April and Ryan are Gettin' Hitched

It was a trick question, maybe.

"That guy who flew with drug-resistant tuberculosis?" Baer said. "He was going on his honeymoon."

"I saw that," I said.

"That's a bloggable item."

I said, "I promise if I have drug-resistant tuberculosis, I won't go on on our honeymoon."

Then I paused.

"Or is the right answer that I'll go on our honeymoon anyway, because that's commitment?"

"That," Baer said, "is a good question."

The things we do for love. As some of you know, we had a small medical drama here in the house of White-Baer, about 10 days ago. The night began like any other, a couple of folks came over to watch The Sopranos and Entourage. Pizza was consumed. And ice cream. And some beer. And grape Crush.

It was a cool, rainy night, but a cool, rainy night late enough in the season that we allowed ourselves to think that perhaps it would be the last cool, rainy night. One fake log left next to the fireplace. We made a fire, curled up on the couch under a blanket and fell asleep watching a Harry Potter movie.

About an hour and a half later, I woke up, warm. I woke Baer up, because it was after nine, the sun was nearly down and without question it was time for bed. We pulled ourselves up from the couch; I headed into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Ever fall asleep in the afternoon and wake up after dark? You awake disoriented. Is it morning? Night? What did I sleep through that I'm going to pay for now? And where in the hell am I?

One minute I was getting ready for bed, the next I felt like that last paragraph. Where was I? On the bathroom floor. How did I get there? I don't know. What's that voice? April, asking if I'm Ok. Why does my head hurt.

I sat up, about the time April walked in and saw blood on the floor. I reached behind my head and found the source of the blood. Bad news. Not too long after that, we're in the ER, I'm in a neck brace and the local Fox affiliate is on the television, passing crap off as news. Seems ol' Brit Spears had thrown a temper tantrum on a United flight. No leather seats is a real bitch sometimes. Life's tough all over.

Eventually we get seated, took about an hour, should have had reservations. Left behind in the waiting room was a woman in a nightgown, curled up on two chairs, a couple dealing with a sore tooth (she had a tattoo on her face), and various other bumps, bruises and obvious ploys for painkillers.

A nurse led us back. Later, a friend would suggest this was a lousy way to check out nurses. This nurse was going about 6-foot, bald, tattooed and a former Marine. Bad ass guy. He'd been in the first Gulf War, turned down invitations to this one because he'd promised his daughter he'd be here. Did a stint in Italy after Iraq I. Bragged about how good he was with a needle. The guy was good with a needle.

I got an I.V., and an EKG, and blood disappeared into vials. The doctor, guy named Campbell came in, asked a lot of questions. I go for a CAT Scan. The ride is cool. Neck immobilized on the bed, I got a view most people only ever get when they're watching television medical dramas: ceiling tiles, rounded mirrors, quick flashes of passing faces. There was a heart-rate monitor taped to my finger, glowing red. My neck was stretched by the brace. I felt like E.T.

April helped a guy named Todd lift me on to the CAT Scan table. It's mechanized, and it whirred me toward the working parts, a thin cylinder. Inside, parts turn. It was like being in the middle of a centrifuge, or one of those amusement park rides where you stick to the wall. While April was looking at pictures of my brain -- and feeling a little better about this marriage thing, once she saw I had one -- I'm thinking like James Bond.

"Do you expect me to talk?"

"No, Mr. Bond ..."

Everything check out, A.O.K. One of those things, the doctor says.

"Now we'll staple up the back of your head."

"Can I watch?" Baer said.

"Can you watch?" I said.

She could. She watched them staple my head at about 20 to 3 a.m.

At home, about 20 minutes later, she said, "I guess we can get married now."

I guess we can. And I know for a fact I'd chase her across the Earth with a head wound. Maybe not tuberculosis. Or maybe. We're still not sure what the right answer is. More likely than not, though, that guy with TB probably just didn't want to deal with the airlines and changing the tickets.

