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

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

It's about time for me to pop the question, I think...

Maybe I’m moving too fast. I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship. 

At first I tried to take it slow. After all, I enjoy being single; I’m self-sufficient and rarely feel lonely, lost or worthless just because I’m not joined at the hip to a member of the fairer sex. Also, movies are cheaper when you’re only buying popcorn for one.

But being the irresistible stud muffin I am, it was only a matter of time before some lucky girl snatched me up.  (Look, if you don’t recognize irony when it’s being troweled on this thick, I can’t help you.)

I’m pretty crazy about Lori, but even so, I dragged my feet the first couple months we were dating. I didn’t want to give up my lakeside apartment. I didn’t want to move to her house in the country. I didn’t want to, well, be a grownup again.

A single guy can remain indefinitely in a state of quasi-adolescence, an existence defined by nights out with the guys, sleeping in until noon on Sundays and a lawn that grows waaaaay too long before feeling the mower’s blade.

A guy in a relationship has, um, what are those things called again? Oh, yeah, responsibilities.

I hate responsibilities, yet I’ve managed to get myself into a relationship. A serious one. So serious, in fact, that this past weekend, after a lovely “mini-vacation” up north with my sweetie, I decided to take that next, Big Step.

It could have been the warm, post-vacation glow that dulled my resistance to commitment. Or the second glass of wine with dinner. Whatever the case, I made up my mind to pop the question.

I wanted everything to be perfect. I waited for the right moment, until we were home in front of the fireplace, lounging in the flames’ benevolent radiance.

“Babe,” I said. “I have something important to ask you.”

Lori’s eyes gleamed expectantly in the firelight. “What is it?” she said.

“Well, I know we’ve only been together a while,” I said. “I mean, you know, really really together, and…”

“Yes?” she said.

“Um, that is to say, I think it’s time…”

“Yes? Yes?” she said.

I cleared my throat and plunged forward. “I think it’s time we bought a grill.”

“A grill?”

“Yeah,” I said. “One of those big, family-sized ones. You know, for when we have the kids over or whatever.”

Lori’s reaction was not as enthusiastic as I’d expected, but we made the trip to the mega-store later that day and picked up a five-burner, stainless steel beauty that is now the envy of the neighborhood.

And believe me, that decision to purchase a grill says more about my commitment to this relationship than any piece of jewelry ever could. A grill, particularly a big, expensive grill, speaks of a future together, of longevity, permanence.

That grill says that for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, we’ll be making burgers together for the foreseeable future. If that’s not love, what is?

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273