Quiz Answers Posted!

Just wanted everyone to know that I have posted my answers to the wedding style quiz, not as a new post, but, for the sake of orderliness (next to goshliness, which is next to Joshliness), in the comments of the relevant post.

That is all.

About Tony and Michelle.

Ever since Josh posted on this blog about our trip to see Tony and Michelle in Denver, a flood of mail has been coming in asking us to clarify something. So let us clarify: Tony and Michelle are NOT REALLY swingers. It's important that we make that clear, for the sake of public record and not just because of this intimidating cease-and-desist letter we got from attorneys representing the Adult Swingers Society of Denver (ASS'D).

We formally apologize for any misunderstanding our blog might have caused and hope the misleading intimation that Tony and Michelle were among the group will not permanently discourage anyone interested in joining the "Swinging Tigers," as they are known to friends. Swing on, Tigers, swing on.

Now, in other Tony and Michelle news, I was distressed to discover that they have exposed us to the BUBONIC PLAGUE. Rude, no? According to the Wall Street Journal (this is a local newspaper in New York), Spanky, a capuchin monkey at the Denver Zoo—the VERY ZOO Tony and Michelle insisted we visit while in Denver—has shuffled off her mortal coil due to a nasty case of the Black Death. Apparently she came by her untimely demise by eating an infected squirrel just THREE DAYS after we saw Spanky frolicking with her mates on Monkey Island, and since her death, several other squirrels and a rabbit have also died of the same disease. Zoo officials recommend holding off on any meals of braised squirrel, monkey brains, or hassenpfeffer until the plague subsides, but otherwise see no reason to worry about the spread of bubonic plague to humans.

But that doesn't explain this persistent cough I've had since we got back from Denver.

What Color is Your Chuppa?

Perhaps some of you in the audience have read or know someone who has read What Color Is Your Parachute? If you have read it, you've probably asked yourself, Hey, where was that kind of helpful, down-to-earth advice for me when I was trying to plan my wedding? But never fear. After the divorce comes through and you meet a new Mr. or Mrs. Right, you can use this fantastic quiz designed by an actual wedding planner* to get a feel for what sort of wedding you're dreaming of, and make that dream come true! Just follow the simple instructions:

1. Take quiz
2. Plan wedding

Ready? Here you go!

The Highly Effective, Somewhat Entertaining Wedding Style Quiz (Results Ensured)

My first priority for the wedding is:
A. To share a special moment with those closest to me.
B. To allow people from different parts of our lives to meet and celebrate.
C. Having a superfantastic fun time.
D. Other: ___________________________________________________

List 5 adjectives that you would like to describe your ceremony and reception (note: "monkeylicious" is not an acceptable adjective).
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.

At my wedding, I most want guests to be:
A. A part of a meaningful tradition.
B. Surrounded by luxury, beauty and elegance.
C. Relaxed and happy.
D. Entertained.

List 3 things about the wedding preparation that you are most looking forward to:
1.
2.
3.

List 3 things about the wedding celebration itself that you are most looking forward to.
1.
2.
3.

Fill in the blank with at least 3 examples: "When people hear I'm getting married, they expect _______, but it's just not what I want."
1.
2.
3.

My thoughts on wedding etiquette are:
A. I want to know the rules; I want to follow the rules.
B. I'm interested in getting the full story, but some modern twists are fine.
C. It's barely spellable and barely relevant.

If you had to guess at the 5 things that are most important to your affianced re: the wedding, what would you say? List in order, with 1 being the most important to said future life partner.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.

Imagine your ideal wedding. Identify 3 specific images that come to mind.
1.
2.
3.

As a bride, I want to look:
A. Elegant.
B. Sexy.
C. Like a pretty pretty princess.
D. I don't care or haven't thought much about it.

