Where Men Fear to Tread

There are no two ways about it I am a glutton for punishment.
Why else would I suggest to Marina, the Indian Carrie Bradshaw, that we go “shopping for my wedding shoes.”

My better half, if you hadn’t already guessed by the previous description, regards footwear not as fancy feet coverings, but a way of life. So much so, that when we were searching for an apartment, her criteria extended way beyond kitchen space or bedroom size, but whether there was enough storage for her shoes.

Knowing this fact about Marina you might be wondering why I even broached the subject of footwear with her. Well I honestly believed Marina’s shoe fetish would not interfere with my mission to find wedding shoes because she had already acquired hers.

Talk about being off with the fairies.

My search started in earnest but I quickly noticed a disturbing trend, regardless of which store we visited. Within minutes of entering the front doors, I always felt a gentle tug dragging me over to other side of the shop so Marina “could have a little look.”

It was at this point that I came to the conclusion that Marina and I have different attitudes when it came to buying shoes. I don’t like to waste time and prefer to get in, get out and get on with more important jobs; like annoying my significant other for instance. Marina though tackled the task of shoe selection as if she were dismantling a bomb. Each shoe she picked up was carefully studied, analysed and dissected. I actually expected her to pull out a microscope from her hand bag, because seemingly one wrong move, or as the case may be, the incorrect purchase, will result in catastrophic and dire consequences.

With only my simple male mind at my disposal I asked Marina why so much scrutiny was needed, because she only had three choices – boots, flats and heels. Marina disagreed and broke it down for me. Evidently, each group is broken down into sub divisions.

For the gentlemen reading this and are as oblivious as I was, let me use the category of “boots” as an example.

There are, and this is by no means an exhaustive list, ankle boots, knee high boots, boots with heels, boots that are made for walking, formal boots, boots with tassels, boots that boot, scoot and boogie and boots that invite illicit liaisons in the bedroom.

The choice may be limitless, but it still does not explain the biggest mystery about girls and their prized podiatric possessions. They spend days hunting for the perfect pair of shoes for a party/function/soiree, only to remove them in a heartbeat after every girl has commented on how “gorgeous” they look, because they are:

(a) uncomfortable
(b) painful
(c) annoying
(d) impossible to dance in
(e) impossible to walk in
(f) impossible to sit in
(g) cramped at the toes
(h) cramped at the heel
(i) misogynistic
(j) imbalanced and cause you to fall over every time you break wind
(k) “The fat cow from accounting has knowingly bought the same pair!”
(m) All of the above

These reasons however never occur to girls while they are trawling through the various shoe emporiums and here in lies another difference in the sexes when it comes to footwear.

When I was trying on shoes for the wedding my first thoughts were not “I can’t wait to show the fellas” or “do they make my bum look big?” but “Are these comfortable enough to wear all day and boogaloo all night?”

By this stage you obviously are questioning what the heck this blog has to do with the wedding because all I am doing is enjoying a sexist rant about women and shoes. Well you’re absolutely right! This is sexist and this is a rant! And since I am on a roll, why stop now.
However before I continue, I must make the point that in no way, shape or form do I believe that my tirade will change matters because like Australia diggers, when it comes to footwear and women, “age does not weary them.”

Case in point; my mother suggested to my father that they go in search for a pair of shoes for him. My dad agreed and happily drove mum to the shops. The end result: Mum found two pairs of shoes, dad found none.

What is interesting about that last paragraph, and I am sure many boyfriends, fiancés and husbands will agree that it has happened to them, is that while my mum proposed the trip, she craftily hijacked it for her own evil purposes.

Unsurprisingly, it did not end there but spilled over to a recent expedition to buy my father a suit.

It started with good intentions, but as was to be expected, she did not waste any time instructing my dad “to sit and not move” while she gallivanted from shop to shop.

A couple of bags and ten blouses later, dad was finally ushered into the nearest suit store, but only after mum casually suggested (ordered?) that he “try a dark coloured suit.”

Dad of course, a true Taurean Male, ignored her and switched on the wife filter (I am still figuring out how to use mine. I am sure I will perfect it with time and training).

“What do you think of this one Audrey?” My father picked up a tan coloured suit.
“What did I just tell you Dexter?” Mum grabbed it from him and returned it to the rack.
“Okay,” dad said, rubbing his chin, and selecting a grey suit.
“Dexter, will you bloody listen!” My mother said through gritted teeth, taking the suit off him.

The conversation repeated itself for a few minutes, thereby increasing my mother’s exasperation, not to mention her blood pressure. Finally mum, who was obviously at the end of her tether, uttered “Fine, get whatever bloody suit you want” and stormed off to another corner of the store.

The sales manager, noticing what was happening and eager to avoid being an accessory to murder by the hands of an impatient wife (“let no husband stand her way”) asked dad what the suit was for. Dad told him and was promptly handed the suit my mum had originally chosen.
My mother informed me that when she saw this, she had to use every ounce of self control not to run of over there and “give my dad a good smack on the back of his head!”

I guess that’s what a bald spot is – a bullseye for wives everywhere. So I guess I better be careful, because as the years are progressing, my target is getting wider and Marina’s aim is getting better.

With my noggin firmly within crosshairs of my wife-to-be, you have to wonder where that leaves me. Obviously in dire need of a helmet and in a flat with more shoes than a centipede has legs., but at least I have one small consolation – I may be a target, but at least I will be wearing comfortable shoes and in the end isn’t that what really matters?

By Invitation Only

When Marina and I sat down to write the invitations I realised Marina’s ‘teacher’s look’ has the power to stop a stubborn (Taurean) bull in his tracks.

Shortly after breakfast, I followed Marina into her parents lounge room and she cheerfully directed me to the couch. After our grand invitation party I never thought I would be surrounded by so much ribbon, pearlescent paper and diamantes again, but I here I was besieged by piles of invitations, envelopes, gift registry cards, a selection of pens and Marina’s favourite whacking stick.

Understandably my manhood felt threatened and needed reassurance. In a deft movement I grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. The Foxtel menu shimmered into view and with the dexterity of a pubescent male gamer who gets more enjoyment from his joystick than he does from female company I flicked through the channels. I aimed to find a program that would fill the room with a certain amount of romantic ambience.

It did not take me long to find it.

“You’re kidding right?” Marina glared across her cup of tea.

“What?” I returned her expression with clueless innocence.

“You think the perfect mood setter for writing invitations is Wrestling?”

“It’s not wrestling,” I countered. “It’s WWF.”

“Don’t you think music might be a better choice?” Marina questioned.

“Don’t get all huffy, you love it!”

Marina did not answer and locked me in a gaze that could melt gold.

Before I continue let me answer the question on everyone’s lips – How does watching oiled up semi naked men slapping each other and trading angry barbs make me feel manly and not gay? Truth be told I did not do it for my enjoyment, but Marina’s, because while she will vehemently deny it, she loves to perv shamelessly at the muscular men in tight Speedos. If you don’t believe me ask her about Randy Orton or Kofi Kingston both of whom she describes as “Daymn Fiiiiiiiiine!!”

Marina though did not see it this way. She sighed and mumbled something about me “trying the patience of saint” and surreptitiously moved the remote control beyond my reach.

Oblivious to the annoyance I was causing I said “C’mon babe lets get this show on the road!”

“Fine,” Marina said, “So what do you want to do? You can either write the names on the invitations or address the envelopes?”

“I’ll address the envelopes,” My voice was full of gusto.

Marina handed me a pen and I picked up the nearest envelope. In next to no time I had neatly transcribed the first address from our guest list. I gave it to Marina, stuck out my chest and with a sincere smile asked her “What do you think? Pretty spiffy right?”

Marina studied what I had written and placed it next to a sample of her writing. She did not say a word. She did not have too. The difference between our handwriting was stark. Marina’s style had a flair one might find in calligraphy handbook. Mine on the other hand was akin to something a chicken might write in the sand. Naturally, I was relegated to official envelope stuffer.

With the two of us working in tandem and me focusing my energy on the job at hand and not on smart ass comments we finished Marina’s side of the family by midday.

“I can’t believe we are half way there,” Marina said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “at this rate we will finish by this arvo.”

Famous last words.

Within forty five minutes of my previous statement, I was true to my name sake and made a complete Ass(ey) of myself.

