The One Everyone’s Been Waiting For
7/16/2007


Previously on “Fockers07.blogspot.com…”

Jared proposed. Kristen said yes. A flight was delayed. A flight was cancelled. The Cubs won. Paris Hilton went to Jail. A flight was delayed. A flight was cancelled. The Cubs won. Paris Hilton was released from jail. Jared & Kristen picked out wedding rings. Paris Hilton went back to jail. A flight was delayed. The Cubs won…

Today, the world looks much different. As of June 13, 2007, I packed up my life in Illinois for a chance to live an airport-free existence in the Minnesota. Despite the numerous friends (and a few foes) I had made over the years at various gates at various airports throughout this great nation, I decided to finally pick a “final destination” as most flight attendants so morbidly refer to one’s hometown.

Against the favored odds in Vegas at the time, I picked Minneapolis-St. Paul. A very fitting selection for those unwilling to geographically commit to anything, much like myself.

(Sidebar#706195: Depending on such elements as the weather, the audience, and the value of the Yen, I will answer either “Minneapolis” or “Saint Paul” to any inquiries of my city of residence. This is just one of the unique factors that make this corner of the world, so different from Mainstream, USA. Other factors include its infatuation with Walleye, and its ability to transform the word “boat” into a two-syllable word.)

Changing states of residency and beginning new employment four months before your own wedding date is not for the faint of heart. I’d like to say that I thrive on challenges such as these, however, the most multi-tasking I have historically been known to partake in, is employing the picture-in-picture functionality on my television so that I can watch both the Cub game and “The Family Guy” at the same time.

Luckily, in Kristen, I am marrying the most detail-orientated person this side of Minnehaha Creek.

(Sidebar#7162007: That was my attempt at a little Minnesota humor. Get it? Mini-haha? FYI, that Creek actually exists.)

Thankfully, the wedding planning has come too far along for Kristen to call it off now on account of my complete lack of sense of humor. We most recently attended our food tasting at the American Club. In this experience, the Fockers, the Byrnseses, Kristen and I gathered in a quaint dining room in Sheboygan, WI to eat approximately everything north of the Illinois border.

More accurately, the wedding tasting brings together the key wedding personnel (which I have been informed includes myself) and offers them a taste of what guests might be dining on come the big day; and, if those police department interrogation rooms you see on “Law & Order” had linen table clothes and sterling silver candelabras, you’d pretty much have captured the exact environment in which we ate.

Two women, no doubt from the American Club Precinct of Sheboygan’s Finest, observed us while we ate. There was Evelyn, who played the role of “good cop”, and Eva, who played the less favorable, “bad cop.”

Evelyn, with her bright smile and cheerful demeanor joined us at the table, while Eva stood 15 feet behind us, observing us like a World War II German Sniper, eyeing it’s prey. Evelyn introduced each new dish, as if we were at a miniature version of the Olympic Games Opening Ceremonies. Meanwhile, Eva stood idly by, waiting for the precise moment to strike.

Frank Focker (my father) was on to Eva’s plot. Unlike the rest of us, he quickly and silently finished each dish as if he was challenging Takeru Kobayashi for the International Federation of Competitive Eating Title. Frank could only watch on in horror as the rest of us had the audacity to critique each morsel, as if Eva’s 6’6”, 250lb presence in the room didn’t make our teeth shatter with fright.

After 16 appetizers, 12 salads, 8 soups, and 4 main courses, Eva quipped behind her black hairnet and freshly bleached mustache, “BRING OUT THE CAKE!”

Before you could say “emergency angioplasty,” three different versions of seven-layer cake were brought out before us. The Robert Langdon in me couldn’t help but notice the symbolism that was practically jumping right off of the chocolate drizzled plates before us. THREE (a perfect number) different varieties of SEVEN (number of deadly sins, one of which is gluttony) layer cake. In the background I could hear Eva chortling with devilish delight. It was the perfect crime, and we were too hyped up on sugar and potato-leak soup to recognize it.

Despite Eva’s best efforts and me no longer being able to fit into my tux, we narrowly escaped doom at the American Club that night, although a few words of advice for all guests attending: Pace yourself through each course, drink plenty of water, and avoid direct eye contact with Eva. It is rumored that she can smell fear.

Speaking of sleeping with the fish, on June 17th, I legally changed my name to “Don Corleone.” It was just another required step for the witness protection program that sent me to Minnesota in the first place.

(Sidebar#525600: What can I say, the feds made me an offer I couldn’t refuse and I ratted on Eva (who, FYI, turns out also goes by the alias “the black widow.”)

O.K. so that last sidebar was completely fictional. I didn’t change my name, however on June 17th, like the Don, I did become a Godfather. Appropriately enough on Father’s Day, Kristen’s sister had a baby boy. Inappropriately enough, she picked me for the job. I am now personally responsible for the spiritual well-being of little “Johnny Fontane.”

Just this past weekend I joined the entire Byrnes clan for little Johnny’s baptism in Portage, WI, where they celebrate baptisms like every other Christian family in America; this includes holy water, baptismal vows, and grown men riding big wheels.