Who is the most stressful to deal with re: wedding planning?
A. The to-be in-laws
B. The parentes
C. Fiancé/fiancée
D. Other: ______________________________

List 5 people who have been most supportive of your engagement and wedding planning. Exclude anyone who has used their lunch hour to draft you a wedding style quiz, as they will mentally add themselves to the list.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.

In the words of the late, great Rachael Ray, how easy is that? Now that I've filled out this quiz, I know that I want a wedding with an open bar, a Ferrari cake, and a performance by the Cherry Poppin' Daddies. Believe me, that's a lot more than I knew before I took the quiz. Thanks, actual wedding planner*!

*No actual wedding planners were involved in making this quiz. A few lawyers were harmed, though.

An Aside About Wedding Planning

Now that you know how we met, I feel comfortable telling you that I've been having some trouble planning my wedding. Note that I didn't say "our" wedding, because that's not how I fly. As one of my b'maids said: "You are the CEO of this wedding, and Josh is the VP."

In our case VP is a mostly symbolic title. He started with some responsibilities, but I've had to strip them away, one by one. Hey, it's better than getting fired.

At the beginning of this whole process, Josh told me he had only one desire for his wedding: tiny sandwiches. You know, those little buns they set out at graduation parties along with a tray of lunch meats and cheeses and a bowl of butter. I said I didn't want tiny sandwiches at my wedding, and how about "Tiny Dancer" instead? He said, and I quote*: "No tiny sandwiches, no wedding. To you or anyone else."

So I caved on the tiny sandwiches. I thought that when the time came, we could hide the tiny sandwiches under a picnic table during the wedding and then feed them to the Cat Guards the next day. I thought I could handle one insane request from the groom.

That was before I had heard about his lifelong dream of an Acura cake. Or of his rhythmic dance routine to "Lady" by Styx.

So, now I'm taking a little more of the ownership of this wedding, and when you arrive at our reception and find a cake shaped like an Acura (the Legend, not some ugly RDX—I have my standards) and think about how much crazier things could have been, you'll thank me. But as CEO of WedPower Inc., I'm finding that Goethe was right: With great power comes great responsibility. And I'm not really sure I'm up to this. To wit, when the heat was on to pick our theme colors, I picked twelve. They're all lovely, but having twelve colors does complicate matters, especially since I only have three b'maids. (They will each have to wear four colors—two on the dress, one on the shoes, and the last color on splendidly large hats. It's okay, because I'm told that bridesmaids are supposed to look ridiculous.) Other bad decisions being considered: crashing the wedding so we can get hitched sooner, having the wedding on a dirigible, letting Josh sing a ballad during the cocktail hour. Also, I am 100 percent sure that I want to make the cake myself and buy the flowers from Costco.

Clearly, I am out of my league. So far my response has been to lie very still and hope that if I don't bring up the wedding, no one else will notice I haven't planned anything. It's not working at all. It's time for me to start envisioning the wedding of my dreams (only with Josh as the groom). So I called in the maids and got the Mostly Conclusive, Sometimes Accurate Wedding Style Test which I will be sharing with you in a coming post. Stay tuned!

*I never actually quote, because I don't have the kind of memory that remembers things accurately, per se.

On Vacation With the Mile-High Club

Us. Love.
So Kelly and I flew to Denver last weekend, and I will let you know now that despite the title of this post, we did not join the "Mile-High Club." For one thing, our departing and returning flights were both very crowded, and while I say that merely adds a certain frisson to lavatory love, Kelly says it's bad manners, because there could be people who need to go. Plus, she wasn't allowed to use the restroom on the first leg of our trip after she stole a flight attendant's Oprah magazine and he shrieked at her for it. And it's a moot point anyway, because we're saving our secret flowers for each other until we're married.

But tell that to our friends Tony and Michelle, whom we went to visit. Back when they lived in Nebraska, Tony and Michelle were pretty conservative, but I guess the liberal mountain air (you can smell the weed smoke blowing in from Fort Collins) does something to you, because pretty much the whole trip went like this:

Tony or Michelle: You guys wanna watch this HBO Real Sex program about swinging/this DVD box set of the Red Shoe Diaries/this video we made in our bedroom the other night?

