April and Ryan are Gettin' Hitched

Let's talk about physical fitness. Eleven out of 10 doctors will tell you it's a good thing. When approaching a wedding (especially one of your own), that number jumps to 15 out of 11. This overwhelming majority has much to do with the belief that if you're going to wear nice suits and dresses and pay $2,500 for a photographer, you better damn well look good so do some crunches.

Sure, the photographer probably has Photoshop and could probably make me look like George Clooney, but that's the priciest of a la carte items. Don't even ask what the Brad Pitt package costs. You get the looks, yes, but you have to adopt a couple of African babies, too. And pick up Angelina Jolie's lipstick expenses. The guy's going to have to do a super hero movie soon. That's all I'm sayin'.

Better just to get some exercise.

In this fight for physical superiority, Ms. Baer has been well out in front. She hikes. She yogas. She cares about what she eats. She gets up at 3 a.m. The Baer is the early bird; the worm is toast. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I watch some of the country's most elite athletes for a living and think to myself, "I need another cup of coffee." All elite athletes start to look the same after a while. And the games are at night. A guy gets sleepy.

But I'm trying. Tonight, for the second time in two weeks, I went for a run. I huffed through the lovely little Overlook neighborhood; I puffed down a hill into Overlook Park. At the bottom of the hill, a youth baseball team practiced. A father hit fly balls to children not using the proper footwork, not getting even a mediocre jump on the ball and allowing it to fall in front of them. I mean, the kid didn't even dive. No heart. At the top of the hill, three disaffected sk8er bois (is that how you spell that?) shared a Pabst.

Around the park is a soft, mulch covered track shaped like the Pocono Raceway. Understanding that that means nothing to any of you, think of it as an oval someone yanked loose on one side. Any side. Doesn't matter. To the south, one has a view of downtown, the 405 bridge (Baer could tell you it's name), and the wonderfulness that is Portland. To the north, you can see the top of the city's best neon sign, the one at The Palms Motel. It has a little blue monkey that hangs off the palm tree. The park would be a wonderful place to watch the sun set.

Anyway, I walked down the hill and started back into my trot. I'd gone about 50 feet when a small child sprinted past me. And then another. And then another. Seven total, each smaller than the last, each slower than the last, each faster than me. It was like someone had let loose a cross-country team of Russian nesting dolls. Most likely it was the very polite looking parents watching their children. One did have a stop watch, though.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Passed by the brats (don't they all play video games now?). With any luck, Big Tobacco will get its claws into them within the next 10 years. They'll slow down to my pace. Who'll be laughing then? Huh?

I'm sorry. Did I type that?

I did a couple of laps, and the kids disappeared -- probably to do push-ups, sit-ups and human growth hormone. I jogged home and proceeded to mow the lawn with a push mower, because yesterday was Earth Day and damn it I care.

All I'll say about that is this: Nothing makes a guy feel more Midwestern than pushing a mower across the lawn as the sun sets and the iPod shuffles up John Mellencamp's "Small Town."

Makes a guy feel like he's worked, like he's done the hiking and the yoga. Even if it's totally unnecessary, because two out of two people in this relationship have decided we love each other just the way we are.

How sappy is that?

Decisions, decisions!!!! Having ruled out the Electric Slide, we find ourself with a number of interesting options for wedding band. So here's our version of American Idol: who would you rather dance to? No fair voting for the guy with the best hair just so Simon will not attend the ceremony.

Cincinnati's Faux Frenchmen, keeping the Hot Club tradition alive in Porkopolis?

Or a Cleveland All-Star Dream Team, featuring violin gypsy genius Steve Greenman, & accordion sorcerer Walt Mahovlich?

(Todd Snider was not available.)

It should be noted, right here at the top, that I'm NOT the one that should be writing this post. Which means it's me, Ryan, writing it. Because I'm not changing my name.

It should be April writing this, because she HAS to get the question more than I do (and I get it a lot), but she's sleeping. It's 9 p.m., on a Sunday night -- post-Sopranos gathering -- and she's sleeping because she has to get up early and finish an uplifting story on a Jonestown survivor.

Or is it Jones Town?

Is that an inappropriate question?

Sigh.

ANYWAY, I got the question the other night: Is April changing her name?

I don't think so, no. But it's totally her call. I support whatever she does. We also have options, some more profitable than others.

(Digression: There's a damn beagle next door, and it howls. All the damn time. It's howling right now, and if it wakes April up, I'm going to go apply for a gun, and three-to-five days from now ... actually, I can't back that up. But if anyone knows anyone who raises pit bulls for fighting ... I'm just sayin' ...)

A few years ago here in Portland, a restaurant empire emerged. It began as a private gathering and turned into three or 15 businesses. It was hard to tell. The Hebberoys were everywhere. Hebberoy being the combined names of Michael Hebb and Naomi Pomeroy, the husband-wife team that created this little culinary Disneyland.

Well, it fell apart. They got divorced, their businesses declared bankruptcy, friends of ours had to find a new place for their rehearsal dinner. It was all pretty ugly.

So last summer, when our friends Helen and Patrick got married, and they got the question, they said they were going to change their names to Hebberoy. It wasn't being used.

Except they didn't.

So it still isn't being used. That's one option.

The combined name is interesting. Our friends Helen and Patrick kept their names, be for fun we combined them, and now Green and Jung are Grung.

Then there's Andy and Tara. Dworkin and Wilkinson. Dwilkinson. Or, because we're fond of (bleeping) things up: Dwilkerson.

April and I could be the Baites. Or the Whaers, which would invite all kinds of Who's on first type jokes.

Lately, however, we've been leaning toward the hyphenate. White-Baer. Or not hyphenating at all. Whitebaer.

Not only does it give the kids a shot at the Native American scholarship when it comes time for college, but I've always wanted a casino in my living room. Blackjack over breakfast is fine by me.

"I'd like to double down -- and some toast."

Always order toast on 11.

Unless April disagrees. And if she does, I'm sure there will be a post on top of this one, and quickly. It might involve waffles, but whatever.