(Sidebar#612973: While it is perhaps the lesser known of the three, the tradition of big wheel races on the day of a baptism actually dates back to the Daughters of the American Revolution. It is written that in days of yore, the people of the Commonwealth of Virginia would gather by the river to welcome newborns into the faith. Since this was centuries before the first minivans and crossover SUVs, the townspeople would come to the river (which was always conveniently located downhill) via big wheels. Of course the big wheels we use today are much more advanced than those of yesteryear. Today we are lucky enough to boast rear-steering and hand-brake capability; luxuries our ancestors could only dream of.)

While we’re on the subject of transportation… my travels today do not involve as many trips through airport security as they once did, but it turns out the open road has just as many (if not more) surprises in store for the traveling man like myself. Much like the Byrneses have their annual Baptismal Big Wheel Festival in Portage, us Fockers have a tradition or two of our own that justifies driving in from great distances for. For us, it’s the Fourth of July.

The Focker’s Fourth of July is like Christmas, Kwanza and Yom Kippur rolled into one. Being that our fore fathers began this tradition back in 1776, I guess you could say, we’re just about neck & neck with the Virginia Big Wheelers. Every year we get together to celebrate with fireworks, water balloons, and a greater variety of pasta salads than even the American Club could offer.

While some folks might find it crazy to drive the 6 hours from Minneapolis to Chicago for something as silly as pasta salad, I say that it is those same people who are still searching for joy in their lives. But on the other side of the spectrum, Kristen & I, blind with the giddiness of a six-year-old’s first visit to Wrigley, packed up the car and embarked for the journey southeast.

About one hour into our drive, somewhere around Hudson, WI the skies opened up and raindrops the size of Schnoodles doused our car as we careened down I-94. But having been through worse storms, we stayed the course and by Eau Claire, WI we seemed to be out of the woods. Little did we know that the perfect storm was taking a similar route through the tri-state area. Just north of Madison, WI we caught up with the storm again, only this time, the Saab 9.3 wouldn’t stand a chance against Mother Nature. We wisely pulled off the road and opted to take the opportunity to replenish our fading energy supply with a nourishing meal from whatever the small town of Windsor, WI had to offer.

Unanimously deciding that the “A&W” was the healthier alternative to “crap from the gas station mini-mart” we scarfed down a dinner of chicken strips and root beer while we waited for the rain to stop.

Twenty minutes later we were back on the road and back in the middle of what the local news stations would later refer to as “HOLY SH&T THAT’S A LOT OF RAIN ’07.” Eight hours after we had left Saint Paul, MN we exited what had now become the I-94 River in Edgerton, WI. (town motto: T.G.I.R! (Thank God It’s Raining!))

The Edgerton Comfort Inn was packed that night.

(Sidebar#254000: This remains to date the only time that sentence has ever been written.)

By the next morning we hit the road and made it to Chicago. Where rumor has it, it never rained.

Speaking of Chicago, I would like to thank my good friends Murphy, Francis, Oscar, Mario & Pat for throwing me a spectacular bachelor party weekend in Wrigleyville. So what if it was one of only four losses the Cubs have had in their last 19 games. That doesn’t mean anything.

(Sidebar#190807: Confidential to Johnny Fontane… if the Cubs win the World Series this fall, you’ll remember as much of it as I will!)

Lord of the Rings
3/23/07

I assure you I hate publicity stunts as much as the next guy. And, as a close personal friend of “the next guy”, I can also assure you there isn’t much he hates more than publicity stunts. But, as a closer personal friend of mine, I am asking you, loyal reader, to overlook this rare e-sell-out, and help me wish Kristen a big happy 26th trip around the sun.

In honor of the birthday girl, who will complete her quarter century + 1 orbit officially tomorrow (3/24) I invite you all to post your personal birthday wishes in the comments section provided below. (You may know it better as the big empty space most of you have ignored for the past ten months). Extra points will be rewarded for those of you who surpass the cliché “happy bday” remark. In fact, I’m willing to offer a substantial prize to the “commenter” who submits the most original entry. Mark my words, the winner shall be rewarded with a very important role to fulfill come Wedding Day. While I don’t want to give away the whole kit & kaboodle, I can tell you that the lucky winner has the possibility of playing the role of minister, D.J. and/or groom, should I be unable to attend.

(Sidebar #32407: As much as I am honored that I have been invited by the Byrnes family to attend the festivities on 10/13/07, let’s be honest. With a historical payroll well into the neighborhood of $100 Million, and the fire-cracker, no-nonsense leadership of Lou Pinella, the North-siders have an above-average shot at the Series this fall, and as much as I love Kristen, hell, nor high-water, nor the American Club can come between a boy and his baseball.)

In honor of Mrs. Focker-to-be’s big day, I felt a blog update would appease both her and the throngs of daily followers who have once again experienced the thirst for my e-tangents. While the visit from the Bobs did not bring with it the pomp & circumstance one might expect from a visit to a florist and photographer, still many significant developments have transpired since we last “got our blog on.”

