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.