A Few Lines About Segments
9/25/06

I believe it was my high school geometry teacher, Mr. Petros, who explained to me the difference between “segments” and “lines”. Segments have a defined beginning and a defined end, where as lines go on forever and ever and ever. (Thus, it is by no coincidence that the DMV, the post office and the ladies room at a Justin Timberlake concert consist of “lines” and not “segments”.)

My engagement to Kristen is perhaps the newest segment of my life. Unfortunately, with this new beginning, the end of September marks the defined end to many a segment that, despite their geometrical definition, will always be “lines” in my heart.

Of course I should have seen this coming. Friday night an ugly storm system blew into the Chicagoland area that made national headlines. Actual tornados were spotted throughout various suburbs prompting the National Weather Service to interrupt regularly scheduled programming to inform Auntie Em about the twister.

Growing up in the Midwest, these National Weather Service announcements run off me like water off a duck’s back. They are the metaphorical “boy who cried wolf” of the tri-state area. If I had a nickel for every episode of “Charles in Charge” I missed thanks to the NWS informing me that there was a tornado 9,000 nautical miles SSW of my suburban bubble, where even the worst thunder sounded like the Vienna Boys Choir, compared to the frequent roars of 747s flying out of O’Hare, I’d be rich

In hindsight it is probably dangerous that no one in this area takes these warnings seriously. But then again, we are a society of gapers. We slow down and stare at car accidents. We watch slow motion instant replays from 43 different angles of the wide receiver that landed on his head. We literally run out of letters of the alphabet to name hurricanes after, yet we still don’t learn.

This backwards thinking might be rooted in our vernacular.

(sidebar #481516: I realize that as a journalism major I tend to focus highly on the role words play in our society, however, as a former scholar of Spanish (3 half-ass years in high school) and an experienced world travel (8 days in Italy over one spring break) I have what I would consider to be, a more than firm grasp on the Romantic Languages and can honestly tell you that compared to our neighbors across the pond, our language has more idiosyncrasies than “idiosyncrasies” has syllables.)

Point and case: Every warm-blooded American knows that when an object is flying through the air in danger of hitting someone in the immediate vicinity, the common phrase of warning is “Heads up!” As a society we are away of this rule. Yet, while we are aware of what “heads up!” means, our immediate reaction is to look directly up into the air for the element of our impending doom. After all, the instructor yelled “heads up”. As an obedient society by nature, we turned our heads up. As a moronic society by nature, we get hit in the head.

I have affectionately started calling this the “Godzilla Effect”. When you mention the movie “Godzilla” to any American, it is with only the most respect for our neighbors across the bigger pond, that we immediately recall the scenes of 10 million Japanese people pouring into the streets of downtown Tokyo, stopping at what turns out to be just within the monster’s next stride, staring up at certain-death, pointing and screaming until he’s fulfills his role as “Screaming man #72” and ends up flat as a pancake.

Lesson to be learned: In the event of a Godzilla attack, run away from large foot.

I plead guilty to succumbing to the “Godzilla Effect” myself on Friday night. I had just finished ignoring the latest NWS’ warning on T.V. when, the City of Chicago employed its Air Raid Siren Emergency Alert System. Every 4th grader knows what to do when they hear a warning such as this. Go to a basement or doorway and most importantly far away from any windows. How did I react? Me (along with all of the other village idiots) immediately ran outside, stared at the pitch black sky and debated what all of these warnings could possibly mean, which, despite our obviously high I.Q. levels, we were unable to ascertain and thus went back inside to catch the end of “Charles in Charge.”

Lesson to be learned: In the event of a weather-related emergency, consult nearest 4th grader.

Proving once again that ours’ is a relationship built to last beyond hell or high water, Kristen miraculously made it into Midway that same night. She had flown in to join in the celebration of an end of an era. After 2 years of over priced and overcrowded city dwelling, I was packing up my Andersonville apartment as the next step in what Kristen and I are calling “Operation: We Shall Overcome” (more fondly, “Owso.”) As fun as the long distance has been—the airports, the driving, the road rage, the speeding tickets, the flight delays—despite the common belief, we learned that you CAN in fact have too much of a good thing, and thus, decided to rid ourselves of this guilty pleasure once and for all. Oswo started when we officially set a wedding date. As of today, we have 384 days to reside in the same city. A feat we haven’t accomplished since the Chicago Cubs won their last Division Title.

An important step in accomplishing Oswo, is me closing the doors to the place I have called home for the past 2 years. It wasn’t glamorous (and no, Mom, it wasn’t economical) but it was my small piece of this great city. It’s hard to call a two bedroom apartment without central air or a view of any kind the “American Dream,” but for a twenty-something city-slicker whose heart was always too big for his wallet, this brief taste of urban chic was just what the doctor ordered.