Probably of most important note is that our wedding rings have been ordered. That is, the piece of metal that will figuratively brand me for life as the property of Kristen Byrnes. While some might say that I “branded” her with an engagement ring back in May, I would argue the contrary. One simply cannot be branded with loan-required bling. To a girl, the engagement ring is most closely compared to the Ryne Sandberg homerun ball a guy was lucky enough to chorale from his seat amidst the drunken mobs of the left field bleachers. The same staple characteristics apply: he immediately shows it off to everyone he knows, in return everyone will ask him to tell and re-tell “the story,” after which all of his friends will overflow with jealousy and express to their significant others how badly they want one.

Though it is true that the market for men’s wedding rings is turning a bit more decorative than it was 20 years ago, for us “non-decorative” guys, the simply stated metal loop is more than adequate. In my opinion, if you don’t have a Grammy or a shoe deal, diamonds are best left for those who do.

That being said, I was pleased to learn that today’s metal loop is “not your father’s wedding ring.” For example, I was instantly sold on my wedding ring when I learned that the metal it was cast from was called “Tungsten Carbine.” Despite having an unarguably bitchin’ name, this metal is scratch-proof, dent-proof, and has a melting point of 10,832 degrees Fahrenheit! And if you’re not salivating yet, Tungsten Carbide is also used by the United States Military in armor-piercing ammunition, when depleted uranium is not available or not politically acceptable. And, according to Wikipedia.com (slogan: “We make the average blogger sound like a genius.”) it was first used during WWII to destroy Soviet T-34 tanks.

In other words, MY RING HELPED TAKE DOWN RUSSIA IN WORLD WAR II!!! After hearing this sales pitch, I believe my exact words were, “Giddy up!”

(Sidebar #32408: For those of you concerned about my ability to pass through airport security with such a powerful material strapped around my finger, there is no need to fret. I have been assured by the Department of Homeland Security that such metals are approved for travel, being that they are stored in a clear, 3-ounce Ziploc bag.)

(Sidebar #32409: Before I forget, I’m sure Kristen would want me to mention her ring as well. It is very beautiful. It’s got some diamonds and stuff on it. But I’m pretty sure it never saw combat.)

A few weeks ago we also got our first taste of the Wedding Invitation Industry. This $42 Billion-a-year industry is in the business of depleting the rain forest and charging us for it. I have always found the wedding invitation a fascinating display of excessiveness. If you’ve ever opened a wedding invitation you are probably already aware of the following rules:

1) The number of envelopes contained inside of one wedding invitation is directly proportional to the amount of vowels in the bride’s last name. Luckily, “Byrnes” allots for only 1 (sometimes 2) envelopes, but this rule spells disaster for my fellow betrothed co-worker Michelle Lucarelli.

2) Tissue paper: It’s not just for shoeboxes anymore.

3) It is not mandatory to include an actual invitation. With the response card, driving directions, accommodation information, and organ donor card, sometimes there just isn’t room for anything else.

4) All dates, times, years and other numerical characters must be spelled out in their entirety. This practice was originally employed during the Victorian Era, and was used to weed out any unwanted illiterates from free-loading off of the King’s royal wedding feast.

I am personally making it a point to violate as many of these rules as possible. It is my intention to save the rainforest (and the free-loaders).
I have also been given various other “hard to screw up” planning responsibilities in regards to what Kristen continues to tell me is “our” day. The most exhilarating of which has been planning the honeymoon. My approach to this adventure was one of open mind and open pocket book, though, true to form, I possess neither.

Yet I found myself faced with the age-old question, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?” For a people like me and Kristen, who call the greater tri-state area “home,” and 62 degrees “shorts weather”, a truly exotic trip meant something international and preferably a little bit further up the mercury level.

Sure Hawaii is popular and a Carribean cruise is common, but I wanted our honeymoon to truly define our relationship. Popular and common would not suffice. You are more likely to find Kristen & me frolicking among the “bizarre and unexpected”. It had to be a place a million miles from Middle America; a place equally foreign to the both of us. A place known for the three pillars that Kristen and I have built this relationship on: history, hard work, and an excessive use of olive oil.

As soon as this blog attracts 26 birthday wishes for the birthday girl… I’ll continue my story.

The One After the Long Break
2/28/07

Well, true to biblical form, the prodigal son has returned. While my unannounced, extended hiatus undoubtedly cast a dark shadow upon your internet browsing over the past few months, I trust that you will welcome me back into your homes, offices, or (as in my case this late Friday afternoon) a conveniently located free Wi-Fi hotspot near you. While I could go on for pages, humbly apologizing for the absence of my once regular distribution of profound pearls of wisdom, if my life thus far has taught me anything, it is that there is nothing to be gained from living in the past. The world stops for no one, and whether your seat is in its upright position or not, nothing slows down this trip around the sun.

That being said, experience has also taught me that most hiatuses (which, yes Mom, is in fact the correct spelling) come part and parcel with a recap special. When “Lost” returned from it’s hiatus this season --which I couldn’t help but notice, drew a Dharma-Initiative-creepy parallel to my own-- the directors granted us loyal viewers a one-hour special which brought us back up to speed on the most crucial information on Jack, Kate, Sawyer, Gilligan and the Skipper too.

While I didn’t end up in Minneapolis via a rogue flight on Oceanic Flight #815, nor is there a population of “others” wreaking havoc with my day-to-day activities, the similarities between engaged life, and life on a deserted island are practically uncanny. For example, on a deserted island, the first and most important task at hand is starting a fire. In engaged life, there is always a fire to put out.