During the weeks leading up to our invitation writing extravaganza Marina never ceased to remind me that I needed to compile the invitation list from my side of the family. Some may call this nagging. I prefer to think it as having my own personal secretary who comes complete with efficient reminders, stern expressions and old world discipline that occasionally involves a firm spanking.

In true groom style, and fully aware of the consequences to my posterior, I delegated this task to my mother who, unlike me, promptly did what I had asked her to do.

The issue was however that what Marina had instructed me to do was not given verbatim to my mother. This faux paux landed me in the dog house quicker than you can say “play dead”.

I had assumed that my mother would not only write the name of the family group and the amount of people per family, but also the most important piece of information required for the guest list: the name the individuals in each family.

She didn’t and my oversight landed me firmly in the crosshairs of not only Marina but my mother also, who was left exasperated by my constant telephone calls asking her about every single family member, their relationship to us, where they lived and the status of their beloved pet.

By days end, and as a result of my ineptitude, we only managed to get through about seventy five percent of my side of the family. But all was not lost however, because I now have a better appreciation of Brides-to-be. For one, they are the only people capable of pleading “Not Guilty to murder and get away with it, because their grooms frequently drive them to insanity and two I am also extremely grateful Marina is organising the wedding. If not for her lists and folders not only would you get your invitation a day before the wedding, but it would be nothing more than an event request on Facebook and your meal would come in three different sizes: Regular, Medium and Large. But if its any consolation you would have at least had the option of fries on the side.

Nevertheless, I am sure that this incident will not be easily forgotten. If it is not the numerous female friends who love to take Marina’s side and rub it in (I don’t need to mention any names do I, Palak and Sarah) then I am sure it will be Marina telling our kids “Don’t be your like your bloody father and (insert various acts of stupidity here) and make an Ass(ey) of yourself?” But before I have a chance to demonstrate what I mean by “Acts of Stupidity” I will end this blog here, but you should never fear, there are still many blogs to come and knowing me, countless “Stupid Acts” to be blogged about.

Shop ‘Til You Drop

My idea for Valentines Day was simple: spend the morning with Marina compiling our bridal registry and then treat her to a romantic lunch at McDonalds where she could order whatever her heart desired, even if that meant supersizing her meal and having a soft serve cone for desert.

Little did I know how involved my proposal would be!

A week before the infamous Hallmark holiday I suggested to Marina that we should go through the list of suggestions supplied with the Myer bridal pack and highlight the items we wanted on the gift registry. Marina’s lips curled into a smile, before she dragged me into her room and handed me a piece of paper.

I looked it over and wondered what I had gotten myself into. Marina had not only selected the entries that appealed to her but added ticks, crosses, post it notes, mind maps, diagrams and helpful hints. Compared to Marina’s list, mine was nothing more than a “rough guide”. For example, whereas I was content with any mug, Marina wanted a mug to match the kitchen bench tops and add contrast to the curtain colour scheme.

Drinking utensils weren’t the issue however, fine china was.

I personally did not see the need to have a set of plates for everyday use and another set in case the Queen dropped by around for a cup of tea and cucumber sandwiches. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I usually appreciate the meal rather than the plate it is served on, even if it is hand crafted by a blind monk in China and painted using techniques passed down since the dawn of time.

Another aspect about formal dining ware that confounds me is that if it is that special and pretty, why do girls insist on covering it with food and getting it dirty? Wouldn’t it be better on display for everyone to appreciate? I know for a fact that if a guy likes the appearance of an object, be it a dish, a car or anything else for that matter, the last thing he wants is to cover it up. Sure he may want to get the aforementioned items dirty, with say, mud or even jelly, but he certainly does not want them hidden from view.

This point notwithstanding, our discussion about the need for proper tableware continued until I my ears were ringing and I had no option but to relent, not realising our conversation was “Part one” of a two part extravaganza.

I continued reading until I noticed a piece of kitchenware that I deemed unnecessary. Rather than get into the specifics, I will simply relay the fiery conversation that took place.

“Why the heck do we need that?” I questioned.

“We just do!”

“I have never even heard you talk about using anything like that.”

“I’ve used my mum’s!”

“When?”

“Before I met you.”

“Isn’t that convenient?”

Marina said nothing and aimed a teacher’s look in my direction.

“Tell me something else babe…” I asked.

Again, there was silence.

“Where exactly are we going put this contraption of yours?”

“I have a place in mind,” Marina shot back.

Needless to say I did not get anywhere and ended up choosing the smartest, if not only course of action available to me; something that my grandfather, Bourke, Rudolph and every other man in a relationship, married or otherwise, has done since the dawn of time for the sake of his sanity, I waved a white flag.

The “Day of Love” arrived and City Rail decided to make it extra special by placing bright, happy yellow signs around Penshurst station that boldly proclaimed to every commuter that “Track work” was in full swing.

As a result, we arrived at Myer ninety minutes late and were greeted by Margaret, a lady with a welcoming smile and cheerful disposition who made no mention of our tardiness and simply got down to business.

After recording Marina’s details, she directed her questions at me. I gave her my name and address, but was stopped short at my phone number. Margaret held up her hand, stared me straight in the eye and told me “not to worry,” because she “had all the information she needed.” I was taken aback. Again, my role in the wedding had been downgraded from dashing groom to handsome bystander. But as Matt, Shannon’s husband told me, I’d “better get used to it.”

The next question concerned the delivery address of our new apartment (more on this in later blog).

“How do you spell that?” Margaret asked.

“C. O. U. R. A. Double L. I. E.” Marina said.

Without hesitation, I disagreed. “There is only one ‘l’ ”

“There are two honey,” Marina rebuked.

“No there aren’t.”

“Yes they are!”

Margaret’s head swivelled from left to right, engrossed in our tennis match of words. I wanted to continue but we were running late enough as it was and instead of wasting any more time agreed with Marina.

Marina though, like me, knew this debate was not over. After the relevant data was entered into the computer and we were given our PDA and told to “enjoy ourselves” Marina propositioned me: “Honey, if you are that sure about the spelling of new street name, we should have a bet as to which one of us is right?”

“What are the stakes?” I asked.

“The loser buys the winner a CD.”

I did not even have to think about it. “You’re on babe, be prepared to visit JB!”

“We’ll see,” Marina said and led me into the zany world of Royal Dolton and Part 2 of our discussion – “Fine China: Hidden Fork, Crouching Gravy Boat.”

We browsed through the vast array of crockery on offer and I was again completely baffled as to why women insisted on paying a premium price for these items which were, in reality, nothing more that grains of sand heated to over thousand degrees and decorated in random designs? This fact did not deter Marina from studying each set in such minute detail, I almost expected her to pull out a microscope. Finally, after careful examination of the sets on display, and with a high pitched squeal that brought the glassware near breaking point, Marina spotted the dining set she wanted.

Like every dutiful fiancée before me, I cooed and “Ahhed” at the appropriate times until Marina informed me she would like ten sets.

I did a double take and a quick head count. There was one of her and one of me. That made two people. At most we might have a couple of extra people over for dinner. This made four. To be safe and prepared for unexpected company, I thought six would have sufficed.

Marina shook her head, admonished my mental ability and like a true Indian, started haggling with me, aiming to bargain me up. Being of similar heritage, I stood my ground and tried to talk her down. Unfortunately this approach is only successful if the two parties involved are not stubborn. We were still negotiating with each other five minutes later, and by then it was fairly obvious that getting us to meet in the middle was as going to be as difficult as parting the red sea…Harder even.

“Ring your mum,” Marina challenged. “Ask her how many sets we think we should get.”

I happily dialled my mum’s number, thinking that since I am her only son, she will definitively take my side. Boy was I wrong. I told her my side of the domestic and she instantly asked to speak to Marina.

Obviously my opinion as handsome bystander did not matter and rather than fight two women, which is as painful as having a root canal performed without anaesthetic, I dutifully did what I was told. I barely finished scanning the relevant barcode when Marina spotted the matching coffee jug and creamer and began salivating.

Look folks, I could continue to ramble on about another heated discussion, but I am going to be honest with you. If you pop around and Marina is at work, giving her credit card a work out or at her night class – “Advanced Nagging: Make him submit with facial expressions!” – you will not be offered any food on fine china. Paper plates would be more like it and as for the coffee jug and creamer, I call it a kettle and the milk is in the fridge. Feel free to help yourself. Personally, you should be thankful there is not a cow nearby because I would happily hand you a bucket.