Us: No, we will not make out with you!

They've been into "the lifestyle" for a couple of years now, ever since they were introduced to it at some mutual friends' wedding. Hey, whatever, it's no big thing to Kelly and me—we just want to be left out of it, is all. To reiterate: We both have a special gift from God that we're waiting to share only with the right person.

Polars bears eating watermelon. No, seriously.
When we weren't fending off advances, though, we did get some real vacationing done. On Friday afternoon, we tromped through Denver Zoo, which gave the ladies a chance to oooh and aaah over fuzzy things while Tony and I concocted the kind of awesome make-believe schemes for which we are not famous, but should be. Basically what happens is that we see a bunch of signs that say "Do Not Feed the Animals" and immediately imagine entering the zoo with giant bags of food around our necks, and indignantly telling any staff member who questions us that That is ridiculous and Obviously, these oats and slabs of raw meat and varieties of birdseed are just, like, snacks for us, because the concessions are too expensive, and shouldn't they be doing something about that instead of harassing us? Also, mixed in with the food are chunks of chocolate and, like, cheese dips that contain a lot of high-fructose corn syrup and other things that are totally harmful to animals. Also, we actually are planning to feed the animals. That's a pretty good example of the rich fantasy life Tony and I enjoy. Our other great idea involved dressing up in full safari outfits (with pith helmets and monocles) and strolling in with blunderbusses on our shoulders; and, just as a staff member was saying something like, "There are fewer than 3,000 of these rhinoceroses left on Earth, and we have two here at the zoo," shooting one of the rhinoceroses. "Big bloody boy!" we'd say. "Went down like a rock, he did!"

Those two plans were pretty much the highlight of the afternoon, although Michelle was strangely enthralled by a gorilla that was eating a large piece of its own poop. It was shortly after leaving the Primate Panorama that she told us we were having an egg casserole and "monkey bread" for breakfast the following morning.

Me [whispering]: I don't know what monkey bread is, but if she tries to serve it to me, I will fling it at her.

Kelly [also whispering]: Relax. I'll sabotage the oven, and we can go to Perkins like normal people.

Me [still whispering]: Don't let me forget to lock the bedroom door tonight.

We finished with the zoo, and then it was time to head for dinner with my friend Brandi from high school at a Denver mainstay, Casa Bonita. In the seventh season of South Park, Kyle gets to go there for his birthday, and that totally made us want to go, too. Brandi—the only one of us who'd actually been there before—described the food as "of slightly lower quality than Taco Bell," but since in high school we'd eaten at Taco Bell literally every day, that didn't sound so bad to me.

The ladies.
Actually, the food was the least of our problems at Casa Bonita. The restaurant itself is awesome: It is enormous, and they have, like, cliff jumpers and Black Bart's Cave and all kinds of stuff. More sopapillas, please!

But they seated us not in the main part of the restaurant, where you could actually watch the cliff jumpers and hear the mariachi band while you dined, but in this bullshit room that looked exactly like a room in any other restaurant, except more run-down. Quite a bit more run-down, really. We assumed it was because the rest of the place was full (it was Friday night), but on further inspection, vast swaths of tables lay open and unseated in the main room. I mean, honestly, easily fifty tables. We should have asked to move, but Kelly had knifed me in the foot the night before to fix an ingrown toenail, and you had to carry your own food, so I voted to stay where we were and make the best of it. (After thirty years, you'd think I'd have learned how worthless making the best of it is.)

I look really handsome in this picture.
We did drink a lot of margaritas and watched the cliff divers after dinner, and we went through Black Bart's Cave (except for Brandi, who got her boobs honked by an adolescent boy the last time she'd been in there). Then we parted ways with Brandi, and Kelly and I were left to repel our would-be seducers. Kelly feigned an allergic reaction, pretending that she couldn't breathe, and went to bed. I ended up slipping a roofie in Tony's scotch so that I could watch the U2 Zoomerang DVD in peace. It was too bad, I thought as I sipped my own drink, that he and I couldn't stay up until 4 A.M. having the sort of great, meaningful conversation that we used to, before his new hobby.