And closing this door ended a segment in time for more than just me. Murphy had been my roommate for the better part of 4 of the last 5 years. He was now moving in with his girlfriend, (of similar if not longer tenure) Tonks, who as irony would have it, hails from the Twin Cities. <>

The gang was all moving on, and Saturday night was our “series finale”. Like most finales do these days, we prefaced the main event with a trip down memory lane. We revisited classic moments, outtakes and previously deleted scenes. And after what was in a way both too much, and yet not enough alcohol to numb the reality of it all, another segment had ended in what will always be considered, an appropriately defined moment.

Fighting what we could only explain as an untimely head/stomach ache on Sunday morning, there was no rest for the party weary. Sunday afternoon it was on to Milwaukee for dinner with El Padre, the lucky celebrant for our big day. If you can follow (and trust me, following may require a notebook, a compass and Onstar) El Padre currently calls sunny southern California his home, though his license plates say Wisconsin, his family lives in Philadelphia, and he visits Italy more times than an experienced world traveler like myself.

And so we broke bread, with he who breaks bread, and learned a thousand and one ways to make our mothers cringe during the ceremony. What can I say? El Padre fits in quite well and we look forward to having him officiate the goings on.

Realizing that we were in a city neither one of us currently called home, we decided it would be in our best interest to hit the road for Chicago. I guess according to Mr. Petros, I-94 would have to be defined as a segment; being that there is in fact a beginning and an end. While it sometimes seems like there is no end in sight to the roads Kristen and I have traveled down, I rest assured that somewhere out there, lays the endpoint to this geometrical madness. One day soon the bells will ring, and my guess is they will interrupt “Charles in Charge.”


P.S. Confidential to "Cheezehead in AR": Thanks for the kind words and sharing a hilarious article. Hope to see you (and your teeth) next fall.

Road to the Altar
9/8/06

Despite the lack of blog updates, I assure you that the “road to the altar” (as one anonymous reader put it) has had plenty more lessons and epiphanies to recount. My eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Young, lived by a quote from Benjamin Franklin that said, “Never go to sleep at night without learning at least one new thing that day.” After logging an additional 546 miles (and yes, that’s completely accurate, I MapQuested it) down the infamous “road” this weekend, I learned enough for all of us to sleep soundly (at least until my next blog update).

One might wonder how one goes about logging 546 miles in one weekend, at least without boarding an airplane. Those who know us best, however, know that 546 miles is a walk-in-the-park for us Fockers. In fact, if it doesn’t require a passport or at least the removal of all liquid and/or gel type products from our luggage, Fockers don’t even count it as traveling.

This non-traveling weekend started Friday when Kristen flew in from Minneapolis.

(Sidebar #123212: I’ve recently decided that I hate saying the word “Minneapolis”. Reason being, you can’t seem to say it in a non-whiny fashion. I believe it has something to do with the “e” and “a” sounds running together like food on an un-separated dinner plate. No one likes it when their gravy runs off their mashed potatoes and fuses with their applesauce. Similarly, it seems to be public opinion that no one likes to say the name “Minneapolis.” Exhibit A) All professional sports teams are referred to by the less audio-repulsive “Minnesota”. It’s the Minnesota Twins, not Minneapolis Twins. Exhibit B) Paul Schmalbach. Paul was one of the early German settlers of the Twin Cities area who observed the ear-splitting nomenclature of “Minneapolis” and quickly began forming a neighboring town, of equal size and stature, so that people would be able to refer to the area as the “Twin Cities”. The locals in return were so grateful for Paul’s quick-mindedness, that they immediately had him canonized and named the ear-saving town in his memory.)

Kristen landed in the single-birth city of Chicago. (note that all vowels are distinctly separated by consonants) Saturday morning we immediately departed for Manitowoc, WI, hometown of Kristen, and appropriately enough where this infamous “road” will eventually end. Our time in Manitowoc was just long enough to collect a few extra Byrneses (Jack, Dina and birthday girl J-Lo.) J-Lo is my favorite little sister-in-law-to-be. She also happens to be Kristen’s Maid of Honor, so be sure to make note of that on 10/13.