We continued on to kitchenware and again I was mortified by the price tags. Who knew that a spot that changed colour when it got hot was worth over 200 dollars? Then of course there were the salt and pepper shakers. Seventy dollars each? I think not. Here’s a tip for all of you, if you want cracked pepper, take some peppercorns, stick it in a tea towel and use a hammer. Wullah! Cracked pepper! Cheap and easy, not to mention flavoursome!

Obviously I could go on for hours about what a cheap (insert a word of your choice here) I am, but you know that already and are probably more interested in finding out who won our bet about the spelling of our street? When we returned to Marina’s place, she hurriedly checked the name in the street directory.

“You see!” a triumphant grin spreading across her face. “It’s spelt with a double ‘l’.”

“And what does that prove?”

“It proves you are wrong!”

I disagreed. “How do you know that the street directory is not wrong?”

Used to my stubbornness Marina pulled out the contract of sale.

“So I suppose the contract is wrong too.”

“Well it could be a snowball effect. A typo in the street directory is transferred to the lawyers and hence the contract.”

Marina placed her hands on her hips. “Let me get this straight. You’re an ass who thinks one single typo has infiltrated map makers, lawyers and society in general.”

“It can happen,” I told her.

“Can it now?” She questioned.

“Yes it can.”

“You’re an idiot!”

No doubt you all share Marina’s disbelief at my obstinate nature. To prove that spelling is not as gospel as everyone thinks it is, I have inserted two “missing” paragraphs from Between Borders and Buses in its complete unedited glory:

You know what amazes me the most about the Colleseum? That even after 2000 years, people still cannot spell it correctly. When I was writing this chapter, I thought Microsoft Word was playing funny buggers, because every instance of Colleseum would come up misspelled. I decided something crazy was going on (and it’s not my lack of ability it spell either) and so turned to that overflowing font of information, the Internet. You would think the world’s largest information repository would get it right, but no, Google too was throwing up a different spelling to what Word recognised.

I decided to check the Macquarie Dictionary and found they chose to spell Colleseum like this – “Coliseum”. This matter intrigued me no end (and yes, I know I need to get out more and maybe I will someday, just not now that’s all) and after some digging on the net, I found there were six other ways to spell Colleseum. As a guide, I provide them for you now – Coloseum, Colisseum, Colliseum, Colleseum, Colossium and Colissium.

You see, if the spelling Colleseum can be vary, then why not the spelling of Couralie either. To further prove my point, I want to bring to your attention the name of Eric, which can be spelt with “c” or a “k.” Couralie too, if a person so desires, could also be spelt with a “C” or a “K” and as such, what is stopping someone from using two “l’s” instead of one.

With such overwhelming evidence proving just because a word is spelt different to the norm does not necessarily make it wrong, how can I conclusively say that either Marina or I won our bet. Therefore in the spirit of ambiguity (not to mention B.S.), I declare our bet null and void and this blog, unlike our registry which is still a work in progress, done, dusted and at an end.

Till the next one, happy shopping.

Wedded Bliss 101: The Art of the Happy Spouse

In January my grandparents reached a momentous milestone in their married life – their 60^th wedding anniversary. Naturally, the occasion filled with me pride, but it also got me thinking about the factors that made a marriage stand the test of time, especially since this the year that Marina and I tie the knot (whether the knot is around my neck, remains to be seen).

Looking back at the life my grandparents shared together, I was not surprised to find that it overflowed with copious amounts of love, more than a fair share of respect and liberal doses of understanding, communication and honesty. That is all well and good, but what I was really searching for was how my grandfather kept my grandmother in high spirits, because as the saying goes, “happy wife, happy life”. Try as I might, I could not find the use of any illicit concoctions, alcohol or sedatives. I don’t even think Valium had been formulated back then, let alone the wheel.

I was all set to give up my quest and ask the man himself when I found what I was looking for. My grandfather’s secret (and for any husbands or boyfriends out there, take note) was not to lavish my grandmother with diamond earrings or invest in a pair of sturdy ear muffs, but to utter a simple phrase at every available opportunity – “Yes Dear.”

If by the last statement you think my grandmother liked to offer up advice and suggestions willy nilly then you are absolutely correct. Even her stroke and spiral into dementia did not stop her from nagging.

My grandfather’s tactic of “Yes Dear” is not limited to him alone and as I found out, is actually a part of the collective consciousness of married couples everywhere.

Bourke’s wife Sarah has instructed me via email to “just agree ok…don’t argue…just agree!” This advice was compounded by my best man, Rudolph, who suggested for whatever reason (most probably fear) that “Marina…can be the task master” and I “can be the union and HR who follows the dictatorship”. Then again, since he mentioned “taskmaster” and “dictatorship”, he may have been referring to something else entirely, and since this blog is PG rated, I won’t get into Rudolph’s thought process.

With such handy advice, it would be easy to assume that I am under the thumb, well, that is not true! Marina does not nag! Not yet anyway. She does however have an excellent teacher, by way of Sarah. If you don’t believe me ask Bourke, but you have to speak up, because after a few years of marriage he is partially deaf in one ear.

I may have not yet had to echo the two golden words my grandfather used religiously through his life, but I still find the only time I get some peace and quiet is when I retreat to my throne room. Even then my solitude is brief, because like Poe’s raven, there is rapping at my chamber door wanting to know “what the hell am I doing in there?”

Don’t get me wrong though, Marina, while not a fully fledged nagger, or as my mum terms it, “a creative consultant”, still has ways to plant extra grey hairs and expand my bald spot.

For one, gone are the days when Marina would consult me first and go through with any organisation that is required. Nowadays, it’s the other way around and she simply tells me where to go and what time I have to be there.

Here let me give you an example of what I mean:

Marina rang me at work the other day.

I answered the phone: “Hey babe? What’s up?”

With Marina it’s a question that causes more harm than good. Instead of getting straight to the point she rattled off sentences about hair, make up, the improper use of white out in exams, the weather in Albania, a goat and why A-line dresses are better than B-line skirts. I would tell you why, but not only couldn’t I keep up with her explanation but I was blown away that designer’s even made dresses to represent the alphabet. The only garment I know that is letter based begins with G.

Fifteen minutes later she arrived at the reason for the call “…Hun I want to arrange a meeting with the organist, so we could sort out the music for the ceremony.”

“Sure,” I replied. “What date did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking next Saturday? ‘Round about 3?”

“Suits me!”

“Good, because it’s already booked in.”

I could not believe it. Naturally I was not going to take this lying down and took a page out of Bourke’s book – “Marriage for stubborn Taureans!” and I shot back: “You did, did you? What if I said it was not fine?

“Then there is a rolling pin with your name it,” Marina fired at me.

“That’s okay because it’s located in a kitchen with your name on it. You can find it next to the instructions for the pie you are going to make me.”

That statement left my ears ringing for the rest of the day. Marina never cease’s to amaze me. While being well read, she still has the uncanny ability to use four letter words with aplomb and class.

This process repeated itself when it came time to go and select our wedding cake. Marina called me and suggested date and time. I knew it was ruse and the appointment was already in place. Not wanting a repeat performance from the last phone call, I sighed quietly, adjusted my hearing protection (in case my foot inadvertently ended up in my mouth) and told Marina that whatever date she wanted was fine and I would make sure to clear my calendar.

Marina’s prowess for creative consulting is not limited to phone conversations, but to email also.

Remember that zany adventure in Kraft glue I mentioned. Well it was not as crazy as I expected, simply because the boys and I did what we told (for once) and the girls used the Kraft glue to good effect, not only to assemble the invitations but on our mouths as well.

If you haven’t already realised it, the previous paragraph is the (incredibly short) blog detailing our “Invitation Party.” On the surface it may appear that this has nothing to do with the theme of this blog. I beg to differ. Marina with great skill and dexterity deftly organised this little gathering with numerous emails. I was extremely grateful to find that I had made it to the “cc” list.

At this rate, I wonder if I will get an invitation to the wedding, because I certainly did not get one to the Bridesmaid dress fitting.

I know what all you guys are thinking, ‘isn’t that a good thing?’ Yes it is, however you have understand what my role as Groom to be entails. Amongst other duties, I have to be suave, debonair, sexy, make inappropriate comments at the wrong time, offer unwanted advice, annoy Marina and most importantly be the official chauffer. If you had not already guessed, my pet name for Marina is “Miss Daisy.”

