Going from ‘love machine’ to ‘dirty oatmeal’ isn’t easy

It’s going to take me a while to get used to this marriage thing. There’s so much I’ve forgotten in the 20-plus years since I last walked the aisle.

Oh, I remember the important stuff, like how to say “yes dear” more often than “are you nuts?” How to fold a towel three ways before putting it on the rod. How to pretend I’m remotely interested in the junk they sell at the Hallmark store.

No, it’s the little stuff I’ve forgotten. Like, for instance, how when you get in a fight you can’t just move to another city, get a job working the loading docks and change your name to Max Steele. Well, I suppose you could, but being married makes for too much paperwork to bother.

Not that Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) and I have had a fight lately. We haven’t. Not since the wedding a couple weeks ago. The tension of waiting for the inevitable is killing me.

But last Tuesday, I did see a precursor to what might, possibly, become a fight somewhere down the road.

Mrs. T (fLF) told me I smell like “dirty oatmeal.”

Not all the time, she said, but on days when I do a lot of yardwork and don’t shower. Her exact words were, “On days like that, when you come to bed at night, you smell kinda like dirty oatmeal.”

Seriously? Dirty oatmeal? Is this the same woman who has for the past two years consistently told anyone who would listen what a great guy I am?

Things she said before the wedding:

“Mike’s a columnist! He’s hilarious.

“Mike’s a musician! He’s so talented!

“Mike’s a love machine unmatched since the ‘70s, when Richard Roundtree starred as ‘Shaft.’”

OK, I made that last one up. My point is, she said a lot of nice things before we got hitched. Now? Dirty oatmeal.

Since this is the 21^st Century and no humiliation is complete unless posted to Facebook, I shared her comment with the world at large. I was fishing for sympathy, but I might as well have left the rod and reel at home.

Instead of “Oh, you poor, poor boy,” which is what I was hoping for, I received comments and private messages from other wives anxious to share the details of their own husbands’ unique bouquets.

Mary, for instance, calls her husband’s unwashed odor “Oily Old Man.” Not words you’re likely to see on a bottle of after shave.

Cynthia said her husband smells “a little like wet dog.”

Poor beleaguered Seth (the only man to comment), said his wife refers to his natural, manly odor as “milk and pickles.”

Karen admitted (gleefully, I thought) that her husband carried the heady aroma of “cows.” In all fairness, Karen’s husband is a dairy farmer and was before they tied the knot over 40 years ago. She should be used to it by now. My opinion.

At any rate, it appears I’m in good, if smelly, company and that my situation is in no way unique. Still, it’s hard – in just two weeks’ time – to go from from “hilarious, talented love machine” to “dirty oatmeal.”

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

When it comes to wedding vows, it’s best not to ‘wing it’

Well, I’m married. The wedding was Sunday. Ms. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) and I tied the knot in front of The Chapel in the Pines at the Wheatland Music Festival in Remus.

It was a tiny, but lovely ceremony in a charming, rustic location. My bride was beautiful, the sun was shining, some of our favorite people were there. Everything was perfect.

Except for my vows.

For weeks leading up to the wedding, Ms. T (fLF) obsessed over her vows, which we had decided to write ourselves. She wrote hers out longhand and then rewrote them, practiced saying them aloud in front of a mirror. For all I know, she hired Morgan Freeman to serve as her voice coach.

And still, she was so stressed about reciting her vows on the Big Day that she could barely sleep at night.

I, meanwhile, being a professional writer and crafter of words to rival The Immortal Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon, decided I’d just sorta wing it. I had a few ideas in my head, good ones, but I didn’t bother writing them down.

I mean, c’mon, it’s me!

Ms. T (fLF) felt the same way. She was certain my vows would be the very essence of romantic poetry, golden-hued words on a par with anything ever penned by Blake or Keats. She just knew her vows would rattle like tin cans clanking together when placed alongside my luminous prose.

I was a shining bastion of confidence; she was shaking like an oak leaf in an October hurricane.

Right up until the moment the minister asked us to recite our vows.

I opened my mouth, gazed into the pellucid, blue eyes of my delicate bride, and utterly lost the ability to speak English. “D-uh, Lori,” I croaked. Then I mumbled some stuff that made about as much sense as a presidential candidate’s stump speech. I eventually stuttered to a halt halfway through a string of random vowel sounds that didn’t quite qualify as a sentence anyway.

I felt like I’d just gone 15 rounds with Ali in his prime after being suffocated with pillows soaked in Novocain. To no one’s surprise but my own, I looked like a complete fool.

