchased ten, I mean TEN! shrubs to fill in spots so I could have the intimacy I wanted. I know I should be happy he did that. But these thistles remind me of the tree in a Charlie Brown Christmas. If anyone puts a bulb on a branch or sneezes... POOF! So, we had a terse discussion about it. I waved the white flag, and he's a'plantin'. Ultimately, the ceremony will be lovely (as lovely as any front yard wedding can be with cornpone and a jug with an "x" on it), and we'll be fine. Don't worry I still love him ("Darling, I love you but give me Park Avenue!") My gay groomzilla must rest now...to fight another day.

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Wedding Disagreement #793 (#s 748-792 were rematches)

Last night, I slept on the couch. I like the couch. It's a decent substitute for the dreaded bed where "he" sleeps. And after Tom pointed out my task list shortcomings (including a half-joking remark that I may not be at my fighting weight), the couch was as close as I wanted to be to him without giving into the temptation to smother him. (But I don't have life insurance on him yet, so I can wait.) Today, I am working on the ultimate "honey-do" list for Tom. While I have selfishly avoided doing any of the tasks he asked help on this week (so sue me, it's Spring Break), I realize that some things need to be done. But can I say I hate housework? (It killed my mother! Well, it killed her spirit.) Trim the hedges, shampoo the sofa, clean up the leaves, clear out the closets. Each of these is a laborious task because: the hedges are a pain in the ass to get perfect, I've never shampooed a sofa in my life (should I condition it too?), the leaves require the leaf blower (loud, it's just too loud), and the worst is clearing out the closets. It's not that they are cluttered, just very full. Clothes are my friends, and saying goodbye to friends is never easy. I'm doing my best, people. Spring break is over today. I will complete my tasks, and even try to smile because all of this is going to make the wedding more pleasant (it had better). After the wedding, I'm going to see about some life insurance for him, which is really for me because every cloud needs a silver lining.

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Wedding Disagreement #799 (* 794-798 were cold wars)

Couples disagree. That's expected. Some downright fight. Just as expected. Though Tom and I just had two strange fights based on one disagreement: to rent or to buy. He says we should invest in the things we buy for the wedding so we can use them again. How very practical of him, I guess. But I just don't see when we'll need five projecting spotlights (even I don't crave the spotlight that much), 6 four-foot tablecloths (did i mention they are silver?), two eight-foot lattices (all wood isn't good wood), and a partridge in a pear tree. And, I'm only kind of joking about the partridge because if it laid edible eggs, I'm sure we'd buy one. Tom's practical. Me, not so much. I want to rent all that stuff, so when the reception's over, it all goes away. One and done. We fake-resolved to each other that we would compromise, but then we fought instead. Not physically. That much. But we did blow morning-breath on each other. I would like to say "I won," but that's a dubious honor. Then, there was a little tug of war with the measuring tape. He won. After he snatched the tape from my death grip, it all came out. "What is your problem?" "I don't want to rent." "But buying is crazy." "Don't call me crazy." "I'm not saying you're crazy (actually I was), I'm saying buying a whole lot of crap is crazy." "Well, I don't want to waste money. You always waste money." "I do not." "You bought four pairs of boots this year." I gave up, mostly because he's right. I hate it when he's right. Also, because he didn't count the sandals.