I take my role as a driver very seriously and so you can understand my distress when Marina fixed dates and times with the girls and did not include me. My bride however is nothing but magnanimous when she forgets me and always offers her apologies profusely. Here, let me show you the email she sent me when she realised her slip up:

“Babe,

The girls are going to get fitted for the bridesmaid dresses this Saturday. The information is below. Be there!

The Boss”

I would have argued, but in all honesty I knew it would have got me nowhere, so instead my email back was along the lines of “Yes dear.”

If you are wondering, the length of this blog has surpassed four pages and by the way things are turning out, it could very easily turn into a book. Each day brings with it more “Yes Dear” moments turning this entry from a self contained piece of prose to a work in progress, because who knows what the coming months and years will bring.

This means that instead of concluding this blog in the traditional sense, I want to end it on a personal note because this particular entry was extremely hard to write. About half way through not only was I struck down with writers block, but my grandmother was admitted into hospital. Sadly, it was a one way trip.

I was actually editing this blog by her bedside when she passed away. For that I am grateful because in her last moments on earth, she got to see her grandson at his happiest – with his bride to be at his side and doing what he loves most.

With that in mind, I dedicate this blog entry to my grandmother, Olga Thomas, the most loving creative consultants who ever lived, and who at 91 years, was still happy to tell us where to go and what to do. May she Rest In Peace.

The Calm Before The Storm

With seven months left until what our friend Shannon is calling “the wedding of the year” I thought it would be appropriate to give everyone an update of where our wedding plans are at:

Dress: Yep!

Suit: Tick that off.

Reception Centre: Booked!

Nagging: Will it ever end?

Arguments: Here, there and everywhere.

Stress: Most definitely!

Priest: Nope…not yet

Invitations: Facebook anyone?

Colour scheme: Is rainbow a colour?

Seating plan: What seating plan? Marina and I were thinking of having a massive game of musical chairs, that way everyone has a sporting chance.

Seat covers: We’ll see…

Cow: Why not?

Elephant: What is this? A wedding or a Bollywood movie?

Curry: …in a hurry.

A date that has my bride-to-be and her bridesmaids focussed on pussies: Double checked, ticked and underlined.

Let me see, what else is there? Oh yes…

Apartment: What’s wrong a with a friend’s couch?

Hen’s Party: From what I hear, a fireman will be involved!

Buck’s Party: A quiet night in, drinking tea, chatting about politics and indulging in a rowdy game of scrabble.

A cravat with a black button: You’d better believe it!

Bridal waltz: Does the chicken dance count? How about the Macarena?

Cooking classes for Marina: The number 1 priority!

Several slaps upside my head by Marina for the previous comment: Dealt out with glee!

Elope: Definitely an option still under consideration.

Yes, I could go on, but apart from trying to avoid further acts of unspeakable violence unleashed in my direction, I have realised that when planning a wedding, the “to do” list is never ending and is always a work in progress.

All this hassle, according to our family and friends, “is definitely worth it” because “this is our big year.” I have to admit this concerns me somewhat. If everyone is correct, then it means it doesn’t get much better than this and after August 15^th it is all down hill. Making matters worse is the fact that I am over thirty and getting hitched, which means my hill is probably steeper than most. Nevertheless, the ride is going to be an enjoyable and a memorable one and Marina and I hope you all get on board.

And why wouldn’t you want too? Just have a look at what we have in store for you…

*********************COMING SOON************************

How do you make a marriage stand the test of time? What are the secrets of a long marriage? Is it money? Diamonds? Toy boys? Maybe a pony?

Darren endeavours to find the answers to these questions in his next blog. A piece of prose that is so shocking, horrific and mind blowing that we cannot even reveal its title for fear it might drive you all to madness.

(What Darren means by the previous paragraph is that he has not even thought of a title yet and does not know any other way to get you to come back for more. He’d offer you a money back guarantee but then he would go broke.)

Darren’s adventures in the blogosphere continue when he and his intrepid band of merry men, eager to expand their horizons, set off on a journey that will change their lives forever. Their quest takes them deep into a land filled with lace, buttons, art card and the most dastardly substance known to man: Kraft Glue. Not even this gruesome discovery can prepare them for their biggest challenge – coming face to face with a Couture Cutie and her crafty henchwomen.

What will become of our heroes? Will they become unstuck and end their days being forced to praise pussies or will they find a way to escape the clutches of these diamante mistresses and again be able to burp and fart in peace?

The answers to these and the other many pointless questions posted in this blog are coming your way…so stay tuned!

*********************COMING SOON************************

The Bleeding Pen

You’re bloody kidding me?” I whispered to Marina.

Marina did not reply. Gobsmacked and aware of the encroaching madness, her grip tightened around mine. I scanned the room; everyone was transfixed by the person on stage, their grins overflowing with appreciation.

Marina and I were attending the NSW Writers centre Christmas party to witness the announcement of the winners of the “Inner City Life” and Open Book” Prize. I had entered “Between Borders and Buses” in the latter competition with quiet optimism. Admittedly, I describe my first attempt at a novel as “throwaway fiction,” because it is the type of book a person might pick up in a airport bookstore or sale bin, have thorough read and then (a) leave it on their bookshelf to collect dust (because it is thick like the author) or (b) swap it for something better. Still, I consider it to be entertaining, enlightening, and easy to read.

I thought that these three facets (and feel free to call me naïve) along with the standard rules of English, such as grammar and style, would be high on the judging criteria and would at least get me shortlisted.

Obviously not.

Upon hearing the quality of the stories that won the short story component of the “Inner City Life” prize, I knew “Between Borders and Buses” with its simple everyday English and cynical humour did not stand a chance.

Hindsight tells me I should not have been surprised at this. Marina and I arrived at the NSW Writers centre expecting a raucous party were writers, imbued with festive spirit, threw punctuation to the wind and enjoyed illicit conjunctions amongst the dusty bookshelves. We were greeted instead by what could best be described as a polite, somewhat snooty, literary soiree.

The organisers though, were eager to get the creative juices flowing by plying everyone with a glass of wine upon arrival.

One middle aged man in particular took full advantage of what was on offer and tried to get the party started with as many ladies as possible, including the small group Marina and I were chatting too.

Barging into our conversation he proclaimed: “Ladies, don’t you think my tie is pretty spiffy?”

Murmurs of awkward appreciation were directed in his direction.

“Go on,” he challenged, “Pull it. It’s great. It plays a jaunty Christmas tune.”

The ladies opposite shuffled away, Marina drew closer to me.

Not letting the women’s disinterest stop him, he made an extraordinary gesture of showing us how it was done. From his prowess, he was obviously an expert at pulling his own tie.

When the horrible rendition of “Jingle Bells” subsided, he posed the question: “So what brings all of you here?”

I was the last the answer and informed him about my book.

“That’s excellent. I’m doing that now with a self help book…” he prattled.

My mind drifted off to what possible self help a man of his calibre could offer. I even came up with some working titles he might be able to use: “Pull Your Tie: For Pleasure and Profit” or “Picking the right tie to pull!” Maybe he preferred a different tact: “Make awkward silences rewarding?” or “Remove Group Dynamic Creatively and Swiftly!” and the standard, “Get Noticed: Be Obnoxious for Dummies.”

His ramblings were silenced by the master of ceremonies, who expertly quelled the haughty conversation with a few choice words.

The first awards of the evening were handed out to the winners of the “Inner City Life” poetry prize. These were followed by the short story winners based on the same theme.

Before I unsheathe my claws, you fetch me a saucer of milk and call me a catty bastich, let me clarify that I am not bemoaning about the writers that wrote the winning stories or even the subject matter, but the use, or lack thereof, of grammar, style and prose that made me question how the stories won the prizes that they did.

When I heard the winning entries I was reminded of my editor, Stephen King’s Book “On Writing: A Memoir” and what many agree, including Mr. King, is a must have for every aspiring and already successful writer, Strunk and White’s “The Elements of Style.”

All three agree writing in the “active voice” is better than the “passive voice” because produces succinct, direct sentences. Yes, I am quite aware that I occasionally write in the passive voice, but it is a bad habit and I am making a conscious effort to change.

Obviously this simple caveat was not in the award winners editing toolbox. Neither were the general rules of what constitutes a short story.

When I was enrolled in my writing course, the structure of a short story was hammered home, time and time again. A short story had to have an introduction, a body and a conclusion, which typically involves a twist.

The problem with the stories that won is that they had none of these, and simply seemed to be exercises in illustrating how well the author could write flouncy, flowery sentences.