Then, in a strong, clear voice, Ms. T (fLF) recited her own vows. They were the best I’ve ever heard and should be engraved in granite for the edification of future brides and grooms. They made my disjointed utterances sound like something an inebriated Pee-wee Herman might bark while welcoming a television audience to his Playhouse.

But the wedding went on and a few minutes later, Ms. T (fLF) and I were being congratulated and toasted with cheap champagne.

Turns out there are no “do-overs” when it comes to wedding vows. Once the ceremony’s over, nobody’s interested in what you “should have said.”

Still, I’d like Ms. T (fLF) to know what I meant to say. Which is this:

“Lori, when it comes to romance and relationships, I have been around the block so many times I’ve worn a groove in the pavement. But in the years before I met you, I was simply coasting through life, never really happy nor sad, just … content.

“You reminded me that contentment is a terrible thing; that love is not something to be ‘coasted’ through, but rather a strange and powerful force, one that inspires and destroys, that builds us up and tears us down, that breaks our hearts and then heals them again.

“You shook me from my emotional complacency, dragged me kicking and screaming from my comfortable, dim purgatory and out into the light of your love. I was uncooperative and ungrateful.

“But I am grateful now. With you, I am more than I would ever have been alone. And together, we are amazing.

“You saved my life, Lori, and I can’t wait to share the rest of that life with you.”

Yup, that’s what I would have said. What I meant to say.

So … sorry, babe. You married a writer, not a speaker. I guess you already figured that out, based on the mumbled jumble of bumble I delivered at the altar Sunday.

If we ever renew our vows, I promise, I’ll write ‘em down first.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 745-9530

Saying goodbye to my old last name is weird

So, Lori Frankforter and I finally decided on a last name, the one we’ll be using after the wedding ceremony this Sunday. As I mentioned earlier, we’d considered an amalgam of our two, current surnames (my favorite being “Frankentaylor”), but in the end decided they all sounded too much like something that would rise from the slab in a mad scientist’s castle.

We also looked at the traditional fallback route: using my admittedly boring last name. She actually liked the idea of being “Lori Taylor.” I guess when you’ve gone through life named after a much-maligned meat product, anything seems an improvement.

I’ve never been happy with my own last name. For one thing, it’s my adopted name. My “biological” name remains forever shrouded in mystery, which is my way of saying I couldn’t get my mom to talk about it and now she’s passed and with her the opportunity to discover my true origin. (I assume it has something to do with being rocketed to Earth from my native planet, Krypton – something like that.)

Also, Taylor just doesn’t fit with the rest of my name, which was visited upon me by my Irish grandparents: Michael Patrick Kevin … Taylor? See, it just doesn’t fit.  Should be O’Malley or Shaughnessy or Sweeney.

I figured, since Lori and I were getting hitched anyway and name-changing would be happening as a matter of course, now was the time to take the plunge. Now or never. We opted for now.

Turns out it’s harder than you may imagine to pick a new last name for yourself. After six decades as Michael Taylor, everything else sounds … weird. After weeks of discussion – in large part “mostly in jest” names like “Papageorgiou” and “Fizzlebottom III” – we had all but given up.

Nothing felt right.

Then my lifelong buddy, Terry Cavanaugh, whom I’ve known since ninth grade, left a Facebook post suggesting “Guinness.” Why? Because, for the past 20 years I’ve been making music every weekend with The Guinness Brothers Band.

Now, other than the fictional character I “play” onstage, there never really was a brother in that band named Guinness.

I named the band after the beer on a whim because I couldn’t think of anything better and our first gig was coming up fast. I needed a name for the then-fledgling group and figured Guinness Brothers would do in a pinch. The name stuck. And against all odds in a business rife with musical mortality, the band has managed to hold together all these years.

At any rate, Lori Frankforter saw Terry’s post and decided she liked it. I have to admit, I do, too. Michael Patrick Kevin Guinness. I can live with that. And, as I mentioned earlier, for Miss Hot Dog, anything’s an improvement.

We’ve already filed the paperwork at the county clerk’s office. After saying our “I do’s” Sunday afternoon, we’ll be Lori and Mike Guinness.

Yeah, yeah, it’s kind of a silly thing to do, but what the hell. You only live once. Or maybe twice. I’m not here to argue theology.

Naturally, there’s a truckload of paperwork to be done following the ceremony; trips to the Social Security and Secretary of State’s offices. Probably a lot of red tape beyond that even. Nothing’s easy once the Feds get involved.