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Wedding Disagreement #800

Food, glorious food! When we're hungry sometimes the nearest donut will do, but since the wedding was announced and the invites went out, a donut will not do. We agreed (finally, a truce!) to cater. Or did we? Today, after talking to a really close friend of ours, Tom tells me that platters from Costco will do the job. (Blank stare!) Noticing the color draining from my face, he added: "Oh, and some dessert platters, too! We can get them from Beard's Bakery. I love their cupcakes and creampuffs." I joked at that the fact that two gay guys eating cupcakes and creampuffs is tantamount to cannibalism (And there's another gay joke in there somewhere too, I suspect). He didn't find that funny. Then I did a double-take on the word "costco". Costco? Me? In the same place? At the same wedding? Don't get me wrong. I love, ahem, Costco. I do. Mostly when I needed 700 rolls of toilet paper, or a family-size box of Frosted Flakes. And, I know they do have decent platters...for office parties. Tom didn't get the memo, as he continued: "I love their rolled sandwiches. And we can get boxes of hors d'oeurves for next to nothing." Funny, nothing is exactly what I'd rather have than, ahem, Costco. And, I defy anyone who thinks a case of frozen treats are hors d'oeurves. You don't use French words for pizza rolls. In fact, you just don't serve them at a wedding...my wedding...okay, our wedding. I took a deep breath. Then another. Rather than use the shrill voice he hates, I mimicked my best Deepak Chopra. "Honey, I think it's great that you are thinking about the food, but you've done so much, already. Don't worry yourself. I've got it." It worked! For now. So, I called a few other caterers before he brings up, ahem, Costco, creampuffs, and cupcakes again.

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Wedding Disagreement #801

One of the toughest parts of planning any wedding is the guest list, but since this isn't a Kardashian budget, it's better to scale it back. If it was a Kardashian budget, be assured no actual Kardashians would be invited (how would I be able to hold down the food?). I followed Tom's suggestion that we make it small. Isn't that how most of these shindigs start? Small? Foolish mortals! It's like wading into the deep end believing it's the kiddie pool (and only one of us can swim well----I'm not a stereotype!). Before you know it, you're on your tippy toes with your lips barely above the water. I say, invite as many as you can, knowing some won't show or can't. That way the onus isn't on us. Still, I know Tom really wants it small because he's self-conscious in front of crowds. He doesn't want everyone looking at him. How many times can I tell him everyone will be looking at ME, not him! It's like he's afraid everyone will know he's gay. Come on, Tom, you live in a superbly decorated house with an immaculate lawn and garden and my unbridled hotness, so... No one thinks we're a middle aged male version of Laverne & Shirley. He retorts that I'm an attention hog. But this is about the guest list, so I digress. We agreed to expand the list for dear friends, who've always been supportive of us. Then we backed into a couple of invites. Someone asks when the wedding is. You give the date. Then they jump up and down telling you that he or she can't wait to celebrate with you. Crap! Stepped in that one. Or, some invitees that we were on the fence about have already contributed to our honeyfund. They just bought their way in. Double crap! Or, the toughest, you invite some folks you're sure are too busy, but they can't wait to come either. Triple crap! ( this wedding needs an enema.) We are also,too chicken-shit to disinvite because we truly love everyone coming, but if we don't get a handle on this, this wedding will need a lifejacket or else it's glub, glub, glub (drowning sound).

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Wedding Disagreement #804 (#s 802 & 803 were repeats of 801)

Sometimes to come to a resolution we have to get to the root of the matter, but no one mentions that "getting to the root" means digging through a lot of dirt. And I hate dirt (and nature for that matter.) Petty disagreements over catering, guest lists, and locations for the wedding are dirt, but today (in the car, uh oh!), Tom and I faced some three layers of sediment leading to Mississippi red clay. I mean, disagreements about disagreements.

We like to think we fight fair. But the delicious temptation to sling a little red clay mud...? Well, we're not above it. It started innocently with his question: "Have you heard back from the caterers?" I heard: "What the hell are you waiting for?" Then, he exhaled loudly. No, he HUFFED. I know that huff too well. I could have just answered: "Still waiting, honey." But...I snapped, a little, but I snapped: "When I know something, I'll tell you something!" And rather than discuss (disagree) my effectiveness as a wedding planner and a followup artist, he snapped back: "You need to help out around here." Ooooh. That gets me every time. Since 2004 in fact. "You say that every time I don't do something your way." And, we're off to the races. His tone (agitated), my cursing (sorry Mom), his frown (or scowl), my shutdown (silent but deadly): our typical fight about fighting.