Here, let me show you some snippets of Wisdom Lane, the story that took the third prize. It starts off:

Wisdom Lane runs between old paling fences and a wire security fence. The paling fences are crooked, bent by age and trees. They hide gardens and back doors and families. The security fence has huge gaps and hides nothing. It has bits of clothing and underwear stuck in it; torn stockings tied up like indulgences – please god, Buddha, Allah, who ha: help me, save me, give me, take me away.

This is good example of passive voice. One possible way to write it in the active voice would be:

“The paling fences that line Wisdom Lane are crooked, ravaged by age and nature; holding suburbia at bay. The security fence runs opposite; holding back nothing, it is lavished with haggard articles of tattered clothing like indulgences to forgotten deities.”

Passive voice notwithstanding, a short story must have, regardless of scene, a plot that reaches up, grabs the reader by his or her cockles or boobles and sucks them into the story. No such luck in Wisdom lane:

Wisdom Lane turns off my lane. It’s not my lane, I just say that because it runs between the building I live in and the building where other people live. They have an outside area and a clothesline. People sit out there on warm evenings. They watch the man who goes through our bins and eats the scraps. He bothers me that man.

When I heard this paragraph my heartbeat skipped with excitement. Can you believe it? Other people live next to the lane too and they have clothesline? Wow! Just when I thought the story couldn’t get anymore thrilling, we find out that people sit out on warm evenings and watch a man going through garbage. I hear Stephen Spielberg wants to make this into a movie and cast Brad Pitt as the clothesline. True to form, the writer introduces the antagonist and nothing says “Grab your teddy and call your mama” then a man that digs through bins. Probably, like me, desperately searching for the point to this story.

My girl works this lane. She’s not my girl. I just say that because she works my lane and then takes them down that Wisdom Lane. Perhaps they squeeze through the gap in the security fence and lie on the pine needles. Perhaps she looks at the stars through the leaves and pretends she’s somewhere else. Perhaps it’s just wise to stay on the ball.

We are half way through the story and we are in the throes of ambiguity. I listened and dabbed the blood from my ears. Perhaps the narrator will agree on what is a happening. Perhaps the plot will pick up. Perhaps the story will end soon. Perhaps a light fitting will fall on my head, giving me an excuse to leave. What I would not have given for some one to pull Mr. Obnoxious’ tie. At least “Jingle Bell’s” has a story you can follow.

Just to recap, there is a person who lives next to lane that is used for prostitution. This person takes no ownership of anything and happily whittles away time by imagining what thoughts fill the head of the hooker while she is with a client. How is this special? As a reader I want to be involved with the story and its characters. The way the story is written, I feel distant, removed. I could not care less about the lane or the girl. Don’t you think you would connect with the story if it was written from the prostitute’s daughter point of view? Even end is aloof with hearsay.

Sometimes they do it in my lane, against my wall. Under my window. What a racket. Cut out the dramatics I want to yell, but I don’t. I don’t want to join in.

The story end as it starts and I want to know, where is the story’s twist? I reckon it got bored waiting for something interesting to happen and like the narrator did not want to get involved. I have to ask though, is this what Inner City life means to the writer – a disconnected, selfish viewpoint? If so, I think she needs to look at her glass from a different angle, and hopefully she will see that half empty is the same as half full.

Thankfully the second prize winner restored my faith. You can read his story (and I highly recommend you do – it’ll only take 3 minutes) at the following link:

http://www.nswwriterscentre.org.au/html/s02_article/article_view.asp?id=569&nav_cat_id=196&nav_top_id=73

Unfortunately the winning entry – “Renting James Joyce’s House” – destroyed any hope I had that the judges had any modicum of sensibility and left me feeling sorry for the author of the story that won second prize, who must have felt robbed. I know I would of. Before I sully your judgement with my prejudices I am going to insert a few choice paragraphs of the story starting with the introduction:

Foetuscrooked under his elbell Anna snoresnuggled for hours after, until waking from her heavendream, she echoed the loving lappings and longings of the night before and he stirred, thickened with sleep. Hair twined, sleep-stained, all limbs interlocking, they again rockinghorsed to the end. The sheets, sodden sails, pinned them to the deck of the bed, only the metallic borborigmi of their bellynoises forcing them to lift the deadweight and, rising, retreat into separateness for the day.

This was followed closely by paragraph 2:

Breakfast was coffee, Bewleys Oriental Café incarnate in parabola-chipped mugs – water, tumbled from the Dublin Mountains to be tinged brown with Eastern promise. Javascented waveswirls mingled with their own smells: staphylococci and coliforms battling for dominance in the shared territories. Sunlight, coloured redbrick red, entered the room through the oblong casement, carrying lifedust from the street outside. Under the door slid goldendappled pavement light, wet with the vapourised urine of dogs. A faint ammoniacal smell mingled with the almost visible wafts of coffee-steam, in combination a delicious olfactory assault, evoking melancholy thoughts of babyhood and old age, warm wee and comfort.

Past the halfway point, we find ourselves at paragraph 4

Anna thought, what a grand happyventure. That last time – it was like satin, like silk, like a new baby’s forehead. All the feelings in me swelling welling, gushing, bubbling, boiling. I was a volcano, no, a spring, a hot spring, endless, folding, and born, born over and over, newskinned, wise-eyed, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. Exquisite, he is, with his pink, turkish-delight whatsit and the blue round his eyes and the redbrick light and the sounds and the shiningsmells, and me, with him, in this place, at the centre of this place, part of it all, going on forever and ever, amen, telling him I’ll love him forever and ever amen.

Who can forget this stimulating piece of conversation?

‘Toast?’

‘Yes yes I will Yes.’

Followed closely by the grand ending:

Lizst. Chopin. Lizst. Quod erat demonstrandum. Every good boy deserves favour. Eye always on Stephen, penciltaste in her mouth, she finally marked the virgin page. ‘Foetuscrooked under his elbell Anna snored…’

So what did you all think? I would love to see your comments.

Before I let you in my thoughts, here is Microsoft Word’s reaction to this piece of prose. You know that paper clip that you hate with a passion? Well he won’t bother you anymore. After I inserted the previous story, he took umbrage at the amount of red and green lines that were popping up and without a second’s hesitation, killed himself with a self inflicted virus.

Like “Wisdom Lane” I really would love to enlighten you all with what took place in the above story, but frankly I was more confused than Marina with a street directory. The story was weighed down with so much purple prose, you could be forgiven for thinking that Barney wrote it.

Exacerbating my suffering further, was the disconnect between the story, and I use that term loosely, and the theme of the competition “Inner City Life”. For one, I did not realise that people in the inner city had orgasms when they were offered toast. If they do, it must certainly be some damn fine bread and I really need to find that bakery.

Another aspect that had me scratching my head was that girls always tell me “that they like to have fun.” According the story though, they love “grand happyventure”, enjoy “goldendappled pavement light, wet with the vapourised urine of dogs” (and who doesn’t) or the occasional “snoresnuggle.” Can any women out there please explain me to what this is exactly?

There is even mention of “life dust.” If you ask me the author, if not the judges, was on too much of “life dust” when the story was written and judged.

In the end it did not matter because one common thread linked the 1^st and 3^rd prize winners. The authors seemed so intent on describing a setting, they lost sight of the story, which was the point of the whole competition to begin with.

Like I said, “Between Borders and Buses” didn’t stand a chance in the Open Book Prize. The winner of the fiction prize was a children’s book called “Blotch the Dog”. The premise certainly peaked my interest because the book is told completely from the dog’s point of view. Nonetheless I did find it somewhat strange how the prize was announced by the by one of the judges: “I am so happy that the winner of the Open Book Prize goes to this particular book. I have seen the author struggle, right from the beginning, through the editing stages and even towards the end. I am so overjoyed to be able to present this year’s Open Book Prize to ‘Blotch the Dog.’”

So where does that leave me? Grumpy? Damn straight! Well I am over 30 after all and the grumpy gene is in full effect. Annoyed? Most definitely! Disheartened? Far from it! There are always more awards, more blogs and certainly more books.

Till then I bid you a happy snoresnuggle and hope your clothes do not end life as indulgences on a random fence that may or may not be your fence in a lane that may or may not have a clothesline as you enjoy you caffeinated lifestyle tinged with the bitter sweet urine of the local man who looks through your bins.

