Wedding Band

I recently had the honor of serving as my brother’s Best Man in his wedding.  It was a great day, and I wish him and his new bride nothing but the best.

Wedding Band – it’s a homonym…Meaning either the circular metallic object, which may or may not be covered in “bling” or “ice” as the kids say, or a cohort of musicians hired to play at a wedding.  This past weekend got me thinking about the words “wedding band” in both senses, especially due to my upcoming nuptials in April of 2012.

Aside from the food to be served, the music to be played is the single most important aspect to me.  To be clear, food is my number one passion, followed closely by music.  I cannot play a single instrument, or carry a tune to save my life, but I absolutely love the power of music.  I am a lucky man in that Jennifer shares my passion for music, now if only I could get her to be less picky about food…Even before Jennifer and I were officially engaged we had a running list of music for our wedding.

The wedding band in it first sense, a circular metallic object, is taken care of, and yes, it is covered in “ice”.  That’s just how I roll…Wedding band – check.

In the second sense, the wedding band is to be determined.  An event coordinator recently underestimated my bride to be and jokingly mentioned that a particular reception hall was large enough for a disc jockey, a live band, or both.  Little did she know that Jennifer is indeed considering the “both” option which was suggested in jest. 

It is crucial that the cover band be able to cover The Black Keys in a respectable manner (I know, that is a tall order as Dan and Patrick are pretty much unparalleled…)  Regardless, or irregardless as my grammatically challenged friend would say, I hope to have an amazing band that can do them justice…

Let’s Face It, Poop is Funny

Pardon me for being crass or immature, but…

Few things in life are more hilarious than bowel movements.  The BM is the great equalizer in society because we all know that everyone has to poop, maybe not at this very moment, but eventually….Being that everyone does it, it is best to be honest and admit that it is the most comical of all body functions.

When in an office setting, one is bound to encounter facilities with several commodes, and for men, a couple of urinals.  As any man will tell you, when at a urinal there are certain rules pertaining to speaking and one’s line of sight.  Eyes front, with limited to no talking…This means there is a great amount of silence in the men’s room, with the exception of our comedic friend the BM.

Recently, I was utilizing a urinal when a fellow restroom patron stormed into the restroom at a rather frantic pace.  Clearly, he was on the Panda Express, and the train was coming into the station at a rather fast rate.  The hilarity of the situation began when, once in the stall, I heard the man begin to fight with the sanitary paper ring that individuals with a germ phobia opt to place on the toilet seat (I blame Lysol for their extremely effective advertisements making everyone terrified of germs…but that’s another blog). 

Back to the story at hand…This poor individual was clearly on the verge of having a mishap for which the only solution is a change of underpants.  His own fear of sitting directly on a public toilet seat, because of the germs mind you, was about to cause him to soil himself and ironically expose himself to the germs in his own feces…

As I stood and listened to him struggle with the ring shaped sanitary paper, I could not help but laugh to myself; I assumed any minute this man would find himself stranded in the restroom stall, in need of new underpants.  This situation is clearly evidence that poop is indeed funny…

Perhaps the best public restroom incident involves my friend Stephen.  He claims he was using the commode when the custodian entered the restroom to mop the floors.  Rather than waiting for Stephen to vacate the stall, he simply asked Stephen to lift his feet so he could mop the floor beneath them from outside of the stall.  If this were indeed true, it would be hilarious, but unfortunately Stephen happens to be full of poop about 99.9% of the time…

Fast Food, Faster Digestion

I suppose they call it “Panda Express” due to the rate at which the food from that particular establishment passes through one’s body.  Based on this premise, “Taco Bell” should indeed be called “Toxic Hell” as it incites one to run for something, but not the border.  The havoc that “McDonald’s” or “White Castle” wreaks on the GI tract is unparalleled, and it may as well be sold as an OTC stool softener.

In spite of the agony I experience ex post facto, I enjoy fast food through the week.  There is something to be said for stepping out of the office for an hour, only to return with nothing but remorse and a feeling that you will crash at any moment.  The 2:00 PM meeting becomes the most challenging aspect of any day once I have chosen to fuel my day with cheap eats.