Then we get all "historic" on each other. Tom: "You haven't helped with the yard in 3 weeks." Me: "Well, you haven't been to one of my shows since October 23rd!" Tom: "Last Memorial Day, you didn't help me clean up after the barbeque!" Me: "I was tired." Tom: "You're always tired." Then, a miracle (?) happened. Someone cut us off in traffic. Tom: "What an asshole." Me: "People can be so reckless." Tom: "I gave him room." Me: "That's because you're considerate." We smiled at each other. The rest of the ride home was all delight about the impending nuptials. Then, I asked: "When do you think the yard will be finished?"

Then, he...HUFFED!

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Wedding Disagreement #816 (#s 805-815 were easily resolved...the old fashioned way--wink, wink ---Bribery!)

ABBA? Really, Tom? ABBA at a wedding? At my wedding? Okaaaay...our wedding. Why not Merle Haggard or Public Enemy? "Okie from Muskogee" and "Fight the Power" always make everyone think of lasting love. Of course! This disagreement shows how two very opposite people can end up together...outside of a lifeboat situation. Still, Tom's love for all things ABBA ("Mamma Mia!!") doesn't blend well with my love for all things...good. Choosing a wedding song is another fight (#817), but this is about how we entertain the guests. I think most people will side with me on this one. Not that Tom and I don't like some of the same songs (Randy Crawford's "Street Life" comes to mind), but mostly we don't mix. He's patient, though, as I warble in the car with him doing my best Luther Vandross (wubbada dubbada woo woo woo) or my dog whistle Mariah worst (I swear the crack in his windshield demonstrates my untapped talent). In fact, he admits that when I'm not in the car, he never listens to music at all. So why does it matter to him so much? It's just too "on the nose" for me to be twirling to "Dancing Queen". (I can hear the snickers now.) I simply cannot with ABBA. I was thinking of other dance songs from: Katy (cuz I'm a "Firework"), Madonna (have you seen me "Vogue"?), Diana "I'm Coming Out" (clearly this is a gay wedding) or ballads from: Whitney "Saving All My Love", Barbra "Evergreen", Celine "My Heart Will Go On" (getting gayer by the moment, I know), even some mid-tempos from: The Eagles, Foo Fighters, Stevie, Julio Iglesias (for diversity, why else?), and a Prince tribute (for when we "Kiss"). Now, it looks like I'll be taking a dance break when his playlist is on. But. Compromise. I have that word on a loop in my head. Maybe we should do a mashup. Or maybe I'm facing my "Waterloo."

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Wedding Disagreement #829 (#s 817-828 I don't want to talk about, but if you've ever seen an MMA match, you get the idea)

What is the worst thing you could say to your would-be spouse before getting married? "I used to date your father"? "I forgot to tell you I'm not actually divorced"? What about: "That's not really a mole 'down there'.? I could handle all those. (As long as that 'mole' is curable, I suppose.) No, the worst thing you could ever say to a would-be spouse is nasty, vile, underhanded, and...PRENUP!! What exactly is the purpose of a prenup? Especially if the prenup-er is not wealthier than the prenup-ee (I would be the prenup-ee.) No, Tom has not required me to sign away my right to litigate revenge, but he finds himself on the side of protecting what he, hypothetically, brings into a marriage. I find myself wanting to kick him, hypothetically, square in his prenups. Still, I can sort of understand how he would want to protect his assets. I can even understand how I might want to protect mine. (I've always been complimented on how pert my assets are, after all.) But talking about THAT WORD makes it impossible for me to be anything other than defensive. After all, while he bought the home we live in, I am the one who carelessly burned it to the ground. And, that not-so-small contribution (coupled with his natural gift for picking insurance plans) has lead to the very nice home we now have. See? We've both contributed. And, THAT WORD makes it seem like I'm some sort of gold-digger. If I were, I would be the world's worst to have waited 12 years for a proposal when I could have found a nice old codger with an oxygen tank and a nurse who doesn't speak English. (Trust me, not hard to find in LA). Also, if I were, I'd want more than 1400 square feet in the valley. (Brentwood, all the way.) The only thing that is more ridiculous than this disagreement is the fact that there is no prenup. So, even though that is the worst thing you could ever say to a would-be spouse, Tom followed it with the best thing you could ever say: "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to upset you." Couldn't have been better unless he cried when he said it. I don't know why I love it when he cries over me. Makes me feel like I won something, like a court case breaking a prenup.

