Archive for March 2005

March 17th, 2005

Designing a Wedsite

July 17, 2006.

Got anything up that day? No? Great, ’cause I think that’s the date I’m getting married.

Soon Steph and I will be setting up a wedsite so you can get specific wheres and whens online. Then, later this year, the media blitz will continue with “Save the Date” cards.

If you can think of a reason that getting married on June 17, 2006 is a bad idea, or if you are dying to come to our wedding and you absolutely cannot make it on June 17, 2006, please email me about it. Currently, this is a working date that can be changed. Soon, however, we will be getting out the chisels that are booking and hiring, and carving this date into the stone that is a church, reception spot, band, and caterer. So hurry.

(Ok. Now I need to transition into the other, completely unrelated, topic I have for today.)

Umm…there sure will be a lot of people at the wedding….

And speaking of being in front of a lot of people….

I am now featured on a poster series for The Raleigh Symphony Orchestra.

(Hehe. Flawless transition.)

That’s right, The Raleigh Symphony Orchestra. How did this happen, you ask? Well, I posed for a series of photos at work — photos which, I was promised, were strictly for initial comp purposes — for a campaign proposal we pitched to the symphony.

It’s a clever approach. The headline reads “Things you never thought you’d hear your boyfriend say…” Then there are various quotes from the boyfriend, such as “And when the double bass came in with the ’AS-WAWWAWZZZOOOOOOOOAHHH’ I was flippin’ out!” I wanted this idea to get the go ahead, so I really gave it my all in the photos. Drawing on all three weeks of drama class I took in the fourth grade, I transformed myself into that annoying, idiot boyfriend. Contorting my face into every imaginable expression, I struggled to capture the essence of this overgrown frat boy. “My girlfriend is dragging me to the symphony. I’d rather be watching ESPN,” I just kept thinking.

The Raleigh Symphony loved the concept.

The problem is I was too good. My bosses came back from the meeting and announced there would be no need for professional talent because the photos of me were perfect. This was close to a year ago, and I’d almost forgotten about it, except that now the posters are starting to go up and I’m hearing about them from people who know me (“Did you know you’re on the wall over at Carrburrito?”).

I’ve often wondered how my career as a male model would get it’s start. I guess this is it.

Next thing you know I’ll be opening a “Center for Kids Who Can’t Read Good.”

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March 9th, 2005

Power of Bride

Ok, men, gather ’round, and listen to my tale. I have braved an unknown most of you have only heard lore about. I have stared into the color-coordinated, calligraphic abyss and lived to tell. Yes, I have seen the inside of a bridal magazine. And I have made a perilous journey back to let you know: it’s nothing but ads.

I think Steph has bought quite a few wedding-related magazines now. I say “I think” because I’ve never actually seen her buy one. We’ll be out somewhere, and I can tell one of these publications has caught her eye, so I’ll suggest we buy it. She always shakes her head in a most practical manner, “I don’t really need it.”

Then, days later, that exact issue mysteriously appears on her bedroom floor.

I’m not complaining here. This is the one time in her life when attaining wedding/bridal books/magazines actually makes sense. As far as I’m concerned, she has a guilt-free pass to buy anything with pages and the words “bride, bridal, wedding, dress, elegant, flowers, martha, stewart, etc.” on the cover. I just thought you might like to know that, now, on an average day, I am confronted by bridal magazines many, many times.

Last month I was digging through a laundry basket in Steph’s apartment, looking for a light bulbs. (I guess that’s a pretty strange place for the light bulbs to be, but it’s where she was keeping them. “Where are your light bulbs?” “In the bottom of that laundry basket full of clothes.” “Oh ok.” This is our life.) And I found a wedding magazine buried at the bottom.

I think she was hiding it, the same way an adolescent boy hides pornography, should he be lucky enough to get his hands on some. I detected a little embarrassment when I picked it up and asked, “Do you want to explain this magazine?”

I’m not sure why she was hiding it…. Maybe because girls actually know the wedding-magazine-fetish is just a bit silly?

After all, it doesn’t seem to matter if there is a wedding on the horizon or not. Or even if they’re dating anyone. Girls are fascinated and compelled by wedding magazines. They want to look at them. And doggy-ear pages. And circle things.

What’s that? “Not my girlfriend. I’ve never seen her so much as glance at one. She could care less.” It’s an impressive show of restraint, I’ll give her that. But she’s just one step away. Propose to her, and the floodgates will open. You’ll be swimming in a sea of glossy photos of gazebos and place cards and dresses before you know it.

Girls, am I being sexist? I don’t mean to be. Let me just balance it out by saying that guys have just as much stuff that’s irrational and stupid and pointless, yet we can’t resist doing. Probably more. This is a funny trait that all human beings possess. It’s just that wedding magazines have become a strange, new presence in my life, that’s the only reason I’m picking on girls today.

That, and the fact that your brains are so much smaller than ours.

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March 2nd, 2005

A Place in the Country

Hmmm…. I know there’s something I haven’t done in a few weeks. Something involving the internet and prattling on and on about the minor occurrences in my life. Wait, do I have a website?!? I can’t remember.

“Hey, how can you be unsure if you have a website, when you’re obviously in the process of updating that website right now?”

Yes, thank you, my analytical friend. That intro was my way of saying “It’s been a while since I’ve written anything here.”

First I was busy helping Steph’s family move up to Virginia.

Also, I’ve been admiring my new metaphorical badge of honor, losing myself in its metaphorical sheen, and lovingly applying metaphor polish to it.

“What badge of honor?” you ask.

Why, the one I received last Saturday when Steph’s grandma said to me. “Bob, I thought you were a city boy! I was wrong.”

The reason she said this was because one of the last things left to go up on the moving truck was James’ go-cart and I couldn’t tell if there was enough room for it just by looking. Instead I walked the length of it, toe-to-toe. Then I got up on the truck and did the same thing in the remaining space. Grandma Brown saw me do this and, according to her, city boys don’t measure things like that.

“My daddy used to measure things like that,” she told me.

Ha ha! You hear that? That’s how her daddy used to do it.

That is a compliment of the highest caliber. I mean, who wants to be a city boy? Oh sure, if you’ve ever needed to know what wine goes with what cheese or what time Will & Grace comes on, it’s nice to have one around. But, overall, city boys are useless. Everybody knows it.

I was born and raised in “the city.” (Well, technically, the suburbs. But people from the country would call it “the city,” since it was less than half-an-hour from “town.” “Town” of course being a Wal-Mart.) But I may have been saved from becoming a city boy, because, as Steph points out, my family clearly belongs in the country. Apparently there was some sort of mix-up at the place where they assign families to their correct living conditions, because we all currently live among city-folk.

I guess this means that, somewhere off a dirt road, in between the double-wides, broken-down cars, and dilapidated barns, there is a spotless beige home, sporting a brightly colored flag for whatever holiday is coming up, with a professionally-manicured front lawn with a pink flamingo planted neatly in the middle.

There live the city people that accidentally got our spot in the country.

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