What follows is, in a sense, a recap of what happened over the past three months when the blog was turned off: when people stopped being polite and started getting real. You think you know, but you have no idea.

Christmas came and went this year like Halley’s Comet. I use this analogy because the build-up for our first family-shared holiday was something akin to an event that happens once every 76 years. Perhaps the reasoning behind this commotion is that the first shared holiday, is the first time your relationship with your betrothed directly affects your immediate family.

(Sidebar#101308: For those of you wondering, “betrothed” is just a fancy way for saying “engaged”. The origin of the word dates back to times when parents would betroth their children for them; times when it was not uncommon for parents to play the role of matchmaker and promise their daughter to a young, strapping lad who typically came from money and had many goats. Personally, I’m happy these customs have changed, being that I have not a single goat to my name.)

I’m also convinced that it is the shared holiday that is the source behind the Universal Law of Mother-in-law Anger & Disapproval (ULMAD). According to Wikipedia.com, ULMAD was described by Freud as the “Seemingly irrational and naturally unspoken sigh of discontent eminently present among the maternal figures of a betrothed couple.”

Freud went on to report that centuries ago, when Sir Fockerlord II found the love of his life, he and Lady Kristenette announced to Fockerlord’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Guiltripea, that they would be taking holiday at Lady Kristenette’s castle, which, at the time was a half-day’s journey on foot. Upon hearing his decision, the Duchess immediately deemed her son possessed by evil spirits, and ordered the Duke to lock Sir Fockerlord up in the dungeon for a fortnight, that the high priest might exorcize him and rid him of such poor judgment. Luckily, the Duke held steady his hand in the matter and –when the coast was clear, under the dark cloak of nightfall—aided in his son’s escape which allowed him to celebrate the holiday abroad.

Of course the Duchess never got over her son’s blatant denial of family customs, and spent the last of her days wondering the castle amidst a dreary aura; a time the Duke later coined as the “Dark Ages”.

Luckily, (as is the case in most situations) our families seem to once again be the exception to the rule. Christmas 2006 went off without a hitch, and Kristen and I look forward to many more years ahead of such approving and accepting maternal figures.

Speaking of family firsts, the hiatus also allowed time for us to rehearse the rehearsal dinner. Being that Kristen is part German (a people who take the word “perfectionist” to a whole new level) and that I am part Italian (a people who never miss an opportunity to eat a meal) rehearsing a rehearsal dinner seemed only logical.

The occasion brought Frank and Marie Focker, once again north of their familiar border and into the heart of America’s Dairy Land, to a town called Sheboygan. Sheboygan (which is actually German for “with cheese”) plays home to the International Federation of Competitive Eating’s Annual Johnsonville Brat Eating Competition. Every August, professional competitive eaters from around the globe, flock to Sheboygan’s Brat(wurst) Days for the sole purpose of seeing exactly how many of the beer-battered sausages they can persuade down their hatches in under ten minutes.

(Sidebar#657843: I am not making this up.)

Unfortunately, due to poor planning on our part, our October wedding date does not make Brat Days a viable option for the rehearsal dinner location. Thankfully, we found what we hope to be a close runner-up, in Margaux. (Which is actually French for “McDonald’s”)

(Sidebar#657844: This I am making up.)

Margaux is charming French restaurant in downtown Sheboygan with a menu that would make even a competitive eater slow down and savor his food. For those of you who are lucky enough to score a ticket to the hottest meal in town consider yourselves lucky. For those of you who aren’t, congratulations. You have passed out of Formal Dining 101. Your transcripts have proven that no further instruction is necessary at the remedial dining level, and you are qualified to attend the main event sans-practice. That being said, fair warning: On October 13th, there will be plenty of German perfectionists watching your every move; be sure to know your salad fork from your dinner fork.

Speaking of more forks than we know what to do with, Kristen and I have also participated in what the wedding folk call “registering”. In contrast to something you must do before you vote, registering for weddings is an entirely different scenario. That being said, it is also much more than simply selecting which color his and her towels you’re hoping to receive. I invite you to indulge in the following…

On Saturday, February 10, me and the ring bearer (a nickname I have affectionately given to the lady who wears on her finger one of the largest investments I have ever made in my life, second only to my car, but hey, who’s keeping score…) walked into Bed, Bath and Beyond. The second upon our arrival we were whisked into an office where a perky twenty-something named “Judy” was all smiles and giggles when she learned that, yes, we were in fact, engaged. *teehee *teehee

Several giggle later, we were still sitting in what felt like a cross between a guidance counselor’s office and a pantry. The office reminded me of what might happen, had your aunt invited you for tea and biscuits inside of her kitchen cabinets. Plates and glassware as far as the eye could see, one set of which Judy was so particularly fond of, she picked up one of the mugs and demonstrated how even by banging it on her desk as if she was calling her tiny house ware courtroom to order, said porcelain would not break. She later, upped the ante by taking us up to the roof and hurling champagne flutes at passing SUVs in the parking lot. While causing several minor injuries and one 4-car pile up, I must admit not a single flute so much as cracked.