27 Dresses: Shut Your Button Hole

The day of reckoning had finally arrived. I finally had the chance to make amends for my serious faux paux from the last time I went bridesmaid dress shopping. For those who know my modus operandi must surely know that giving me an opportunity to make good on previous mistakes does not necessarily mean I will capitalise on it and the situation could very easily go from pear shaped to pear cobbler faster than you can say male ignorance; especially when you place Rudolph, Bourke, and me in the same room.

To make matters worse my cousin Brenton, who loves scoring as much as next guy had joined the fray as the third groomsman. Thankfully to counteract his “I’m a blowfly” sunglasses Marina’s little sister Rochelle, a girl who is all too familiar with the inner workings of knitting needles and the dreaded “Nana Zone”, had agreed to be the third bridesmaid.

Eager to arrive at the bridal boutique early to meet Sarah and Bourke who we knew would be punctual, Marina and I set our alarms accordingly. Unfortunately Rochelle and Marina’s dad, who was joining us to get his suit fitted, had set their alarms based on Indian Standard Time thereby causing us to run twenty minutes late.

Sarah though was not concerned with our tardiness, because it gave her plenty of time to subject Bourke to the endless world of bridal couture. When we finally arrived, Bourke stampeded over; the relief on his face palatable. Sparing him further torture I led him to the suit section, while Sarah and Rochelle joined Marina for her first dress fitting.

I have to admit guys have it easy when it comes to selecting suits. We only have a few styles to choose from, a Spartan selection of accessories and two colours. Where I am concerned this is a positive, because if there is too much choice my brain usually goes into meltdown. I am sure the many women reading this might argue that this limitation extends beyond me to the whole male population, but since I never generalise, I will simply say that I am glad that I did not have the choice that Marina faced when it came to selecting suitable wedding attire. With those brownie points dutifully earned lets move on to where they were suitably lost.

Rudolph and Brenton arrived about ten minutes after we did and once their suits were fitted, I was faced with one final decision – Should the cravat be inset with a white button or the much more trendy, or gaudy depending on your point of view, black button?

Sarah, who had finished helping Marina came out to see (read here: spy on) what the boys were doing.

“Definitely the black button,” Bourke suggested.
“I think so too,” I concurred.
“Have you checked with Marina?” Sarah interrupted.
“What has he checked with Marina?” Marina bounded into the suit section with a grin that a Cheshire cat would be proud of, obviously ecstatic that she had found her dress.
“I like the black the button, honey,” I showed Marina the cravat.
“What’s the other choice?” Marina asked.
I modelled the cravat with the white button.
“Definitely the white button,” Marina said without hesitation.
“But the black is more stylish,” I countered.
“The white gives it a subdued flair,” Marina argued.
“I think Marina is right,” Sarah squawked.
Bourke, like every backup should, fell in behind me. “Don’t worry Darren, black is better. I had black.”
“Bourke stay out of this!” The daggers flew out of Sarah’s eyes. Bourke a seasoned paintballer and husband dodged them effortlessly.
From that point it was on for young and old, and Rudolph was soon embroiled in the spat, when Marina asked for his opinion.
Being diplomatic (and probably fearful for his life), Rudolph said with a smile “Whatever you guys want is fine by me.”
I am sure Brenton would have got involved too, but realising this domestic could get ugly made a quick exit, telling me on the way out he was eager to get some practice in for his soccer semi-final the following day.

Sarah though was anything but diplomatic. “Darren you should just agree with Marina. She has seen the dress and knows what will match.”
Marina, a skilled teacher and experienced in handling male immaturity, added this little gem. “Well I think the white button is definitely better, because the black one looks like you are going to a funeral…” You will be happy to know that self preservation kicked in and I was smart enough not to open my mouth “…but in the end it is your decision.”
Bourke, Sarah’s loveable smart arse stirred the pot further. “Darren, choose wisely because this is the last decision you will ever be allowed to make.”
I stayed silent, mulling it over in my head as “Help” by the Beatles played over the store’s music system.
Not wanting any bloodshed on her suits and dresses, the sales girl broke the tense silence by suggesting that “we didn’t have to decide right away. We could think about which cravat to choose” and let her know later.

It sounded like a good idea. But being a Taurus, I am stubborn and like Marina, I realised the button debate was just beginning and if anything this break in conversation was more the calm before the storm rather than a truce.

With the suits and Marina’s dress sorted that only left the bridesmaids. Rudolph, wanting to avoid further wedding related violence, used this as his chance to make a quick getaway. Marina’s dad too, suddenly felt the desire to wash his hair (which is strange since is his hair, like the financial market, is in a recession) asked to be dropped off on the way to next dress appointment. But while my backup was dropping like flies, Marina’s battalion of femme fatales were growing in strength. Cheryl met Marina, Sarah, Rochelle and Bourke and I in a far flung corner of Wetherill Park, an area with the distinction of being a Bridal Mecca.

Even though I had lost half of my men, you should have by now realised that Bourke and I are still a force to be reckoned with. Sure, individually Bourke and I can be annoying, infuriating and a downright pain the posterior, but together we are as irritating as a wet squirrel down your pants.

Our first stop was an outlet of the same shop we visited in the morning, because it was touted as having a bigger selection of bridesmaid dresses. But like all propaganda there was nothing behind the hype. The girls wasted little time in searching through dresses that they had already seen and quickly moved onto the next store, where Bourke drew our attention to a male mannequin in the window wearing a cravat with a black button.

He instantly extolled the virtues of the black button over the white button. I have to say the man made a convincing argument. I already knew the button was stylish, but the way he described how it broke up the ensemble to create a great focal point was certainly well researched. He also commented on the various artistic uses a photographer might use to bring the button and the dress together, thereby creating luscious collage that we would treasure forever. Marina too had a persuasive counter argument as to why I should not wear the black button – “Honey, just imagine how comfy the couch will be on the wedding night?” Sarah supported her friend’s point of view and then told me I shouldn’t listen to Bourke – “he’s an idiot!” She then turned to Marina and happily informed her that it would be her pleasure to nag me at work to make sure I chose the white button. From all accounts, our special day was going to hinge on what button I choose.

Like picking the correct button was a difficult task, so too was finding a place that sold bridesmaid dresses. By the third store, it became apparent that the all the shops in the area only catered to the brides but not their bridesmaids, which was frustrating seeing as we drove all the way out there for that reason alone. Thankfully Cheryl and Sarah remembered a nearby mega store that might have what we wanted.

They were right. The place was massive and contained rack upon rack of bridesmaid dresses of various colours and designs. However like a blind man at a buffet, we had no idea where to start and so we went in search of sales assistant. We quickly realised that the girl we asked had no idea what her job title actually meant. She was supposed assist us so she could make a sale, but she obviously found the assistant part of the job description confusing. Marina tried to explain the style of dress she was looking for, and she came back with an ensemble that looked like Barney’s love child. Marina tried again, this time with the help of charades and the use of pictograms. Nodding her head in agreement, the sales assistant scurried off, only to return with a dress that a homeless person would think twice about wearing.

Marina, in an act of utter desperation turned to Bourke and me for help. If the previous sentence does not make you realise how bad the service was in this store, then I don’t know what will, because let’s be honest you’d have to be at your wits end to allow Bourke and I loose in a dress store to help you find a dress.

I led Bourke into the dark jungle of racks with gusto and set about searching for the dress that Marina had shortlisted a couple of weeks ago. For all our good intentions our search was fruitless. The girls too were having a hard time finding something that tickled their fancy and decided to cut their losses, accept defeat and make a beeline for the exit. Our escape was halted by Sarah’s excited yelp. Displayed on a rack, in full view of everyone was the dress Marina wanted the girls to try.

Instantly Bourke and I were bombarded with words and phrases such as “useless”, “blind”, “stupid”, “Can’t we rely on you two for anything?” and “Darren I think you need a new pair of glasses.” In our defence we only did what we were told to do. We were explicitly instructed “to have a look in the racks.” And that is what we did. At no point in the given set of instructions were we told to see what the mannequins were wearing.

Needless to say we were instantly banned from being a bridesmaid dress consultant and instead we were both relegated to couch cushion warmer. Again the task of assisting the girls with their dresses, were beyond the scope of the sale girls present. By the end of it, Marina had decided to put the dresses back and forget the whole scenario ever happened.