But I know my Lori. She will persevere and cut through that red tape like a hot knife through butter. I’ll sign where she tells me.

I just hope we’re not making a mistake here. I mean, we could have gone with “Fizzlebottom III”.

This column brought to you by Dimitri Papageorgiou

My fiancée, light of my life, and reason for getting up each morning, Lori Frankforter, has a ridiculous name. My own name, while not ridiculous, is boring. Boring even by the standards of American males born in the ‘50s.

Mike Taylor. Not as boring as the names of my brothers, Bob and Bill, but still, Snoozeville, USA.

When it came to handing out names, my parents were concerned with an economy of letters, rather than creativity or panache.

I’ve whined about the dullness of my name before, but it turns out I may, at long last, be in a position to do something about it. On Sept. 11 (I know, it wasn’t our first choice of dates, either; sometimes you just have to roll with the punches) I’m getting married. And when you get married, you can change your name.

It’s legal and it’s not even that hard, or so I’ve been lead to believe by the first and only website dealing with the subject I visited. I’m sure there’s the usual government paperwork to fill out and probably a fee or two – can’t blow your nose without giving the Feds their 10-percent – but it’s do-able.

So now the question is, what name do we want? Tradition has Lori taking my last name, so she’d be Lori Taylor and we’d both be boring as all get-out. A lot of guys would be dead set on this one, since it (supposedly) establishes male dominance in the relationship. I’ve been married often enough to know there’s no such thing as “male dominance,” not if you want to sleep soundly at night and wake up without a salad fork sticking out of your ribs.

Also, “Taylor” is my adopted name and I’ve never been that attached to it. My actual surname remains a mystery, though I’m hoping it’s “Onassis” or “Gates” and that the error will be detected and my inheritance check mailed any day now. At any rate, keeping my own last name is no biggie for me.

I’d be happy to take Lori’s name. Mike Frankforter has a nice ring to it. It’s ridiculous, but I’ve always felt ridiculous is better than boring. Lori won’t have it, though; she’s always hated her last name and is in a big hurry to unload it at the wedding. (If you had heard as many “hot dog” and “wiener” jokes as has my beloved, you’d hate the name, too.)

Another option – one that’s gaining in popularity, according to the Internet – is to somehow combine our two last names. “Tayforter” or “Frankentaylor” were both possibilities we considered. For about two seconds. Turns out any combination we came up with was even more ridiculous and/or boring than the originals.

Likewise, we decided against the hyphenated thing. “Taylor-Frankforter” is both boring and ridiculous. And besides, the whole point of the exercise is to lose our boring and ridiculous names altogether.

That leaves the option of picking a shiny, brand new last name, one we both love. I, as always, voted for “Papageorgiou,” since there’s considerable evidence my biological father was Greek. (I’m basing this assumption on my abundance of back hair.) If we went with Papageorgiou I’d also change my first name to Dimitri, since “Dimitri Papageorgiou” just kicks butt, in my opinion.

Lori has other thoughts. She’s not sure what she wants, but she knows what she doesn’t, and Papageorgiou tops that list. Likewise, my second and third choices – Papalexopoulo and Moe – also got the thumbs down.

We considered hippy names like “Sunshine” or “Moonbeam” but decided too much time has passed since the days of black lights and Donovan LPs.

I’d be happy with a Hollywood action-star name like “Max Steele” or “Vance Riprock.” But again, Lori won’t listen to reason.

We have only a few weeks until the wedding and despite several lengthy discussions on the matter we’re no closer to a decision.

How are we supposed to get married when we don’t even know each other’s names?

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 745-9530

Even now, hope springs eternal

I’m getting m—

I’m getting mmmmaaa—

Let’s try this again: I’m getting m-m-married.

There! I said it!

Those who know me well are by now undoubtedly speed-dialing a psychiatric interventions service.

I have been married once before. OK, twice. Three times. Four.

In between, there were innumerable relationships that also ended, sometimes amicably, sometimes to the refrain of automatic weapons fire.

Point is, after all these years, I’m beginning to suspect it’s me.

Actually, I know it’s me. I am charming and fun, which is why I always wind up in a relationship. I am also a narcissistic jerk, which is why I always wind up back out of a relationship again.

I would invite you to ask my ex-wives and girlfriends if this is true, but that would entail renting a hall large enough to hold them all and I just can’t afford that. So you’ll have to take my word for it.

Some might wonder (quite understandably) why someone with my track record would consider tying the knot yet again. Truth to tell, I’m kind of wondering that myself.