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Wedding Disagreement #830a (This version is edited. See my page for the longer one)

I can get into traditions and rituals easily. Since I was three, I believed in magic and unsuccessfully tried to make my sisters disappear. (I wanted to be an only child. Selfish. I know.) Now that we are so close to the ceremony, I wanted to infuse some magical elements into it. I asked Tom, "Why not do the breaking of the glass from the Jewish tradition?" (Blank stare.) "It symbolizes fertility and the breaking of the hymen. (Blank stare). "We could call it a 'guy-men'". (Blank stare). Still wanting a little ritual magic, I researched traditions around the world:Inner Mongolia: The spouses kill a baby chick together. (Um. No.)Northern Borneo: The spouses are not allowed to pee for 72 hours. (This would make the wedding dance go really fast, I suppose.)Yugur, China: The one spouse has to shoot the other with a bow and arrow---3 times! (A version of cupid only Tarantino would love.)Africa: The mother of a spouse follows them to the bedroom to...ahem...instruct them. (Um. Hell. No. Not MY mother.)The Congo: The spouses are not allowed to smile at the wedding. (Makes sense after they get the bill.)So, I'll be keeping the magic to a minimum at ours. And, if I am inspired to do so anyway, I do know my way around using a chickenfoot.

Wedding Disagreement #830b (Tom is going to win this one.)

I can get into traditions and rituals easily. Since I was three, I believed in magic and unsuccessfully tried to make my sisters disappear. (I wanted to be an only child. Selfish. I know.) Now that we are so close to the ceremony, I wanted to infuse some magical elements into it. I asked Tom, "Why not do the breaking of the glass from the Jewish tradition?" (Blank stare.) "It symbolizes fertility and the breaking of the hymen. (Blank stare). "But we could call it a 'guy-men'". (Blank stare). Still wanting a little ritual magic, I persisted: "How about we do handfasting?" (Blank stare). Tom: "I don't even know what that means." Me: "Well, you tie silken cords around the spouses wrist to bind them together, like Michael Jackson did with his gang member assailant in "Beat It'". (Blank stare). So, I'll leave Michael Jackson out of this. Fine. "Well, what about we do a special dance?" Then, I remembered that my sweetheart is sonically challenged and he may do a two-step, but no one should see him dance, unless it's punishment for a war crime. (Seriously, watching it could give you a seizure.) Then, I researched traditions around the world:Inner Mongolia: The spouses kill a baby chick together. (Um. No.)Northern Borneo: The spouses are not allowed to pee for 72 hours. (This would make the wedding dance go really fast, I suppose.)Yugur, China: The one spouse has to shoot the other with a bow and arrow---3 times! (A version of cupid only Tarantino would love.)Africa: The mother of a spouse follows them to the bedroom to...ahem...instruct them. (Um. Hell. No. Not MY mother.)The Congo: The spouses are not allowed to smile at the wedding. (Makes sense after they get the bill.)So, I'll be keeping the magic to a minimum at ours. And, if I am inspired to do so anyway, I do know my way around using a chickenfoot.

Wedding Disagreements #930 (We took a couple of days off.)

A doctor is supposed to be a good doctor. Or else. A musician is supposed to be a good player. (Or all those music lessons went to waste. Sorry Mom.) And, I am a writer. Yeah, a teacher too, and an interpretive dancer (decided not to do it at the wedding), but really, specifically a writer. So, I am supposed to be good at using words. I would love to have "the best words" But Donald Trump's taken all "the best words." Or even, the right words.