My employer has archived the wedding columns done to date -- all four of them. The fifth is being written right now, and we're planning at least one, hopefully two more before the wedding. Plus, a special, web-only, post-bachelor party column.

The O's archive.

So you're coming to the wedding in Columbus??? That's excellent news! And here's the best part: you don't have to stay at our place, enjoying Ryan's inimitable housekeeping, and April's treasured collection of Phillip Glass music.

Get the low-down on Columbus Accommodations right here.

Feel lucky, Punk?

We sure do.

We began the registration process with a trip to Target, and darned if this isn't starting to feel like a wedding! Tar-zhay has you register using this spiffy laser gun that reads the bar codes on all the loot. It was pretty fun. I especially enjoyed sharpening up my recon skills amid the duvet covers.

Whitey thinks that if I can just pass my tactical, and get certified on the Walther PPK, I might make 007 in time for the wedding. And for gosh sakes, someone's got to keep him in line. I mean, look at him. He's a danger to himself & the community. But he's soooooooo cute!

So, yeah. We're creating a link on the main blog page with links for our gift registries. You can read Whitey's latest wedding column on registering in today's Oregonian.

But don't feel like you have to get us anything--just because we're packin'.....the fact that I didn't do anything rash to that obsequious jerk at the Williams Sonoma knife counter speaks volumes about our capacity for mercy.


Find our links for Target & the dreaded Williams Sonoma to the left. I mean to get over to Macy's too before the wedding and set something up.

Below you'll find the details of Ms. Baer's Big Bachelorette Blowout, Part I. Soon, I assume, you'll get the gory details of Part II.

I have no photographic documentation of life in Portland while Part I went down in Las Vegas. The boys and I went to see John Prine and that was about that. I spent the rest of the weekend leaving the toilet seat up, except when necessary. Thus, the Seat-Up Weekend was born.

Which brings us to Seat-Up Weekend Part Deux, or 2 1/2, if you're into the Naked Gun 33 1/3-ology.

With the girls gone wild in the gorge, here's what we men were faced with: Game 5 of the Red Wings-Sharks NHL series followed by the Kentucky Derby followed by Game 1 of the Pistons-Bulls NBA series followed by the Oscar De La Hoya-Floyd Mayweather Jr. fight followed by poker.

Man Day (with apologies to the Discovery Channel's Monday night lineup). The kind of day that asks for, no, requires, coolers full of beer, bowls full of chips and pretzels, a grill full of steaks, a beef log, 1/3 a bottle of Maker's Mark, Motley Crue and a little death metal.

I'm proud to report no one was hurt in the making of this day, though most of us lost small amounts of money to Looper, Lithium and The Accountant, who might or might not have walked home. Nonetheless, he now knows the MAX doesn't run at 2 a.m.

And lest you think the day was completely unhealthy, Riddle and Matt brought vegetables for lunch.

The full photo set is here.

It was with trepidation that I approached Sin City with a few of my Ladies.

"Vegas?!?!?! Ew!" I squealed. "Why would I want to go there? Conspicuous consumption, unbridled addictions, unsustainable lifestyle..."

"Shut up and pack, baer."

(sigh) What's a bride to do?

ENJOY HERSELF THOROUGHLY!

See our photos here. Correspondence regarding our behavior, wardrobe, & level of mental & physical fitness may be forwarded to the Ministry of Circumnavigation, Double Down Saloon, Las Vegas, NV.

Watch for additional installations regarding the Bachelorette Blowout! (And thanks for your patience as I bumble my way around iPhoto.)

I think Whitey should wear a hat like Bert Sugar when we get married.

I, myself, want a hat like Mrs Ari wore for Yom Kippur on Entourage last night. You can't see it so good, but it's there, behind Nick Rubenstein.

More posts soon regarding Bachelorette Blowout the First.....

Ms. Baer turns 34 today. She seems quite chipper about the whole thing. At least, as I remember her when she left at Oh-dark-thirty. And there she is on the radio. Still sounds chipper.

(Painting by Melita Osheowitz. It's hanging in our living room.)