I guess it’s because I’m crazy in love with Lori and hope, apparently, springs eternal. 

She is intelligent, cute, strong, talented, kind, patient (most of the time), caring, passionate, honest … I dunno; there are plenty of reasons for loving her, many of which I could list here, and still more I could not because this is a family publication.

She makes me laugh. 

We’ve known each other for a few years and have been officially “together” for over 12 months. We fight once in a while. Her temper is as quick as mine and she possesses an equally impressive repertoire of profanity. But we’re quick to kiss and make up. Neither of us can hold a grudge longer than an hour or two.

If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that love, and by association, marriage, is a complicated dance of giving and taking, of knowing when to speak and when to keep silent. It’s a crazy carnival ride; a messy, complicated, exasperating, stress-inducing battle of wills that can bring even the strongest man whimpering to his knees.

It’s also the only thing that makes life worth living.

I was perfectly happy as a single man in the year or so before Lori and I got together. But not as happy as I am now. 

The children’s author Dr. Seuss is credited with saying, “You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” 

I haven’t slept well in months.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Picking the perfect minister for your wedding, one circuit at a time

I've been married several times. This doesn’t make me an expert in marriage (quite the opposite, in fact), but it has made me something of an authority when it comes to weddings. I can arrange a catered affair with a good band, elegant table settings and carefully thought out seating plan—in my head. No need for notes or a “wedding planner” book.

I never do any of this planning, of course, because that’s the bride’s duty. I’m not sure who devised this rule, but it seems to me a good one. The point is I could do the job if I ever needed to.

So far, though, the only job I’ve been allowed to handle is finding the minister.

My first wedding was presided over by a friend from high school who became a minister after graduation. The reverend at my second wedding I don’t remember; all I can recall is that he was too smart to fall for it when I told him—moments before the ceremony began—that my fiancée and I had decided to include the “honor and obey” thing in the vows after all. It’s probably a good thing he omitted these items, since that particular wife never even pretended to do either.

At my last wedding, the minister was some guy I found in the phone book. He looked great; bald with vaguely Catholic ministerial robes and a big Hassidic Rabbi beard. I felt like Rasputin was conducting the ceremony.

Yes, I’ve hired some cool ministers over the years. But none compare to the minister who will be doing my next wedding. This one’s going to cost more than all the others combined, but it’ll be worth it, I think.

She’s only four-foot tall and so far she’s performed only one other ceremony, but I’m hiring her anyway.

She’s a robot. A Japanese robot.

She’s the “I-Fairy” (yep, that’s what her Japanese creators, still reeling and confused from Godzilla’s last attack, apparently, have named her). She sports flashing eyes and plastic pigtails, and she’s licensed to perform weddings, at least in Tokyo.

She recently wed Satoko Inouye and Tomohiro Shibata. The bride praised Japan’s state-of-the-art robotics industry, saying people want robots that “serve some kind of purpose.” Coincidentally, Inouye is employed by Kokoro, the company that manufactures the I-Fairy as well as the “Hello Kitty” line of children’s toys.

Since the first time the bubble-headed automaton from “Lost in Space” warned Will Robinson there was danger nearby, I’ve wanted a robot of my own. Thanks to the Japanese, the only excuse I now need to get one is to get married again.

For 6.3 million yen (about $68,000) I can buy my next minister outright rather than pay the usual rental fee. I figure, judging from my previous marital track record, that I’ll get at least six or seven ceremonies out of the I-Fairy before I die. This results in some significant overall savings, based on the per marriage fee most ministers charge.

Despite the coolness factor of robotic minister, the technology really is still in its infancy. Maybe if I wait a while to get hitched again, the good folks at Kokoro will come up with a robotic bride as well.

I wonder if she could be programmed to honor and obey?

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

It’s hard to answer the ‘hard questions’ in a relationship

And now I find myself in a relationship. A serious relationship. How serious? Well, we’re talking the “M” word, probably in May.

I know, I know, it seems pretty darn quick to me, too, but I’m crazy about her and we’re both anxious to begin our life together. At my age, I figure the sooner the better; I only have so many good years left.

In fact, were it up to me, we’d be on a plane to Vegas right now. I’ve always wanted to be married by an Elvis impersonator.

That’s not going to happen, though, because my fiancé is smarter than I am, far classier, and considerably more cautious.

In addition to being smart and cautious, she’s also a bit of an academician; she doesn’t do anything without thoroughly investigating the pros, cons and neutrals of a situation, and much of her investigative process involves the reading of authoritative books.