I am glad she did. While Bourke and I were waiting we found out a few aspects of this store that unsettled me some what. For one, the colour choice begged some consideration. This place did not offer standard colours like red or blue, or even the more zany colours like turquoise, but colours that came from smells – “musk” and fruit – “banana.” I am certain that Marina did not want a dress that people could “scratch and sniff”.

In addition to the weird colours Bourke warned me that the material used to make the dresses might be second rate, indicating to me a swatch of fabric that was obviously the Chinese rip off of Satin – “Sateen”.

But the day was not all bad. Even though our expedition to Wetherill Park did not end in success, at least we had covered all our bases, and now we knew exactly where to go for the bridesmaid dresses. We also finished hiring the guys’ suits and more importantly, Marina had ordered her dress. I guess the only problem that remained was what type of button will I have in my cravat? Was it going to be black or white? Instead of making a snap decision now, I will definitely have to think about it, and I guess like Marina, you will find out which button I opted for on our big day.

Driving Miss Daisy

My life as groom-to-be continues to go from strength to strength. Just when I thought I had reached the pinnacle of my wedding involvement with my role as chief bridesmaid dress consultant, Marina upped the ante and made me the “Driver to the stars”.

It was a role that I dared not take lightly, since I was in charge of navigating the streets of Sydney with four nagging and directionally challenged women? Sorry, for the sake of my safety, let me take that back. I don’t mean nagging, I mean ladies with a talent for creative consulting and a honed knack of telling me where to go.

I know what you are all thinking: How did I get into this predicament? What happened after the 27th dress? Shouldn’t I be detailing my adventures amongst plunging neck lines, swirling silk and A-Line bias cuts? Yes I should, but before I do I think a brief intermission is in order. In this case it is a jaunty tale about my time spent chauffeuring Marina, Sarah, Cheryl and Marina’s mum to various bridal stores around Sydney.

While for the most part I was relegated to the appropriate food court to amuse myself with wistful thoughts of special sauce and overheard snippets of conversations (“I can’t believe she slept with him? I wonder if her knees ever touch each other!”) I came away even more mystified than ever about the fairer sex.

By the end of the day I realised that women have the astounding ability to keep their mouth in motion, yet not really say anything at all. Case in point, Marina and her posse had finished spending the morning comparing bridal gowns and met me for lunch in the Miranda food court. When the five of us sat down Marina instructed her harem NOT to tell me anything about “the dress.” But as you can imagine this request was akin to showing a man cleavage and then telling him not to stare and retain eye contact – an impossible task if there ever was one.

Naturally, Sarah, who has been checking out my fiancée much more than I would like, was the first one to break this pact. After proclaiming to the whole food court with a series of lewd gestures and wolf whistles how sexy Marina looks in “the dress”, she announced to everyone at the table that “even she would do Marina!”

The rest of ladies did not agree with Sarah on that point, but they did concur on how pretty Marina looked in “the dress” and then continued to tell each other how stylish “the dress” was. But they did so in a conversation that befuddled me no end because it seemed to be full of adjectives and not many nouns. Here let me give you an example of few snippets of female wisdom.

“I liked the cut especially of how it is angled to the perpendicularity of the hip while keeping its shape in fourth dimensional space.” Then there was the classic “The material was like the shade of the plum in the second half of spring when the sun approaches the inclination of Venus in the southern hemisphere.” Or who can forget the statement on how “the light shimmered through the haze of threads creating an expansive chromatic hue that dazzled the nearest pigeon and caused it to poop on the old woman with the jumbo pack of Depends.”

This conversation about nothing (Seinfeld would have been proud) lasted for about 20 minutes and by its conclusion I was dazed and felt strangely emasculated. I am sure if it went any longer I would have finally understood feminine hygiene advertisements.

To illustrate my point let me tell you about lunch. Usually when I am out and have a bite to eat, I avoid any food outlet that is serving a culinary selection that could also help feed Australia’s rabbit population and line up at a eatery that satisfies the following criteria: (a) the food must come from an animal, and (b) the aforementioned carcass has to be deep fried and encapsulated in an sheen of grease.

But surrounded with this much oestrogen has had a detrimental (the girls choose to say “positive”) effect on my diet. Much to my shock, I decided to bypass any place that was offering a free heart bypass with every lunch special ordered, and join the girls in a salad. I never thought I would see the day when I would chose a block of feta over a healthy dose of saturated fats.

I know what you are wondering, Where was my back up? While Rudolph was getting ready to “Burn the Floor” with his girlfriend, Bourke, had chosen not to retreat to China (apparently all the flights were booked) and instead spend the day surrounded by sweaty men playing with their guns at a local paintball tournament he was supervising.

But I did not let this concern me, because I knew that they and a couple of other special guests would be there the next time I put on my consultant hat and ventured into the wonderful world of bridesmaid dresses. And with that escapade comes the next drawn out rant, the long awaited and some might say pointless conclusion to 27 dresses. A blog that will have you reaching for your power buttons quicker than you can say “We’ll have veiled ol’ time.”

27 Dresses: The Truth Under The Petticoat

Walking towards my car, I noticed the claws of lightning illuminate the rain sodden sky and was reminded of an Alfred Hitchcock thriller. Can you blame me? I was being followed by a flock of birds, with the head chickadee being none other than Marina, my very own Oompa Loompa with attitude. Behind her was the chief bridesmaid, Cheryl, an Australian smurfette with Goan heritage, who is always ready to smurfinate anyone who tells her she has Indian heritage. Bringing up the rear was a Sarah, a girl who loves her ball sports as much her pussies.

As thunder rumbled through the clouds and the drizzle grew heavier, I took a deep breath, opened the car and let the girls hop in. Deep inside my mind a little voice chirped, “Are you nuts man? Do you realise what you’re getting yourself into?” The answer was simple – No I didn’t! I had no idea what to expect as I joined the girls in their quest for the perfect bridesmaid dress.

Like the voice in my head, I am sure all the guys reading this must think I am mad. And yes, sometimes I am, but bear with me and hear me out. The ends ultimately justified the means, because by chauffeuring the ladies around and offering them my advice, I was sure to earn some serious brownie points with Marina. And as my workmate Lorry advised me, “you can never have too many brownie points.”

Little did I know however that I would need those brownie points before the morning was out!

Brownie points or not, I still needed back up. Once I made the decision to accompany the girls on their adventure in the deep dark jungle of petticoats and bodices, I sent an email to my fellow groomsmen asking for their assistance. Rodolph, my best man and the only person I am aware of who knows more about moisturiser and jewellery then most men down Oxford Street replied practically instantaneously. “I’ll be there! Just tell me the time and place.” Unlike Rodolph who jumped at the opportunity to join me, Sarah’s husband Bourke, the only guy in Australia who can legally manufacture firearms (I told you I needed backup) and who in his spare time loved to take pictures of Japanese toilets (you’ll be pleased to know he does so only after he flushes), rushed onto the next flight to China. He told me said it was for business, but I quickly realised was a ruse, because I found out that the province he was visiting is known for its Chinese tarts, and I am not talking about the apple kind either. If you don’t believe let me quote an email he sent me.

‘At the train station, there was a sign that described the taxi rank as “kiss and drive”. However, after one look at my Chinese taxi driver I decided that more conventional payment methods would suit me fine. Maybe it was mean of me, but I know he didn’t understand when I asked him “so, how many kisses will get me to Silverworld Garden Hotel?”‘

Nevertheless I had Rodolph. Or did I? I forgot to mention that Rodolph doesn’t subscribe to Greenwich Mean Time, but Egyptian Standard Time. What does this mean? Let’s just say he missed what I certainly think was the most exciting part of the day.

At the first store, after the girls tried on a few dresses, Sarah suggested that Marina try some wedding dresses that were on display.  Before every one screams at the monitor “You can’t do that! Darren isn’t allowed to see ‘the Dress’ before the wedding!” the girls, who were quite aware of this fact, irreverently shooed me into an adjacent room without hesitation.

This did not bother me too much because it took all of one second to realise that the room was used for photography and it had some great audio equipment (read here: Darren gets a chance to fondle knobs of different shapes and sizes). I decided to make the most of my situation and pulled out my camera. And yes I know now that cameras are strictly forbidden when going bridesmaid dress shopping for reasons of confidentiality, but back then I was blissfully ignorant and set about taking pictures of exciting things like curtains, blinds and of the aforementioned audio equipment from various angles and distances.

