Have My Cake And Eat It Too…

…or Reason #219 I have marry this girl.

As always, bold, colored text are hyperlinks.

So Natalie and I are winding down Sunday and she tells me she’s been thinking about Groom’s Cakes and this would be a good idea.

JIM: What’s a Groom’s Cake?

NATALIE: It’s a cake for the Groom.

I gathered that.  She says this with a sense of pride expecting me to be excited.

JIM: I mean, what’s it for?

NATALIE: So you have your own cake.  You’ve never heard of a Groom’s Cake?

No.  I must have missed that issue of American Groom Monthly that I get OH YEAH THEY DON’T MAKE WEDDING MAGAZINES FOR DUDES.

JIM: Are you getting your own cake?

That previous sentence goes back to my upbringing where my father taught us if you don’t see anyone else doing it; you probably should be, either.

I am reminded of an incident when my good friend of twenty years and upcoming groomsman, Dusty Rhodes, was having a house built and insisted he have his own room (this was before Man Cave was a commonly used expression on HGTV).  He learned a quick lesson when you move in with a woman that everything you owned pre-them is childish and stupid.  Your comic books.  Your action figures.  Your recliner that you found on the corner on Trash Tuesday that matches nothing in your house.

JENNIFER: Am I getting my own room?”

DUSTY: No.  You’re getting the rest of the house.

He never did get that room and last time I was over he wanted to show me something on his PC.  His PC was in the garage on a workbench next to power drills and fertilizer.  He sat on a small barstool and played videogames and listened to music in the Florida summer.  At least his he was allowed to hang his Evil Dead poster there.

NATALIE: Yes, you can have wedding cake but this cake is for you to do what you want to.

JIM: What would I want to do with a cake?

NATALIE: I don’t know.  Maybe get a cake shaped in a Superman ‘S.’

JIM: (Appalled) Well, that’s just stupid.


For a second I wonder if she thinks I am ten.

NATALIE: I bet we can have someone make a cake shaped like an Xbox.

This is where I stop her.  Have you ever seen those country dudes that get married and they have the shoestring bolo ties and their cowboy boots and hats on.  I always think, seriously, it’s just one day.  I know you wear that stuff all year round but you think you can just set it aside for one day and put the tux and a pair of shoes on?  I’m not James Bond.  I don’t wear a tux and fancy shoes every day.  We’re all making sacrifices here.

There is a part of this that feels like when a mom gives their kid something to do that makes them feel important.  Natalie tells me stories of her parents letting her order Shirley Temples and how adult it made her feel.  My father used to ask me to grab the end of the couch when he rearranged the furniture and I felt like I was helping but in reality, I was six.

That’s what this cake is.  Natalie trying to involve in me a process I have little involvement with.  Not that I have been pushed out of the process like my brother was when the sentence, “we’re spending how much on flowers?” came out.   More because she knows what she wants.  Often she’ll ask me what I think and then throw another option up and seldom have I disagreed.  The colors are black and white… the colors are red and white… unless you expect me to ask my fellas to wear a pastel, we’re fine either way.  There are about three things I have asked to have happen at this wedding… outside of that, my goal is to make sure she gets what she wants.

She doesn’t want a Superman cake.  She might not care, but I do.  I know there are some women who probably go through their fiancé’s guest list with a red Sharpie and an “I don’t want to see any of his dumb friends on my big day” attitude.

Not Natalie.  Natalie offered me a cake.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s