I have no problem with this. I think it’s a good idea, in fact. Problem is, she also wants me to read these books. Worse still, she wants to discuss the books after we’ve read them.

Now, there are no cheat sheets for relationship books, no Cliff Notes. (I checked.) In order to discuss them intelligently, one must actually read the things.

As a man, the idea of reading about—much less discussing—relationships causes me to break out in hives. I shiver all over and lose muscle control; I see black spots swimming in front of my eyes.

The love of my life doesn’t care. It’s important, she says. It will help us understand the challenges ahead of us, she says. Do it or you’re back to doing your own laundry and eating Ramen noodles, she says.

That last one usually gets my attention.

And so I’ve been reading the books. The latest is entitled “The Hard Questions” and it hurts my head every time I crack the cover. The narrative itself is tolerable enough, as such things go; but more than half the book is in quiz format—questions the intended and her man are supposed to answer, and answer honestly.

Some of the questions are obviously intended for younger (at least younger than me) readers. “Will we have children together?” for example. Answer: “Not unless Immaculate Conception comes into play at some point.”

Here are a few other questions the book poses, along with my responses:

“Are we each happy with our overall health?” Answer: “Baby, I’m 54. Every day I drag myself out of bed without a walker is a good day.”

“What if one of us is attracted to someone else?” Answer: “Again, I’m 54. I’m no genius, but I have learned to keep my trap shut about some things.”

“How do we decide how to spend our money?” Answer: “I’ve been married before, sweetheart. Here’s my paycheck. Try to keep the lights on.”

“Do we need to change our wills now that we’re planning to marry?” Answer: “No, you just go ahead and keep the box my stuff is in. Nobody else wants VHS tapes of the original Star Trek series anyway.”

“What do you like about my family of origin?” Answer: “Your dad didn’t follow through on his threat to beat me up when we told him about the wedding plans.”

My fiancé loves me, which is great because I feel the same way about her. Also, it helps her to accept the possibility I’m only skimming the chapter headings.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

And this, then, is why you haven’t seen a ‘Reality Check’ lately

I’ve been putting this off for a while now, but eventually I’m going to have to bite the bullet and get it over with. So here goes.

Some of you have written asking why my column hasn’t appeared recently in either the print or online editions. The answer is actually pretty personal, but you, dear reader, have stuck with me through the years and I’d be remiss if I didn’t address the issue.

A while back, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, while remaining lovely, decided – just short of our 15th anniversary – that she no longer wished to be Mrs. Taylor. The details aren’t important; the point is she moved out with the dog, cat, her teacup collection and half the photo albums.

I know, I know; I was surprised as well.

It has taken me some time to come to grips with the situation and I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely “over it.” But I have made up my mind to move on. As any of you who have been through this personally already know, this is easier said than done.

At first there were all the little things I had to get used to. For instance, all household chores now fall to me. Everything from the laundry to the dishes to vacuuming up the spilled seed from beneath the bird cage … if I don’t do it, it don’t get done. The Laundry Fairy has left the building.
Then there’s the empty house; I’m still not used to that. The silence. The way the hours seem to stretch on into forever some days. The list goes on, but it all pretty much reads like a bad country and western song and I have nothing new to add to that gloomy litany.

But the hardest part has come only recently, since I’ve begun “dating” again. Now, I haven’t dated in nearly three decades and I stunk at it even back then. It would be a gross understatement to say that – when it comes to romancing a stranger – I am out of practice.

Since I work in large part from home, I meet very few eligible ladies. Those I do meet are work-related encounters – interviews, photo shoots, and so on. Not exactly a quiet, candlelit dinner with a nice Bordeaux and intimate conversation punctuated by soft violin music.

So I decided to move my search for female companionship into the 21st Century by going online. Yeah, I know there’s a certain stigma about online dating services, but it beats sitting around waiting for Princess Charming to find me.

In the weeks since posting my profile, I’ve met a few nice girls and talked with them via email and over the phone. I’ve even met a couple face to face. So far nothing’s “clicked,” but at least I’m out there giving it a shot.

I’ve got to admit, it still feels weird to me. Real weird. But it’s something to do, and right now, that’s a good thing.

More importantly, it’s given me something to write about. In the weeks ahead, I plan to address the whole middle-aged dating thing in more detail. The topic worked for Carrie Bradshaw in “Sex in the City,” yeah?

So who knows? This could be the start of something wonderful.

As always, I remain hopeful.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.