After approximately fifteen minutes of keeping myself amused, my solitude was cut short abruptly when a cow dressed in woman’s clothing barged in. Without giving me a chance to explain what I was doing in the room she began yelling at me. Okay, I will give it you that I looked a bit dodgy. Imagine the scene for a second: you open a door and find an unshaven man, sporting a crew cut taking pictures of anything and everything. You too, as any rational person would, assume the worst. And rightly so.

However, any sane person would also listen to the explanation, because western democracy does state every one is innocent until proven guilty. Obviously she did not receive that memo when she defected from the motherland because even after I insisted that I was with the three girls outside who were selecting wedding dresses, and I was the groom, she still did not relent and dragged me outside. Sarah saw me from the corner of my eye and started yelling at me to get back into the room. It was only then did this wicked witch of the south realise she had made a right cock up.

I shuffled back into the room and as Marina returned to choosing and trying on wedding dresses, I casually pulled on my cranky pants.

I did not say anything and fumed quietly until we arrived at the next dress store. It was then that all my skills of tact, which comes standard when you are Taurean male (Marina calls it pig headedness), was let loose.

While Cheryl and Sarah went to try on a dress Marina had picked, I picked up a catalogue, turned to Marina and through a veil of thick sarcasm and said “Well let’s hope I can read this catalogue without being kicked out.” As you can imagine this did not go down to well, and those brownie points I was eager to earn went right out the window.

Sarah and Cheryl came out of the change room all smiles, but as soon they saw us, Sarah instantly turned to me and said, “Okay Darren, what did you do?”  Cheryl meanwhile cracked her knuckles and prepared to open a can of smurf-ass.

It had taken 5 weeks and 4 blogs but we finally reached our first wedding domestic. In the true style of an Oompa Loompa with attitude Marina came out fighting. Cheryl and Sarah fell in behind her. It was my very own wedding version of Charlies Angels. What followed was utter carnage and for the sake of those with weak stomachs all I will say it was only after I was suitably battered with chiffon, stunned with sequins, massacred with sashes and finished off with one very sharp bobby pin (as you read this I am still regaining the ability to sit down) did I wave the white flag and utter those magical that every male fiancé knows, “yes dear, you are right dear, I’m sorry dear.”

It was at this point that I realised why women never forget anything males do. They tell their friends so if and when the time calls for it, their buddies can remind them of what an ass their partner is. They say the internet is repository of random information and knowledge. Well it’s got nothing on the collective network of female consciousness and only when science can replicate this, only then will I be suitably impressed.

On the way to the next bridal shop, the conversation topic revolved not only what just happened, but on what I had done 2½ weeks ago, and what I could do in three weeks. It did not help matters that Cheryl was still prepared to smurf me over “just in case” and Sarah, based on her experience with Bourke, was giving Marina advice on how to win any subsequent arguments.

Thankfully by the time we reached the store my cavalry had arrived in true style. But, like me, it did not take long for Rodolph to get bamboozled by what he heard and saw. Who knew there were so many shades of the same colour?

A typical conversation between the girls and I went like this:

“What do you think of this dress Darren?” Marina would ask

“Isn’t it the same as the last one?” I answered

“Sheesh Darren, you’re bloody useless!” Marina tutted.  ”This dress is a different chromatic hue to the last one, and this next one I want the girls to try, changes its tone under light giving it a subtle yet refreshingly vibrant feel.”

“Yeah Darren,” Sarah chimed in. “Isn’t obvious that this central frill is different to the side fold…”

“And surely Darren,” Cheryl smurfed, “you can see that the angle of the cut is at least two degrees different from the other one.”

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders. While I may have thought that the three dresses had the exactly same colour, cut and pattern, I decided not to point this out, because as you may recall, I was way behind in brownie points, and said without hesitation “It’s lovely girls and you each look stunning and in no way do your bums look big in that.”

The girls thanked me for my opinion and then responded unanimously “Darren, why don’t you take Rodolph and have a look at some of the suits on display?”

Thankfully Rodolph and I had it easy when it came to selecting a suit.  Unlike the girls who were faced with a task that was harder than picking the winning lotto numbers, our choice was limited. In the space of twenty or so minutes I had picked the wedding suit, and by the time Rodolph and I had tried them on the girls had finished with their dress fittings.

However, the expression on Marina’s face was telling when we left the third store – the girls were no closer to selecting the correct bridesmaid dress. Even after a visit to another formal store after lunch, where the dresses showed promise, it was obvious my dress shopping adventures were only just beginning.

The question remained however, how much longer till my bridesmaid dress escapade reached its exciting conclusion? How many more weekends would find me surrounded by frills, A-line bias cuts and enough tulle to drown a person in? Where will our journey take us? How long before I annoy Marina again? Will Bourke ever kiss that taxi driver? Will Sarah’s pussies win the grand final for a second time in a row? Will Cheryl smurf Darren in a blaze of glory? Will Rodolph arrive on time?

To find the answers to these and other useless questions, be sure to stay tuned for the next misinformed episode.

Picture Perfect

 

I won’t lie to you. I was fearful and filled with trepidation. I knew that a wrong decision would make mincemeat of our memories. Marina shared my sentiment. She stared at the computer screen with a furrowed brow, pursed lips and a gaze of apprehension.

 

Well you’d be scared too, if you had just typed “wedding photography” into Google! How could we possibly sift through the 300,000 or so web pages that Google spat out at us in an afternoon and make an informed decision? I know I had no idea and immediately fell over into a little ball, sucked my thumb and started whimpering. Marina, some might say the more the practical of the two of us, casually opened a bottle of vodka and proceeded to erase the whole process from her memory.

 

Unfortunately, our denial was short lived. Reality soon slammed into us with the subtly of an oncoming locomotive and we were once again faced with the dreaded task of choosing a photographer. Trawling through the list on the screen, the same question kept resonating through my mind – How did we know we were picking the right one?

 

But like I knew Marina was “the one”, practically from the get go, I knew he was “the one”, the moment I saw his website. Being a photography buff, it was obvious that the man understood photography. Or more accurately, he understood light, and knew how to use it to its full potential. Well let’s be honest folks, if you don’t have light, you can’t take a photo.

 

So with eager anticipation, we arrived at his place in Helensburgh and from the moment we stepped into his house, I knew I had found my Mecca. My knees felt weak, my heart rate quickened and my palms grew sweaty, because in front of me was a tech God.

 

It was not simply the array of photographs on the wall or even the classy leather bound albums that sat on the coffee table, that had me blinking with doe eyed appreciation, but the…I honestly don’t know what call it, because calling it a TV undermined its grandeur.  For one, it was at least twice as tall as me and two, if you weren’t using it as a viewing device, it could double as a mobile billboard. Surrounding such a behemoth of a screen were five speakers, each as tall as Marina, and probably just as loud. But the pièce de résistance was the custom built gaming seat that allowed him to enjoy all manner of car racing simulations. When I saw that out of the corner of my eye, my heart skipped a beat and my breath caught in my throat. I honestly would’ve done anything to be let loose amongst the wonderland of buttons and knobs he had on display – including stuff I won’t get into in this blog for fear of censorship.

 

And yeah, you might all be laughing at me for my over the top reaction and thinking I am the epitome of geekdom. But may I remind you of the incidents two weeks ago when Marina and I went searching for a reception centre. It did not matter which place we visited, every time a chair cover, frilly sash, ornate table cloth, or floral arrangement crossed Marina’s field of vision, she was reduced to coos of ecstasy, so much so, that I could have easily set up a double-o-double-five number and charged people for the privilege. And it only got worse once there was talk of colour schemes.  Let’s just say, security had never been so busy.

 

But as I sat there in Helensburgh, I knew how Marina felt, especially once he started talking about his equipment. There was talk of fast aperture, slow shutter speed, depth of field, megapixels and just when I thought I could not contain myself any longer he pulled out his zoom lens. I was instantly reduced to a gurgling mess.

 

Through my haze of pleasure, I tried to listen intently has he described the many techniques he liked to use to tighten his aperture, fix the saturation, apply contrast levels and how with his careful tweaking reduce noise.

 

The man was a genius and there was little I could do but gush uncontrollably in his presence. And Marina knew it too. So rather than continue (believe me I could), I won’t, because as I write this blog Marina is peering over my shoulder, getting a bit jealous and huffing so much, it would be easy to confuse her with a steam engine.

 

And yes, I will get in trouble for that last sentence, and before I incriminate myself more than I already have and earn a plethora slaps (some might say well deserved) I will bid thee adieu…for now anyway.