(We drank a lot of scotch. We love scotch....scotchy-scotch-scotch...)

On Saturday morning, "disaster" struck when Michelle couldn't get the oven open to get the monkey bread out. Kelly did a great job of acting like she had nothing to do with it, and I was relieved—until I learned that in spite of the name, monkey bread is just soft, doughy bread cooked in sticky butter and sugar. Then I wanted some, and having learned from the night before that making the best of it was not going to help anything, I explained in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get some goddamn monkey bread for breakfast, my vacation was ruined. Finally Michelle pretty much kicked the oven open, breaking it completely, but it was worth it. Trust me.

Nature.
We enjoyed our breakfast and orange beers (which are beers mixed with orange juice—basically, Tony and Michelle figured it would improve their chances of scoring if they fed us drinks all the time), and then we drove up to the mountains to hike. I suppose I should tell you how beautiful it was, but you and I both know that it was just a bunch of trees and sunshine and breathtaking views of the Rockies; if that's important to you, I guess you should go buy a Successories poster. We sat by a rushing creek for a while.

Tony, not sick yet.
The drive home was more exciting, because Tony got carsick and Michelle helpfully took the twistiest, windiest, swerviest, bumpiest shortcut in the history of roads, saving us, like, five minutes. Kelly sang an impromptu inspirational song called "Tony, We're All Pullin' for Ya." Totally beautiful.

Kelly and I wanted either Thai or Italian food for dinner, but Tony and Michelle demanded that we order pizza, I think because they were frustrated by the lack of making out with us and wanted more time at home for their sexy machinations. I don't remember much about dinner except suddenly not being able to move and someone dragging me up the stairs to the master bedroom and my mouth tasting funny when I woke up. Like, really funny. Not only that, but I must have misplaced my roofies after using them the night before, because they weren't in my bag anymore. Annoying.

Michelle had to work on Sunday, so the remaining three of us watched Tivo and then picked up lunch to bring to her at the art center where she works. Tony parked in a spot that was clearly marked "15 Minutes or Less," but he said it was fine, because he's a "luxe member" at Banana Republic. There was a high school art show going on at the center, so we checked out some high school art (and some high school students—Kelly is like my little Mary Kay Letourneau); and then Michelle made us talk to an old person, so we smiled a lot and pretended to have manners—but as soon we left, we vowed to be cool when we were old, like Dumbledore.

After that, we got to the airport and flew home, and our taxi driver rolled down the window to make fun of some drunken-driving college boys from Virginia who proceeded to call him a terrorist and tell him he should be driving a camel instead of a cab. So we knew were back in New York, which was kind of melancholy, but at least our purity was still intact.

Cute Story, Josh.

But here's how it really happened.

I was walking down the street, minding my own business, humming Belle and Sebastian to myself on a warm fall night back in oh-five. Out of nowhere, a fire engine starting screaming up the avenue behind me, and then another, and then another. I saw them take a sharp turn about a hundred feet ahead, onto a side street where a slight trail of smoke billowed through the air. Without even stopping to think, I dropped my manuscript bag and broke into a run in the direction of the trucks. I didn't know how I could be of any help, I only knew that I had to try.

When I took the corner, the sight that met my eyes was astounding—and terrifying. An apartment complex of twelve, maybe thirteen stories was completely engulfed in flame up to the ninth floor (I counted windows). Fire poured from the sides of the building and the haze of thick smoke choked the air.* Residents cowered, afraid to get too close to the blazing building, but unwilling to turn away.