So, here I am searching for the right words. The Vows. Ideally, I'd like to script the whole wedding: the interactions, jokes, tender moments, et al. But I have not found "the best words" to say the right words. Tom wants it simple. He would be thrilled if all he had to say was "Me too." But when I launch into "the right words", his "me too" will sound like he's my backup singer. No shade to backup singers: I loved the Pips. But Tom is more than a Pip, Fourth Top (Motown!), or a Child of Destiny. We're a duet. So just like Tammy knew Marvin was coming in to sing his line; just like Mariah knew Boyz II Men were going to do more than harmonize, I am going to need him to sing his part. But, I have to write that also.

So, I'm looking for the right words to tell him what he already knows: "blah blah blah I love you (sniffle), you are my home (silent tear), and I want to be with you as long I am on this earth...(but if a sexy alien comes along, promises to fly me to the moon...you get it)". Then everyone laughs ('cause I'm funny). And then he says...what? What does he say about me? I asked Tom. In his own interpretive dance around answering (cause he's shy), I realized I have to write his vows. Now, I have to write about how much he loves me and wants the whole "on-this-earth-thing" too. Part of me would love for him to recite every quality he loves about me , then pretend in front of everybody at the wedding that he loves my faults too. Part of me wants him mean it, though, as much as he can anyway. And, ultimately, THAT he'd have to write himself. But he's not a writer, so he doesn't have the "best words" either. I'm stuck.

Hmmm. Maybe I should reconsider Interpretive Dance. I do a mean version of a tree growing.

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Wedding Disagreement #931 (or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb")

I swear he did not technically say that I'm fat. Because I'm not fat. And, I swear he did not technically say I needed to lose weight for the wedding. Because he knows I have always worn body-conscious clothes (see: Tight) and that I chose the shirts we're wearing even though they are unforgiving. But, I'm not fat so it's not a problem. And, he didn't technically say that, so... But he did answer my rhetorical question about the fit of my shirt, "This shirt is a little tight. Isn't it? He napalmed me with, "Well, you do need to eat better. You eat too much junk, and you're eating late at night and..." I don't remember what he finished with because I was too busy doing a stomach check, as I watched the mushroom cloud rise. And, not one of my six pack muscles that I used as currency when I was younger, not one of them was there. Traitors. In their place was, I hope, a still sexy dad-body-ness. I live in Los Angeles where any one of my favorite five can give me the T on how to drop it, and quickly. "Vegetables and meat." OR "There's a doctor that freezes it, then squeezes it out." OR "I used creative-think to ingest the spiritual energies of Mother Earth." (That last one is not strange, not in LA.) And, my favorite, "You look fine." I love my friends that say that, especially if they put a 1970s ummph on it "Fo-ine". Apparently, I am also eating like Rob Kardashian will when he eventually breaks up with Blac Chyna. Did I mention he's right? Tom's right! (Almost choked on that one.) I do need to eat better if I plan to outlive him, and in many ways I do. I do want to eat better. I want to be happy eating cinnamon flavored bark dust, drinking rain essence, and having gluten free everything. But, that takes a long time (And, Sweet Brown sings the chorus: "Ain't Nobody Got Time for That.") So maybe I'll loosen a button or two. My weight is a small thing. It's as small as I see my waist. No, he did not technically say I am fat. And, he did not technically even say I needed to lose weight. So, I am technically not bothered even though I technically just crossed Pitfire Pizza off my list.

Wedding Disagreement #952 (or "Who's the Boss?")