After she had convinced us that this was not “your grandma’s china,” she began entering us into a computer database, no-doubt powered by CIA headquarters in Langley, VA. She recorded names, birthdates, blood types and next-of-kins (who would be rewarded our indestructible china, should we be killed in an airborne glassware-related accident). Roughly 2 hours later, Judy introduced us to the rest of the Bed, Bath and Beyond Dinner Theatre Players who, on cue, broke into a Broadway Medley highlighting the differences between All-Clad and Teflon, which, up until the completion of the informative tune, I would have guessed were characters from “He-Man, and the Masters of the Universe.”

For the next week and a half, Kristen and I perused the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond, much like a modern-day Lewis & Clark. We traveled to the remote Land of Linen, where the Pillow People explained to me that a duvet is not a song written for two people, nor does it rhyme with the word “Corvette”.

We stared in awe at the Great Wall of Utensils—currently wait-listed on the 7 Great Wonders of the Modern World. The sheer variety of options one has when selecting a potato masher or melon-baller would make Julia Child roll over in her grave.

While I could tell Kristin was soaking in this entire experience like a kid in a candy store, I was happy the fine people at B, B, & B had made the whole process very guy-friendly, by supplying me with what looked exactly like the Nintendo Power Glove, circa 1988. I’m convinced more stores should introduce this highly attractive feature. Men would do far less complaining about being dragged to the mall on a Saturday afternoon if, instead of being the delegated cart-pusher, or clothes rack, they were handed a battery-operated laser gun and told to “fire away!”.

(Sidebar#657845: Note to retailers… in an effort to further improve this incentive, I suggest adding animatronic obstacles to increase the level of difficulty behind each shot and then assigning a point value to each UPC. Upon checkout, if a guy’s point total is worthy of breaking into the top-five leader board – which would be displayed via an electronic scoreboard outside of the store entrance – prizes would be rewarded accordingly.)

Before you could say “Wusthof” (which is German for “big-ass knife”) the fun was over and Judy made me turn in my laser gun. For those of you who’d like to see my scorecard—I mean OUR scorecard—I mean REGISTRY—it is available Bedbath&beyond.com.

Speaking of scorecards, we’re coming up on T-minus seven months before the big day. This weekend KB and I will be meeting with Bob the florist and Bob the photographer. Tune in next week when for a full Bob breakdown including complete analysis from a Wisconsin-certified Master Gardener herself, our very own, ULMAD-free, Dina Byrnes.

Until next time, me, Wusthof and Margaux are late for our meeting with the U.N.

Ciao!

How I Spent My Friday Night
11/12/07


My dad taught me many of life's greatest lessons. He taught me to open doors for others, he taught me the infield fly rule, and he taught me that women are always right (even when they're wrong). But perhaps the most important lesson he ever bestowed upon me, was the virtue of optimism. To him, optimism wasn't just a frame of mind. It was a way of life. Growing up with my dad was like having Brent Musburger narrating the play-by-play of the greatest Cinderella-story of all-time. Thanks to my dad, I've seen the Purdue Boilermakers knock off Michigan and Ohio State in last second plays. Thanks to my dad, I've seen Marquette win over-time thrillers. And thanks to my dad, I've even seen the Cubs pull out a ninth-inning miracle or two.

Of course, it hasn't always been a Hollywood ending. With the glory comes the fair share of heartache. But that's what makes optimism a virtue. It takes faith to see the glass half-full. It takes courage to root for the underdog. It takes optimism to believe in miracles. Add in a splash of the Focker family genetically-cheesy sense of humor, and my dad had single-handedly prepared me for a long-distance relationship.

Friday night I was on my way to Minneapolis for my November AT&T (allotted time together) with Kristen.

Sidebar#1101333: Long distance relationships are much akin to cellular phone service contracts. Both come with a pre-determined number of minutes, both charge through the nose for roaming around the country, and most people have no idea what they are getting themselves into when they sign up.

American Airlines flight #1101 was scheduled to depart Chicago's O'Hare International Airport at 5:10pm. Of course, at O'Hare, like most airports, a scheduled departure time is more of a suggestion than anything else. In Chicago, 5:10 typically means 5:25 or 5:30. It's called "the rule of 15-20".

Spend enough time in Chicago and you will learn that everything takes approximately 15-20 minutes. How far is it to Grandma's house? 15-20 minutes. When are we leaving? 15-20 minutes. How long are we staying there? 15-20 minutes.

To translate the above paragraph into non-Chicagoeese: Grandma's house is approximately 15 miles away, we'll be leaving when we're ready and we're staying for 2 weeks.

Thus, a 5:10 departure time at O'Hare, comes with a fair assumption that your plane will take off no earlier than 5:30pm.

Being that my office is "15-20" minutes away from the airport, I decided to allow an hour. I was through security, and standing in line for my Grande Skim Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks before you could say "Queer Drink for the Straight Guy."

Sidebar#1101334: Yes I said Pumpkin Spice Latte. No, I have no idea what it consists of, besides Skim milk. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's warm milk, Folgers Coffee, and a few shakes of cinnamon. But take it from me, and my future favorite little-sister-law J-Lo who simply says, "It tastes like fall."