I ran up to the fire chief. "Chief!" I shouted. "Is there anyone still up there?" The thought made me choke back something awful. Something like fear.**

"I think everyone is safe and accounted for." Before he'd even finished his sentence I felt my entire body slump with relief. "The only question mark is—"

"My baby!" The cry cut through the smoke and chaos like floss through a cheesecake. "Somebody save my baby!"

"Where is she, ma'am?" the fire chief asked of the woman who had made the cries. She was not an old woman, but she wore the face of someone who had seen too much pain in her short life, worry etched into her brow, care burnt into her frown. One look at that face and I knew I had to do something.

"She's in the well behind the building!" she cried. "We were trying to get out and she fell down the well!"

"Then I'm afraid she's gone, ma'am," the fire chief said quickly, far too quickly. "The only way back there is through the burning building—and even then it would take a slender young twentysomething woman to fit into the opening of the well and lift your baby out. It's hopeless."

The woman's cries only increased in volume and desperation. It was all too much.

Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself grabbing a discarded fireman's jacket and bundling it around my shoulders as I made for the building. "Wait!" said the fire chief. "What do you think you're doing? You can't go in there! That's suicide!"

But I didn't care. I thought only of the baby down the well. Leading with my shoulder, I burst into the building and waved smoke away from my eyes. I could see only ten feet away the door to the courtyard where the fateful well had to be. I dashed for the door, and burst into the clean air with a gasp, suddenly realizing how long it had been since I'd taken a breath. Then, on the exhale, I heard the baby crying.

Her screams led me to the well, nestled behind a large patch of shrubbery, and once I found it, I knew what I had to do. I tied a length of garden hose around my own waist, knotted it as tightly as I knew how from my Cub Scout days. Then I lowered my body into the body of the well, using my hands and feet for purchase, and inch by precious inch, lowered myself down until I was low enough to see the baby. She lay there, dazed, tearful, and looked up at me with these great innocent eyes, eyes that seemed to beg me for answers: Why was this happening? What would become of us? How come I fell down this deep well and didn't break every bone in my body or at the very least pass out?

But for answers, I had none. I could only use my feet as giant chopsticks, and lift her from the bottom of the well. And with her pinned between my ankles, I hefted myself up the hose and out of the well. We were safe. For a moment.

But the building had been burning steadily this whole time, and there was no way out but back into the steaming inferno. The baby and I looked at each other, and then I shrugged—what's the difference? Or was it more like, what's the point?—and wrapped her in the fire-retardant jacket. Taking an enormous breath, I slammed into the door leading to the lobby and was immediately pushed to the ground by the force of the backdraft. On all fours I tried to look ahead, but there was only smoke and fire. To my left, a slight opening, a break in the flames. I pushed left, carrying the swaddled babe like a football. Forward, forward, I told myself. Just a little farther.

But the smoke overtook me. "Lie down," it seemed to say as it whistled around my head. "Take a break." I tried not to obey but suddenly helpless, I felt my body slide to the floor. I felt the air leave me. My last breath was spent in a scream—for help, for God, for what I don't know. I only know that I screamed, and then it all went blank.

***

The next thing I knew, I was lying in an airy hospital, breathing into a plastic bag, coughing, spurting, alive. I tried to sit up, but a kindly blond male nurse pushed me back to the bed. "Hey, take it easy," he said. "You're a hero. You should get to take a break."

With his words I knew. I knew the fire chief had rushed in with his state-of-the-art breathing equipment and saved my life, and the life of the poor wellbaby. I knew I had done the right thing. I had saved one life. It was all I knew, and it was enough.

But then with another look at the male nurse, I needed something more. "What's your name?" I found myself saying around the mask.

He smiled at me, pushed back my singed hair with a soft hand. "Josh. My name's Josh."

"And I'm Kelly," was all I could say before sleep took me again.

FIN

*Please note that smoke is always choking the air in novels, because air is a big pansy that never learned to fight back.

**Fear, another big choker.

The Story So Far...