"Should we move the fencing two feet over?" That's a simple question. Or is it? Actually, "should we" has been the start of the power-play many couples enjoy, eschew, or embrace. We've embraced it. Even though the answer to that simple question might easily be, "Yes," that would not be us. We love to banter (though Tom is loathe to admit that) like an episode of "Who's the Boss?". Should Tony/Tom build a gazebo? Angela/Me (don't snicker, I can hear you as you read this) is in the middle of an ad campaign, and can't be bothered. But Tony/Tom is brimming with ideas for his latest creation. Which Angela/Me loves about Tony/Tom. But she/me thinks its a bad idea. Fight ensues, someone wins (sort of), and all of it is meaningless of course because you know the ending: they will make up. They'll even almost kiss, but be satisfied nonetheless. At other times we're Green Acres (cornpone, hay-tossin', and jug with an x on it). There have even been instances of "Mad About You" as I over-explain my feelings to my long-suffering spouse. But the ending of each episode is the same there too: they make up, they will kiss, and they are satisfied. So, even though moving the fencing over two feet might seem like a very small tiff about nothing, it has a long established place in the pantheon of sitcom plots. And the disagreement we will have will sound like a Peanuts sketch. Tom: "WOMP WOMP fencing now WOMP WOMP pressure wash WOMP driveway." Me: "WOMP WOMP figure out WOMP WOMP lighting cues" (which means "not now" but is more respectful than "not now"). Tom: "WOMP WOMP five minutes." Me: "WOMP WOMP". Then we disagree and make up, and kiss, and are satisfied. So our latest episode is like any other with one important difference: our story doesn't depend on ratings (other than our own), we have a network that ain't going anywhere (our family and friends), and the romantic leads are about to sign lifelong contracts.

Wedding Disagreement #986 ( #s953- 985 were minor skirmishes about the remote, and what to do with Mimi, our dog)

The family that stays together prays together. And, that family that stays together is going to need it. When we all outgrow living with Mommy and Daddy (or Mommy and Auntie Pat, or Daddy and Uncle Rufus or whatever), we forget, to some extent, what it is like living with family, nostalgic for the old days. Until, you're getting married, and family is staying with you for a few days. The Hatfields (my folks) will stay, and the McCoys (his folks) will do the hotel. Tom and I will have a brood of eight, in all 1400 square feet of our home. To me, it's the riddle of the sphinx. To Tom, it's a geometric word problem: "How many Hatfields can we fit into 600 of 1400 sq. ft.?" But white guys figuring out how to fit as many black folks into a small space as possible is historically troubling. (Planking, anyone?) Even though I know he wants everyone to be comfortable and the house is hardly the Amistad.We agree that everyone should stay with us ( and by "we" I mean Tom), but we do not agree where everyone should sleep. Since most of the time, we will be in celebration mode with dinners, hangouts, and preparations, sleep will be little more than where we place our heads, right? Still, when Tom suggests we put my mother and niece in the Casita (which he built it himself---he's that guy!), I'm hesitant. I'm a black man, and we promise to buy our mothers houses when we're four. So, the Casita (which means "tiny house") with its "cabin chic" design almost doesn't seem adequate for my Queen Mother. Before I can launch into a tirade about how Mom deserves our own bedroom, Tom politely reminds me that Mom is already okay with it. (The Queen has issued her edict that the 250 square foot palace is adequate. The Prince still thinks it's way too small.) Final edict from Tom: your aunt's in the Casita with your niece and sister, your mom's in the back bedroom with your other niece, our Texas family/friends will alternate in the Casita, we have two blow up mattresses, and God will grant the increase. We will stack our guests into tidy spaces and I will relent (pouting the whole time I'm sure). We will celebrate with them and friends and forget that the living conditions are more like subway to Brooklyn than the Waldorf Astoria, and we will even find time to pray together while we stay together. If that doesn't work, I'm joining the McCoys at the hotel.