Sure enough, though my ticket spoke of a 5:10 departure, the airport monitors now listed us at 5:30. (please see "the rule of 15-20" mentioned above) Not being phased by this expected delay, I plopped down in a nearby uncomfortable airport chair and awaited my chariot.
5:25pm… Minutes away from our newly scheduled departure time, I couldn't help but notice the obvious absence of airplane.

"Our plane is in the area," announced the jolly ticketing agent from behind the counter, as if reading my thoughts. "It is simply in a holding pattern, as O'Hare is currently closed to all in-bound aircraft due to inclement weather."

Two visions immediately sprung into my head. An airplane in a holding pattern (which to me resembled eleven 747s lining up in the victory formation running out the clock), and O'Hare being closed to all in-bound aircraft (which simply meant an old custodian-looking man in overalls and a baseball cap had walked out to the end of each runway and flipped off the lights).

Sidebar#1101335: My dad may have given me optimism but my vivid imagination is clearly the byproduct of growing up alongside the Monsters of the Midway and the Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles.

"Well, at least our plane is ‘in the area’," commented my neighbor from the next uncomfortable airport chair, who was clearly not from Chicago. I thought about explaining to him the idiosyncrasies of our local tongue; about how "in the area" was a synonym for "15-20 minutes". But, judging by the innocent look in his eye, I opted to let the poor man live in his fantasy world a bit longer. "Very true," I replied, giving him my best poker face.

6:00pm… I hear the words "Grand Rapids" for the first time. Grand Rapids is a city in Michigan. Chicago is a city in Illinois. It is important that you understand this geographical discrepancy before reading on.

"Due to continuing inclement weather, our aircraft has been diverted to Grand Rapids," announced the not-so-jolly ticketing agent. Though I was experiencing slight feelings of disappointment, my heart went out to those people on the diverted aircraft. People whose tickets had promised them Chicago, IL by 5:30pm we're now the proud owners of Grand Rapids, MI by 6:15pm. This would be like ordering surf & turf at a restaurant and the server brings you soup & salad. (and the soup is cold).

"So much for 'in the area'," comments my friendly seat neighbor, who has now moved his way up my social circle ladder, thanks to our quality time at gate K13, and who I am now on a first name basis with. Turns out my friendly seat neighbor is actually Herb from Rochester, MN. "So much indeed," I respond.

7:05pm… the hour of our 3rd scheduled departure now comes and passes. It's hard to say I was disappointed. After all, last I heard, O'Hare was still closed for business. My cell phone battery is running low. I begin to ration my usage.

When you’re long-distance folk like Kristen and I, your cell phone is your lifeline. Traditional couples have the option to spend time together, grab a cup of coffee, or cozy up to Sportscenter. When you’re long-distance, you can still do all of these things, only you replace proximity of person-to-person, with proximity of cell phone-to-face.

Being forced to ration cell phone usage in a long distance relationship is like facing 4th and long, and then losing your starting quarter-back. You’re 2nd string guy might convert, but most of the fans have already left the stadium. I guess you could say only the true optimists have remained in their seats.

7:45pm… Time to stretch the legs. 3+ hours at gate K13 is even less fun than it sounds. I ask Herb from Rochester (who is now standing up to my wedding) if he would kindly watch my bags. He accepts, pending I bring him back a box of Mallomars from the Duty-Free shop.

“That sweet tooth will be the end of you, Herb,” adds Herb’s wife Gloria, who up until this point, has slept through much of the goings on with Flight #1101. “It’s really no trouble, ma’am,” I explain to the once-again-fast-asleep elderly woman.

Walking through the terminal, I felt rejuvenated. I decided that I was really doing quite well for what I had been through thus far. Many of my fellow strandees were taking the whole experience much worse. Many had opted to take out their frustration on their respective ticketing agents. Others had already thrown in the towel on getting out Friday night and were looking to rebook.

Not this optimistic idiot in love. Die-hard romantics are familiar with the expression “hell or high water”. We live by the code that nothing will stand in the way of our scheduled “15-20 minutes” of AT&T. So what if my plane was currently on the ground in Grand Rapids? So what if we missed our dinner reservations? So what if my 2-day visit was looking more and more like 1.5 with every passing minute? I’d wait until midnight if I had to.

8:30pm… Herb would be disappointed. They were out of Mallomars at the Duty-Free shop. I was a few yards away from K13 when I noticed a change of scenery. Empty chairs as far as the eye could see. It was as if flight #1101 had never existed. In fact, that was exactly the case. All that was left of Flight #1101 was Herb from Rochester and his geriatric sleeping beauty Gloria. As I approached, he looked at me with the same innocent eye from earlier and said, “Ticket lady said we’re cancelled,” explained Herb, wondering where his Mallomars were. “S’posed to see another fella at K10 for rebooking.”

My heart stopped. I had just lost Minnesota.

Five years of distance tends to be five years of curveballs such as this one. With practice, one can adjust and become an above-average curveball hitter, however, every once in a while, he can still get fooled. As much as I wanted it to be a walk-off homerun, the Mighty Casey had struck out.

9:00pm… As I stood there in the very same rain that had spoiled my fairytale ending, waiting for my cab, with my now dead cell phone and suitcase full of a weekend’s worth of clothes, even the optimists were breathing their last breaths, when the second string quarterback threw up his Hail Mary pass.