There are few ways to accomplish the 4,000 calorie per day requirement on which I operate, so fast food becomes an ideal way to do so.  Furthermore, my inability to patronize the grocery store with any sort of regularity adds to the frequency with which I dine out of my home.  On any given day, the inventory in my refrigerator consists of condiments, beer, milk (which may or may not be spoiled), and possibly pudding cups.  Through the week, if I am not eating fast food I am likely having cereal or a protein shake.

My only hope of reform is marriage, for as long as I am living by myself I do not see any dietary changes in my future.  My cholesterol levels will certainly thank my future wife someday…

On A Serious Note: The Love Of My Life…

WARNING: You may find me irresistible after reading this post.  It is an understandable and natural feeling.  

Humor and sarcasm aside…

I recently had the honor of my truly incredible girlfriend, Jennifer, answering my question proposing marriage in the affirmative.  It felt great to finally ask her after months of planning!  It made for what will be the most memorable birthday I will ever have, and I anticipate many years of happiness ahead of us as we begin our life together.

I knew I had to make the proposal special for her.  She deserved something surprising and memorable.  Further, it had to be a story worth telling over and over again…

Our third date was the First Friday event on Massachusetts Avenue on Friday, October 1, 2010.  First Friday is an event where, on the first Friday of every month, the art galleries and shops along Massachusetts Avenue in Indianapolis open their doors and invite the public to view displays of local artwork; it is also a great opportunity to walk along with someone, talking and getting to know them. 

As we walked from gallery to gallery, I fell more and more in love with her that night.  I knew that she would be the woman I would spend the rest of my life making happy (or at least trying to do my best…).  Because of the significance of First Friday on Mass Ave, I knew it had to be incorporated into my proposal. 

I began looking at the calendar to pick the best First Friday to propose.  In reviewing the possible dates, I realized that my birthday was going to fall on the first Friday of June.  I quickly decided that this would be the perfect day to propose…I knew she would not suspect a thing on my birthday.  For all she knew, we were going to go out with my Brother and his fiancé to celebrate my birthday.  Perfect!  Furthermore, as a bonus, I would never forget the date on which I proposed :) BONUS! – Thank you, Andrew, for realizing that’s how I roll…

Now that I knew when, I needed to figure out how…It seemed the only logical way to propose would be to incorporate some artwork in one of the galleries.  I knew she wanted something relatively small and intimate, so I decided to contact The Art Bank Gallery, which has many small rooms.  I thought (emphasis on thought!) this would be the best way to avoid an overly public proposal…

Dan at The Art Bank was instrumental in the success of my proposal, and I thank him immensely.  He was onboard from the moment I contacted him in March, and he went out of his way to make sure it was a special event for Jennifer and me.

On April 30, my Brother, Justin, and his fiancé, Lynnette, were kind enough to meet me at the IMA at 9:00 AM to help create the photograph which would be the basis for the proposal.  He took a series of five photos of me holding up signs in front of Robert Indiana’s “LOVE” sculpture on the grounds of the IMA.  He compiled each of the five images into one composite image which showed me holding signs that, together, stated. “I, Bryan…Propose That…You, Jen…Be My Wife…Marry Me?”.

And so the plan progressed…I had the image printed on a 16”x 20” canvas, and chose to add some more personalization by doing a paint-over with acrylic paints.  Big props to my Nana and Papa French for the artistic genes, and my high school art teacher, Mrs. Martin for her tutelage.  I know Nana and Mrs. Martin would be proud, and are surely smiling down from Heaven…After putting the finishing touches on the canvas, I procured a frame and prepared the piece to be hung in The Art Bank.