Wedding Un-Disagreements #001 ("in the voice of" Morgan Freeman)

Like two Roman soldiers wearly trudging into yet another battle, who've experienced the mean streets of Castle Rock, Washington, and Working Class Baltimore City, Tom and I have established a new level of disagreement, the "un-disagreement." But isn't that just an agreement? Not exactly. An agreement is a situation that avoids conflict by seeing things the same way. And, a disagreement is the opposite of that. But this is a fully armored un-disagreement. We did not see things the same way and just didn't fight about it. What a revolutionary idea! And, the best part is we can do it all the time! Go figure. I thought I had a total reno job to do. (But it looks like I can just sand the floors and paint the baseboards.) I'm happy he is who he is. Turns out, he's not that bad. He's pretty good. (None of this sounds in my head the way it does in writing, btw). I love "not bad". I love "pretty good". I think people underestimate the value of "not bad." I asked Tom what he thought of where to place outdoor furniture. He disagreed with my choice. I moved it anyway. Tom: "Not bad." See? "Not bad" is definitely (if not infinitely) better than "bad". "Bad" is so bad it only gets three letters. And, I don't want to get into all the adverbial levels of bad: "really" "very" "absolutely" "horrifically" et al. I realized that this disagreement was a Kinsey 3. (You might have to look that reference up). And "not bad" is the first cousin of "good", and Tom is not one to throw around "good" on just anything. (I know that somehow relates to his commitment to me.) So, furniture was moved, successfully. Satisfied with the truce, Tom put down his Roman shield, then tested out the order of seating according to distance and adequate conversational space. He wanted a better order. He moved three seats and displayed it with the flair of a Barker Beauty and the The Price was Right. And while I could have offered 200 variations, I didn't defend. I didn't have to. So, I put my shield down and enjoyed our first un-disagreement. Then I said, "Not bad."

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Wedding Disagreements #1000 (or "The Day the Earth Stood Still")

The perfect wedding is science fiction. Any scifi movie fan can tell you the tagline: "our heroes seemingly innocent day is disrupted by alien forces hellbent on the destruction of the human race." Now, let's look at this in terms of wedding planning: a couple's seemingly innocent celebration is disrupted by the syntrithical forces of wedding planning hellbent on expensive catering, well-intentioned but hopelessly taste-challenged suggestions, time, and a legion of wedding stuff underestimated or overpriced.(You actually think: "Will I need the super-sized family pack of faux cloth napkins or should I buy five smaller packs of BrandSelect 'Luxury Comfort' Napkins ?")

Maybe the perfect wedding is a romantic drama or comedy. Tom and I wanted The Notebook with a better ending than Titanic, we disagreed like When Harry Met Sally but forgave like "Jerry Maguire". It's a simple story. Boy meets boy; boy loses boy; boy marries boy in a ceremony that slowly made the other boy crazy (This is like The Notebook, huh?) Tom and I starred in our own romantic comedy/scifi blockbuster this weekend. While no lasers were fired, or alien species vanquished, we did disagree along the way. Then, the force was awakened. Petty disagreements about table placement? Knocked out in seconds. Edgy banter about the timing of the lights? Easily defeated. Guest list signing rocks made to submit. No decision was too tough to tackle. We found none. Today, I remember the unceasing blur of love from that day. Everywhere Tom and I turned we saw love, most importantly in each other. I remember that and the silliness of disagreeing about the food (but I'm not relenting on Costco). Guest lists? (Boy did I learn from that one). Having some magical element of tradition? It turns out we just started our own, and it was magical. A hypothetical prenup? ( I still hate that word). Whether ABBA is better than Lady Gaga: (I won that one, kinda.) If the tone we use is the tone that works: Tom still huffs, I still bomb him with silence. If Tom will say enough words in front of everyone about me to tell me something I already know. (BTW, he said "I do" early by mistake, so he had to say it again, and just kept on talking---He keeps surprising me.)

And last, because it is most precious: family. How to make everyone comfortable, how to create moments, how to do...everything. But we both saw family take care of themselves and each other, in all ways, and he and I (our family) took care of each other. My new family, the Stagners are my new love affair. No disagreement there. So this romantic comedy/scifi adventure ends like all the best ones do: the heroes (Let's call them The Tomgeorges --wink) achieve victory over the evil empire of wedding planning, and live to fight (or disagree) another day.