Reading for the Articles

“I suggest we get married at the courthouse and call it good.” So sayeth the Pirate Queen amidst a frustration fit.

That’s not really what my queen wants. That’s just how far I’ve collapsed her standards. The fall wasn’t that far; she’s already dropped them far enough to marry the Rob plan-o-holic control freak. She likes that about me. I think she’s crazy, but then again, I like her lists.

That’s why we’re a team.

And yet in the senseless dollars and cents escalation of wedding planning, team Boyd has already reached defcon 4. That’s somewhere pre Hitchcockian dove release, with Arabian drawn diamond carriage, and post Scroogian YouTube nuptials with e-conference reception.

“Rob, your uncle Frank is offering $150 for a better camera angle when you remove the garter.”

“Tell him to double it. What? You wanted a Hawaiian honeymoon…”

And that’s why we won’t turn to the Scrooge side: we’re avoiding that moment. I’m trying to trust my queen’s budget skills, but my inner Scotsman is twitching like a spring-wound toy on windup overload. If I can just loosen the white-knuckle wallet death grip a little.

“NO! MINE! MINE! MINE!”

Here’s the thing: I want her to have the wedding she wants—and deserves. Let’s face it. The wedding day is all about her. I’m just the accessory she needs to make the day go well. I nod, I smile, I say I do. In the photos, I’m the blurry guy on her arm. I’m okay with that. I love her; she deserves a day of PQ splendor for accepting a lifetime supply of Rob.

“Marriage is always having to say ‘I’m sorry.’”

Did that sound jaded? It’s not. I just know my capacity for lumbering blindly where angels fear to tread. If there’s an angel watching over me, he’s doing it through clawed fingers, awaiting the next accident.

And that brings us back to yesterday. Yesterday I went to a convenience store. I didn’t need gum or soda or anything convenient like that. I went for the anonymous dark-literature with lots of picture and very little article content. I went for the bridal magazines.

See, my bride-to-be wants me involved. She’s looking for input. She wants more than arm-candy. She’s looking for an all year sucker. And no matter how afraid I am of spending money, I figure I can help her. If nothing else, I can stopper-cap the money flow.

And that’s why at 9 pm on a Monday I walked into the Lucky Mart down the block. Wearing my flipped up collar topcoat and flip down snap-on sunglasses reflecting the world from beneath my Red Cross helmet, I cautiously placed a milk carton on the front counter.

I could see the attendant’s hand moving to the silent alarm. “So, a quart of milk. Will that be all sir?”

“Uhm…” I glanced around, making sure the aisles were clear of witnesses. “I’d like a comb…maybe—yes, hand me that Bee Gee’s keychain over there, and…” now or never, “well that Brides magazine—The Knot too, and let me get a gallon of gas too. And Vaseline…”

The counter girl understood. She put everything in a brown paper bag and double bagged the mags so I could leave with some dignity.

Once home, I close the blinds and hunch over both magazines. Six hundred pages and five minutes later, I finish. I’d tried skipping the pictures and only reading the articles. I was so unfulfilled. I open one magazine and try again.

“Bride Stephie likes long walks on the beach, purple anemones, Lucida Blackletter fonted escort cards, and the Los Angeles Biltmore seats-800 Crystal Ballroom for all her close friends and family.”

800? Stephie must be really close with all her Facebook hoarde. Me, I did see the pictures this time. They’re too perfect looking. I’m scared to death of them--them and everything else about Stephie’s wedding. “Seats 800?” And what the hell are “escort cards?” I thought they handed those out at Las Vegas conventions…

I look again at the pictures. Vertigo kicks in and my world reels. Thank God I have an empty stomach; I have nothing to lose. I loose the rest of the afternoon studying Stephie’s bridal-mates, including Carla’s centerfold of lobster, salmon, and crab spread for $85 a plate…

Hours later, my queen returns home to an empty house and a closet that whimpers.

I hear her at the closet door, “honey?”

Without opening the door, I stammer out my story. The dog-eared horror zines clutched in my shaking fingers.

Her shadow kneels at the doorway. “It’s ok,” she coaxes, “I don’t need attendants. We don’t need a big wedding.”

“But Stephie and Brad! They had one…”

“Steph--? Baby, I need you to push the bridal magazines under the door.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“They won’t fit.”

She opens the door.

Fifteen minutes and Twinkie-treat later, she entices me from my hidey-hole. After that, she secures the door, and pats the couch “Here boy! We need to talk.”

My Queen tells me all about the brides and the bees. She’s surprised that my parents hadn’t mentioned them before, but she’s open and patient. “Not all weddings are like the ones in the media. Some weddings are smaller than others—that’s ok. It’s not the size that matters. It’s the quality that counts.”

I opened the magazine to page 15. “But look at this: It’s a ‘wedding enhancement’ to bring more pleasure.”

“Honey, that’s a bridal consultant. We don’t need one of those. Our wedding is just fine the way it is.”

“But we haven’t planned it yet!”

“Relax.” She pets my hand. “We’ll do this together, and make it through.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Good. Then maybe you can explain this hardcover honemoon vacation book I got from the travel agency…”