Having wrapped up the details, my next step was to secure the blessing of Jennifer’s parents.  I was hoping to find time during a family gathering, but given the fact that Jen was on high alert for signs of an upcoming proposal, I thought it would be best to set aside some time to meet with them privately.  Jim and Susan were kind enough to grant me their blessing over a super secret dinner in Shelbyville on Monday, May 16^th.  And so the plan progressed…

Everyone did a great job of keeping my secret plan over the next few weeks, even over Memorial Day Weekend - Thank you, Susan :).  The week of my birthday was only a four day work week, and should have been short.  It was the longest four days of my life…

Finally, Friday, June 3 arrived!  I had dropped off the painting at The Art Bank the week before, and everything was falling into place.  I was paranoid about losing the ring in my pocket while at work that day, so I decided to sew it into the fabric of my pocket.  It seemed like a great idea at the time, but lead to a struggle when attempting to extract the ring before popping the question!

As we arrived at The Art Bank, I was fortunate enough to find a parking spot right next to the building – I think it was God’s way of helping out as we were running behind schedule….We perused the gallery, discussing paintings that would look good in Jennifer’s new house.  My heart was pounding, and I was concerned Jen would notice the beads of sweat I felt forming on my unusually large forehead (thank you, receding hairline…)  Fortunately, she was still unaware as to what was about to happen…

I am a huge nerd, so I had planned the moment with Justin and Lynnette, providing a schematic as to how everything was going to happen.  We would go upstairs, and I would lead Jen around the room and circle back to the painting on the wall.  It was going to be perfect!

We proceeded upstairs to the room in which the painting was hung.  Much to my surprise, the room was packed with the gallery artists who knew what was about to happen.  To intimidate me further, there was also a Channel 8 News camera in the room!  My small, intimate, and non-public proposal had quickly transformed into quite an ordeal!  The room was far too crowded for my plan to work…

Jennifer was wary of going into the room due to the sheer number of people, and the presence of the camera.  I panicked…Things are sort of a blur, but I believe I actually pushed her into the room.  I guided her to the painting, and as she read the signs and put it all together, I dropped to one knee and sputtered out the words as best at I could.  I am uncertain as to what I actually said, but I do know that it is not what I planned on saying.  All I know for sure is that I was able to end with, “Will you marry me?”, to which she replied “Yes”!

Never in a million years did I think we would end up on the news…So much for a simple and intimate proposal!  I am happy that it worked out the way it did, even with all the unanticipated publicity.  It turns out, one of the artists on display in the gallery, Joy Hernandez, is also a videographer for the Channel 8 news team.  She was kind enough to film the happenings for me, and was also able to get us on the 6:00 news the next day.  Unbelievable!

So here I am, 4 days later, still wondering if this has all been a dream.  So many aspects are surreal, and I am having difficulty believing everything came together so well.  God is great, my friends.  I surprised her, it was certainly memorable, and we will definitely have a story worth repeating over and over again….

I am so blessed to have Jennifer in my life, and even more blessed to have the opportunity to call her my fiancé, and eventually wife…Thanks be to God, and to everyone else who helped me pull this off!

Unfortunate Pastry Names

I was recently reminiscing of better days with a friend of mine who shall remain nameless.  We were discussing how great it was to have snack cakes when we were in our younger days and hadn’t a clue of the heart stopping characteristics of saturated fat and cholesterol: Swiss Cake Rolls, Moon Pies, Oatmeal Cream Pies, Twinkies, and the unfortunately named Ding Dong.

I often forget how immature I am until words like ding dong are used in a conversation.  While reminiscing with my friend, I said, “My Grandma used to keep a box of Twinkies in the freezer.  They are delicious when frozen!” to which he replied, “I love frozen Ding Dongs”.  As every respectable man is expected to do when such a phrase is uttered by a friend, I quickly replied with a sarcastic, “Yeah you do!” followed by immature chuckles.

It is interesting to me that common parlance can fall out of favor and become innuendo or slang so quickly.  I will not attempt to figure out how it happens, but rather, continue to laugh whenever words like "Ding Dong", or any sentence that can be followed by a perfectly timed “That’s what she said,” are used.

Excuse Me, Sir…Do you know you’re bleeding?