I flipped open my cell phone, which on zero battery somehow connected a phone call to Kristen.

“I’ll be there next weekend,” I exclaimed, from the rain-soaked streets of the arrivals gate. “Come hell or high water!”

And as we shared a moment cozying up to our cell phones, I remembered my dad and all that he had taught me. Thanks to his optimism, I knew the clock had not yet struck midnight on this Cinderella Story.

See you at the ball.


P.S. Please bring Mallomars for Herb.

The Butcher, The Monger & Me
10/18/06


I recently had the great privilege to hear General Colin Powell give the keynote address at a conference I attended in San Francisco. While much of his speech was worthy of repeating, I found one quote incredibly apropos. Whenever the general is asked if he misses being Secretary of State, he replies:

“I never miss the things I’ve done. Instead, I get excited about the things I’ll do next.”

It was as if Colin Powell had read my last blog entry and found my melancholic reflection on ‘the old bachelor pad’ to be too depressing to finish. After all, he wouldn’t necessarily be the first. Despite the lack of posted comments (insert subtle hint here), my last blog entry seemed to tug too hard at the heartstrings of my apparently cardio-sensitive readers. For those of you affected by my nostalgia, I do apologize, and henceforth promise to stick to what you have come to expect from “The Wedding”: mainly sarcastic nicknames and the occasional low blow to a friend or family member.

Despite what you (and the good general) might have taken away from my “Segment Lament”, I assure you, I have always heeded the words quoted above. When dating a Byrnes, one must thrive on the excitement that tomorrow brings.

Point and Case…

Two weeks ago I had returned to Manitowoc, Wisconsin, home of Byrnes Family Global Headquarters, Resort & Spa. Though I always try to stay for more than a day when I visit –there are simply too many activities to squeeze into 24 hours. Editor’s Pick: stay for a weekend and take advantage of the Saturday Night Outdoor Film Festival (seasonal) as well as Sunday Steak Dinner. Tell them Jared sent you and receive a free room upgrade.—unfortunately, this visit was cut short. But despite time constraints, 12 hours was more than enough time for Mr. Byrnes to give me a behind the scenes tour of how his organization operates at such an efficient and yet Southeast-Wisconsin authentic model.

The secret is Saturday morning. It’s not just for cartoons anymore. In Manitowoc, the weekend starts with a game plan. Reveille was at 0600 hours in the mess hall. (Apologies to Dina Byrnes, whose kitchen is always anything but a mess. I was simply trying to maintain the militaristic imagery.) General Byrnes liked to make it to the Farmer’s Market before the produce had time to ripen.

If you’ve never been to a farmer’s market (much like myself circa two weeks ago), it gives you a good idea of what life was like back in the days of horse & buggy. Farmers would spend their week in the fields, growing some of the most beautiful fruits, vegetables and beaded jewelry you had ever seen soil produce, and then fill up their wagons, don their best Green Bay Packer sweatpants, and sell their goods to the townspeople.

One loaf of bread, 10 pounds of potatoes and one very controversial pumpkin centerpiece bearing an uncanny resemblance to “Wilson” the personified volleyball from “Cast Away” later, the platoon advanced to the small town of Newton, WI.
--
Captain’s Log 0630 Hrs: Troops are in good spirits. Terrain is rough, but passable. It seems the general has opted for a surprise attack on Newton. We are miles from any civilization, taking what I figure must have been the road not traveled referenced in Robert Frost’s timeless poem.
--
Newton is a small town just south of Manitowoc, which is where the General likes to buy his meat. The aptly named “Newton Meats” is a small, family-owned butcher shop, which I would only assume is just down the road from the Newton Baker and Newton Candlestick Maker. While I do enjoy a good steak as much as the next guy (assuming the next guy isn’t a vegetarian) I had never been to a butcher shop outside of the meat counter at my local grocer. But even my novice level of meat education told me this place was special. Staring at the cuts of meat behind the glass counter, you could practically hear them still mooing. And if that wasn’t enough… Newton Meats also makes Bratwursts in 31 flavors. If that doesn’t win your meat business… nothing will.
--
Captain’s Log 0700 Hrs: The carnage in Newton was unbearable. Quadruped casualties were at an all-time high, as we marched through the carcass-lined streets. The general must be made of steel as he seemed unaffected by this display. Despite what we’ve already been through, I fear the worst is yet to come. Intelligence in Newton reports an uprising in unincorporated Manitowoc. It feels like we’ve been marching for days. The sun and cornfields have confused even our compasses, yet the general marches on. Without street markings of any kind, he seems to be reading the land, like only a native could.
--
After Newton Meats, the general decided to follow a hot lead that Mary, the local lamb farmer, had recently found her little lamb (along with her 11 closest lamb friends) and decided to teach them all a lesson for running away. And like AV nerds racing for the 12:01am showing of Star Wars Episode I, we ran over the river and through the woods, on nothing more than a Newton rumor. As if the butcher shop wasn’t enough “hands on” for this city slicker, we were now pulling into the long driveway of Mary and her “Silence of the Lambs” enterprise. As we piled out of the car, Mary innocently walked out of her no-doubt barn door of doom, and smiled at us behind her pink sweatshirt that read “Knee Deep in Sheep.” (Aha! So it was more than just genocide! She was after the whole woolen clad family.) She apologized that despite our bee-line from Moo-town, she was out of lamb, which in hindsight was probably a good thing, being that our car was quickly filling up, and judging by the fact that I did not come in a 10 pound bag, nor could I be roasted on a spit, I thought for sure the general would leave me behind for items that could.
--
Captain’s Log 0730 Hrs: Moral victory in unincorporated Manitowoc. An important victory for company morale. The general has decided to reward us all (and a group of local nuns) with ice cream cones. Perhaps this is his way of getting right with God. I hear he is a religious man like myself. Though I don’t know how he makes amends after all of the killing we’ve seen so far today. I pray for him, but more importantly, I pray for our cause.
--
Outside of Manitowoc, although I’m not quite sure where, due to the fact that every road looks the same, and now that the sun has risen and Lake Michigan has disappeared off of the horizon, east, west, north and south all look uncharacteristically alike. I begin to wonder if I could ever find my way back to civilization from here. I look down at my cell phone. No bars. God help us all.