So here is how it all happened:

On Tuesday, October 4, 2005, thanks to a mutual friend, we agreed to meet at the Dead Poet, a short walk from Kelly's apartment on the Upper West Side. There was some concern about missing the new episode of Gilmore Girls, but Kelly assured me that she would let me get home in time to watch my stories. Several pints of Brooklyn Lager later, though, we were still sitting there. I never did find out what happened on the show that night, and frankly, I've been a little resentful ever since.

But not resentful enough that I didn't ask her out again, mostly because she was a pretty good kisser. Yes, undaunted by that old Sex and the City maxim that says a woman should never kiss until the third date (but MUST kiss, then), Kelly—in all other respects a proper Iowan lady, of breeding and decorum—verily mauled me at the end of our first evening together, if we can expand the definition of "mauled" so that it also means "turned to me outside the door of her building and said, 'Now is the part where you kiss me goodnight.'"

Everything was a whirlwind after that—a whirlwind with kissing. There were suitors besides me who had fixed their sights on Kelly's heart and hand, but I trumped them all with the old "rent a car for the day and take her up to the Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck" gambit. We saw a goat with devil eyes there, and yarn was purchased. And I knew I had finally won her over—that all the times we'd spent together had become integral to her very being—some weeks later, when we walked past the Dead Poet and she said to me, "That's my local bar. I take a lot of first dates there. We should go sometime."

Fast-forward to January 2007. We were still together, had only argued once the entire time (after which we promised to never fight again), and I had just gotten her a beautiful pair of pink tourmaline and diamond earrings for Christmas, to match the pink tourmaline pendant I'd given her the year before. I had no idea what I was going to do for Valentine's Day. But I'd met her parents over the holidays, and had liked them, and they had seemed to like me; and my parents already liked Kelly, and she had survived a few days with them and my brother and me in Fargo, in the winter, even after intensive knee surgery, and still wanted to be with me; and we weren't getting any younger; so I thought, "Maybe I could get her an engagement ring for Valentine's Day." I had a feeling she would like that, and I suspected there would be more kissing.

On February 10, we attended a wedding in Indiana with Kelly's parents, Allan and Sally. During the reception, while Kelly was otherwise occupied, I fortified myself with a stiff drink, pulled up a chair next to them, and asked for their blessing. They told me they'd need to see some paperwork and asked for my Social Security number and a copy of my credit report. They took my fingerprints. They subjected me to a rigorous series of tests not unlike the physical fitness component of the President's Challenge. But ultimately, they gave me the green light.

So on Valentine's Day, after dinner and Frozen Hot Chocolates at my former place of employment, Serendipity 3, the exchange of gifts (including literature and other diversions), and a glass of wine or two at Fred's, I surprised Kelly by getting down on my knees in the slush just outside her apartment building—at the same spot where she had mauled me only a year and a half before, desperately hoping for kisses—and singing a song that went something like this:

Ladybear, Ladybear, give me your kisses
Ladybear, Ladybear, will you be my missus?

It was not a great song, but my world-renowned mellifluous voice, as well as the Hearts on Fire Dream diamond in the ring I was holding (I have an excellent jeweler), made up for whatever lyrical flair was missing.

We rushed inside, partly to phone our respective families and partly because it was really pretty cold out there. I called my grandma in California and said, "Grandma! Happy Valentine's Day! I just got engaged!" And her response, naturally, was: "Have I told you that goddamn brother of mine died?"

And so here we are: Kelly and I are scheduled to be wed next summer, we still go to the Dead Poet, and my Great-Uncle Dominic is still dead. We are really excited (I mean, not about Uncle Dominic, but it was his time), and our love continues to grow, and to permeate the very air around us, with every passing day. (We know it is our love, because we just cleaned out Kelly's fridge last week, so it's not the leftover taco meat.) We couldn't have done it without our family and friends (well, we probably could have done it without Tony, but whatever), and we love you all very much and invite you to join us for our COUNTDOWN TO BLISS.