Around March of 2010, I began mountain biking, which in Indiana consists of climbing more hills than mountains, but let’s refrain from arguing semantics.  I am by no means an expert rider, but I have a lot of fun doing it…I do know that if you do not come home with something bleeding or at least a bruise, you were not riding hard enough!

One Thursday evening in August of 2010, there was an unfortunate mishap involving the back of my leg and the sprocket set on my Gary Fisher.  How do I know it was a Thursday, you ask?  Well, as is Thursday evening tradition, my brother and I patronized our favorite chicken wing establishment after our ride, so I know for a fact it was a Thursday.  Regardless, or irregardless as so many of my grammatically challenged friends may say, we went for a ride at SouthwestWay Park.

Back to the sprocket incident…Due to my inexperience, I forgot to keep my pedals parallel to the ground while going downhill.  Wouldn’t you know it, a stump jumped out and caught left pedal, bringing my crankset (and bike) to an immediate halt.  Newton nailed it when he said something about an object in motion staying in motion until something causes that motion to cease…

Unfortunately for me, my handlebar stem was the “something” that stopped my forward motion.  The collision of my, huh-hum…manhood, with the handlebar stem set in motion a chain of events which let to my right calf being struck by my sprocket set, leaving a series of 8 gashes in my flesh.  I am not known for my intestinal fortitude or ability to refrain from blacking out at the sight of blood, so I chose not to look at the wound and keep riding.

Unaware of how grotesque my leg was, I proceeded to the wing establishment with my brother.  He informed me that my wound was not looking all that great, but I already knew that given the pain coursing up and down my calf.  I decided to wait until after I enjoyed my wings to take a look. 

While waiting for our food, I noticed one of our fellow wing enthusiasts was looking over at me.  I assumed it was because of my dashing good looks, but apparently it was my bloody leg that was catching her attention.  She began to look bothered, and soon made her way over to me and said, “Excuse me, Sir.  Do you know you’re bleeding?” to which I replied, “Yeah, I hope it is not bothering you.”  “No” she replied, “but you may want to take along a bandage next time.”

I am not sure if she enjoyed her wings that night, but I know I did...To clarify, I enjoyed my wings, not hers (stupid English and your misplaced modifiers!).  It was not until I looked down and saw the 8 gashes in my leg that I realized how bad the calamity truly was, and how nasty my leg must have looked to that poor lady…

Lozenges: Adult Supervision Required

According to the best reference ever, Wikipedia, “A throat lozenge, cough drop, troche, or cough sweet is a small, medicated sweet intended to be dissolved slowly in the mouth to lubricate and soothe irritated tissues of the throat (usually due to a sore throat), possibly from the common cold or influenza. Cough tablets have taken the name lozenge, based on their original shape.”  Slow dissolution is where this begins…

Medicated menthol lozenges are by far the most effective, in my opinion.  The nice slow burn of menthol takes my mind off of the fact that my throat is on fire.  The key is to keep the lozenge in the upper throat region…

I recently popped a medicated lozenge when my allergies caused my throat to become irritated.  I was properly following the directions and the intended use when all of a sudden the lozenge became lodged in my trachea.

There I was, at my desk choking on the menthol laced remedy.  It is amazing how incredibly painful a medicated lozenge can be when it becomes an obstacle to respiration.  I was terrified, thinking my last moments would consist of my face turning blue and passing out with menthol on my breath. 

Too ashamed to admit that I am not capable of using a cough drop without adult supervision, I began to weigh my options.  Do I force myself to vomit in my trash can and blame it on a stomach bug?  Do I proceed to hack up the lozenge running the risk of launching it across the office?  I could not swallow my pride and ask for help, mainly because I could not form a sentence, but also because I was not able to swallow in general…As the thoughts were racing through my mind, my eyes began to water as the menthol continued to light up my wind pipe like napalm. 

After what seemed like an eternity, my bite sized nemesis finally dissolved.  After my near death experience with a lozenge I decided that from day on that I would not be too proud to admit that I still need adult supervision from time to time; especially when it comes to choking hazards.  I think I will stick to antiseptic spray or other, liquid, forms of relief.  I should probably also stay away from Legos…