The entire Byrnes clan was to gather in Wauwautosa that afternoon to commemorate J-Lo’s 18 years of life. The party was held in ‘Tosa (which is a safe way to refer to the city of Wauwautosa while steering clear of gravy and applesauce fusion). ‘Tosa, you’ll remember, is home of Noah & Joan’s ark, where everything comes in twos, even the nieces. Surprisingly enough, Joan was able to feed the masses (from what I’m guessing was two loaves and two chickens) and yield what seemed like at least two bushel baskets to spare. After we finished dessert (cake & ice cream, as even the guilty pleasures come in twos there), Kristen and I boarded the Byrnes bus back to Manitowoc.
Before you could decide whether the plural form of “Byrnes” is actually spelled “Byrneses,” it was Sunday, September 3rd. A day that brought with it the kind of feeling in your stomach that you get when you realize you may have just used the wrong toothbrush. Today was the day my parents (Frank and Marie) would sit down to dinner with Jack and Dina Byrnes. Going into it, I feared the worst. Visions of the First Thanksgiving were running through my head, and look how that ended. The Pilgrims eventually chased the Indians off of their own land and forced them to erect giant bingo & casino resorts with hard to pronounce names like “Potawatomi”.

This historic event started well. Kristen and I drove down to Kohler, WI to visit “Party Central” with my parents for the first time. --When in doubt, before trying anything new, Kristen an I always add a brief 60 miles of interstate. It helps us feel more at home.-- Frank and Marie loved the American Club, so we journeyed up the road a bit to a magical place called the “Kohler Design Center”. Those of you attending “I-Do-Octoberfest ‘07” take note. The Kohler Design Center does for indoor plumbing what Wrigley Field does for baseball. Ever wonder what a 30-foot wall of toilets in every color of the rainbow would look like? (Even if you hadn’t before I just said that, I bet you just did) Well, wonder no more. Come to Kohler, WI next October. Where Kristen and Jared will take the plunge, and you could too!

After the Great Wall of Porcelain, there was nothing stopping North meeting South. At approximately 3:14pm, we had met the parents. Nearly 10 minutes had passed and there were still no signs of mass deportation or an emerging Bingo & Casino franchise. This was a good sign.

But I had spoken too soon. As if having both worlds in one house wasn’t frightening enough, it was decided that we’d all pile into the Focker Family van for an impromptu episode of “Where in the World?” hosted by Jack Byrnes. My life was flashing before my eyes. Imagine the impending doom. One minivan, 4 in-laws, and 2 very stupid kids on the cusp of a very long engagement, helplessly strapped along for the ride.

I felt like I was on that “Jungle Cruise” ride at Walt Disney World. That miniature pontoon boat that glides innocently through the simulated jungle, but you can never relax completely because you know that at any minute, Disney will toe the line of G-rated family fun by having an animatronic alligator jump out of the river bed causing just enough of a disturbance for you to drop your Mickey Mouse ice cream bar on your lap and give your fellow shipmates something to immortalize this experience with.

Despite the lack of animatronics, I refrained from bringing ice cream or food of any variety along for this tour. Stop one was St. Francis of Assisi Church: the holy site where Kristen and I will exchange vows and become man and wife.

(Sidebar#987786: This always bothered me. It makes perfect sense that Kristen will become “wife”. Right now she is just “girlfriend” (or I guess you could say “fiancé” but I never know how to type in one of those accent marks on the computer so when I type the word fiancé it often times looks like I misspelled “finance”.) But if I am supposed to become “man”, what the heck am I now?)

At the church, Jack highlighted one point of interest. To the right of the altar (not that you should be looking anywhere besides directly at Kristen on her--- I mean OUR day...) there is the statue of the blessed mother. According to Jack, the statue’s name is “Our Lady of Victory” because as you will note, at the base of the statue, it looks as if Mary is standing on a Minnesota Viking’s helmet. (note: “Minnesota”)

Our tour then concluded with a very well narrated journey through downtown Manitowoc. Thankfully, no ice cream was spilled and we ended up back at the Byrnes estate where our educational tours continued. Jack gave my parents a tour of their beautiful home, since all that my parents have had to go on for the past five years was descriptions I had given them, and thus had nothing to go on at all. Dinner was deliciously prepared by Dina and J.Lo even graced us with her presence, having selflessly forgone her evening’s plans, in order to sit through what must have felt like 18 additional years of forced pleasantries.

But before anything even went remotely wrong, the night had ended. It was a complete success. And now that I have jinxed the relative compatibility of the in-laws, I will kick myself to sleep tonight wondering when the tides will turn.

That night, as Kristen and I drove back to Chicago (the final 163 miles of our non-traveling weekend) we counted our blessings as the infamous “meet the parents” weekend had seemed to go off without a hitch. Another milestone crossed. Another hurdle cleared. Another 546 miles down the “road to the altar”.



P.S. Confidential to “Aunt Jane”: Kristen and I received your cheap-shot present “Weddings for Dummies” –a back-handed compliment if I ever saw one. Enjoy your table IN the kitchen. Tell the photographer we said hi.