But, the general knows exactly where we are, and before you can say “amber alert” we pull up in front of the man known only as the “Cheesemonger”. (funny… I don’t remember him being one of the men in the nursery rhyme tub)

(Sidebar #101307: So I had to look up the word “Cheesemonger”. My curiosity got the best of me, and I was somewhat disappointed to learn that it simply meant “someone who sells cheese”. While I’m not Merriam, or Webster, I would have to deduct from this conclusion that a “monger” is someone who sells. Yet, in my 25 years of life, I have never heard of someone being referred to as a “carmonger” or a “housemonger”, which surprises me. To me, “monger” has a certain mid-evil times authority assigned to it that you just don’t get from “salesman”. If you heard the “monger” was coming, wouldn’t you grab your torch and pitchfork and attempt to rally the townspeople? )

Despite my mid-evil fears, the Cheesemonger brought with him no wrath. Instead, he ran a friendly dairy where you could buy milk, ice cream, and cheese in the shape of a Green Bay Packer helmet. I couldn’t imagine what one would want cheese shaped like a helmet for, but I figured there were greater mysteries of the universe to solve before this one. (Like, which direction is north?)
--
Captain’s Log 0800 Hrs: Victory is ours! The troops are headed home by way of the Manitowoc River. Keep the home fires burning and tie a yellow ribbon ‘round the old Oak Tree! We’ll be home before sunset.
--
On our way home from his Mongerness, we noticed we had a little extra room left in our cavalry, so we made one last stop at what looked like Martha Stewart’s Garage Sale. Three pumpkins, 1 bag of potatoes and 1 bag of corn (for deer and squirrels, which Dina would soon roll her eyes at) later, we made what felt like one left turn and we had returned from the wilderness. It was much akin to what Dorothy must have felt like when the good witch told her she could have gone home all along, had she only clicked her heels together. All I had to do was make that one left turn? Now he tells me.

And so you see how living in the excitement of what tomorrow brings is a way of life for the Byrnes betrothed. If my tour of duty didn’t sell you on my open-mindedness, not even 24 hours after I left the Monger, I was headed to San Francisco, CA, city motto: “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

While I already live nearly 400 miles southeast of my bride-to-be, I often times like to test the geographical limits of this engagement so I’ll throw in a mountain range and a two-hour time difference, just to mix things up.

Actually, in all honesty, I was sent to California to attend a conference for work.

(Sidebar #3248125: In order to keep my promise of no longer depressing you, the reader, I will hereby skip entirely any attempt to describe what exactly it is that I do between the hours of nine and five. Instead I will tell you that I work in an outdoor candy factory, where they pay me in pixie dust and every Monday is Labor Day.)

The frosting on the cake (which is ironically, what I’m in charge of at work) of this trip was that I got to visit with my good friend Oscar. Oscar and I go way back to my early days at Marquette. He recently took a job as a grade school science teacher in Redwood City, CA, and thus, he is now a Midwesterner living among Westerners. His observances are hysterical and coming to a blog near you. (Seriously… really near. Check out his link above and to the right.)

A few days later, I was back in the Midwest marking the official 1-YEAR-TO-GO date on Friday, October 13th, 2006, with, what else… a road trip. At 8:00am I was on Interstate 90, embarking on what would be a 376 mile journey to the Twin Cities. As I drove, I thought to myself, 1 year from today this will all be over. Will I miss the miles? Will I miss the roads well traveled?

Then, maybe it was the fact that it was Friday the 13th, maybe it was the fact that I was tacking on close to 5,000 miles in one week, or maybe it was the fact that I had been in the car for 6 hours by myself, but whatever the reason was, I looked in my review mirror and saw them. The General, Robert Frost, and Colin Powell, sitting in my backseat, singing…

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
You know how the story goes.
Where the one less traveled leads,
Perhaps the monger knows.
Despite the roads you’ve traveled,
There are many more to trod,
But buy the nun an ice cream,
And keep things right with God.
Next year another road begins,
So leave these miles behind,
Get excited about the miles ahead,
Just keep an open mind!

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.