episode 1

so i've decided that my posts will be of the diary variety from now forward. what the hell, it's the internets and only a few of you freaks out there really know who i am.

be warned:

1. posts will likely be typed using only lowercase letters and very poor grammar.

2. posts will likely read as though i'm a 14 year-old girl (which i just might be, i'm awaiting csi crime lab results and digestion of the ham sandwich i just had for lunch).

3. i live a very boring and utterly suburban life.

4. i have cats that will probably be posted about quite often.

5. there isn't a number 5.

episode 1.

as shown below in the horribly accurate picture of my sausage and peppers fingers, i got married. the event occurred last saturday (in salem, ma, for those who might give a shit), and was a decent time, thanks in no small part to the open bar and the many folks who felt compelled to ensure that i always had a full glass of wine. it was, however, a tad anti-climactic, given the now mrs. fondleberries and i have been together for a coo's age (which, quentin tarintino (spelling?) tells me, is 12 years).

we planned to do this thing about 10 years ago, but for various reasons never got around to it. the mrs. had even bought a dress, we got rings, scouted locations, etc. alas, nothing. however, since we bought a house a couple of years ago and we're not getting any younger (and i'm certainly incapable of dating or being sought after by anything but a cheesesteak and a sixer of beer), we figured what the hell, and jumped in feet first (i'm not a good swimmer, and yes, i held my nose).

so, we spent the last year planning for what i lovingly referred to as the first real step toward divorce. we selected a nice little library venue for the ceremony and a restuarant we both like for the reception. that's where our paths diverged.

the mrs. took up dieting and twice-weekly trips to the gym (personal trainer and all, fancy), while i took up beer and wine, by the truck load. i watched her health and wellness increase, and tone develop in her itty-bitty muscles; she watched (in horror?) my stomach "muffin top" over my now size 34 jeans (i should really be wearing a 36, but fuck that). i chewed my finger nails to nubs, she had manicures.

the days rapidly ticked by. before i could lick the cheese wiz off the plate, i'd become the fattest bastard i've ever been, and was standing in an empty room, wearing a tux with a pink vest and tie tucked neatly inside it, and being photographed from all possible angles (to get my good side, i dunno). being completely absorbed by holy shit i'm a fat fuck (and oh, by the way, i'm getting married) thoughts, i paid little attention as folks began filling the room. i think i said hello to some and hugged others, it's all a bit unclear. but i had a good excuse for being aloof: i was, after all, a fat guy in a tux.

mrs. fondleberries, on the other hand, looked great.

at some point a guy in a robe pronounced us married, and the mrs. planted a wet one on me (that's hot). thereafter, i vaguely remember, in no particular order: the sounds of clapping and shoes clicking on stairs, more photographs, being creeped out by my mother grabbing my hand, more kissing, thinking that a little kid was likely to get sick from pressing his face against one of the restaurant windows, dancing, drinking, more drinking, some nice words said by my brother, more drinking, eating, cake, more dancing, and that i had finally understood what it meant to be loved.

when i awoke the next morning with a headache, i knew that although things would be different, nothing had really changed, and that i am very lucky to have mrs. fondleberries by my side.