The only thing I regret about my wedding is the impromptu speech I made. I hadn't considered speaking, but as my dad addressed the crowd I thought, "Say. Maybe I should get up there and say something." That was my first mistake. The second was actually doing it. I promptly molested the microphone into making an ungodly squeal and at once knew the immensity of my mistake. "Drop the microphone, grab Lindsey, and run like heckfire" was my initial response. But as I looked into a crowd of half-strangers I realized that I had taken Oral Communications in both high school and college, so I was prepared. I mean, I was the weatherman for our school for a semester, what's a little wedding speech? It's my own wedding after all—it's OK.

So like the true lunkhead, I listened to myself and stayed up there. As I began and then actually continued speaking, I realized that this was my worst decision since I tried to set off two dozen bottle rockets with a joint at noon in the Stanly County Sheriff's Office with a bag of aborted fetuses in the other hand and two dead bald eagles stuffed into my illegal immigrant's gay son's husband's hooker.

I fought the urge to impale myself for about three minutes, said lots of stupid things, and finally sat down. It wasn't until two days later that I realized my biggest mistake. I mentioned lots of people, mainly members of Lindsey's family, and thanked them and everyone for coming, and some other boring things. In my stupidity, I forgot to thank my own family. Not only my mom, dad, and brother, but also all the other members who had sacrificed loads of leisure time in order to attend my wedding five hours from their homes. I immediately fell face first into the sand and began swallowing in hopes of happy death. Fortunately, Lindsey recognized the problem and scooped me back up, brushed me off, and explained that it was OK—that I was nervous, hadn't planned the darn thing, and that everyone realized it. My family knew that I greatly appreciated their being at my wedding, she said, and that I can always thank them when I get home.

Well, even though few of my family know my blog exists, or even know what a mouse is, I thought this would be a good time and place to thank them publicly. I might as well. To my cousins, Justin, Josh, Nathan, Eric, and David, thank you for being my groomsmen. You were some of my best friends growing up and you mean a lot to me. Thanks to aunts and uncles—James and Cynthia, Susan and her daughters, great-uncle James and his wife Myrtle, Bobby and Lisa—I thank you also for taking the time and effort to be there; it means a great deal to me. It wouldn't have been the same without you.

And before I forget, thanks to my dad, mom, and brother Carlyn. Dad, you taught me how to play chess at age two, encouraged me whenever possible, and instilled a set of values and a commitment to learning that haunts me to this day. I'll never forgive you for it. Mom, you're weird and we don't get along a whole lot, but I think that might be because we're too similar—our mutual love of decorative wooden utensils and romance novels has put us at odds for years. Maybe it will be different now that we're not competing for stomping ground. Carlyn, even though a huge ravine of nine years divided us, I think it also helped us to bond. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm amazingly immature. In any event, thanks for all those years of video games, fireworks in the kitchen, the countless games of basketball, and generally taking my abuse with good humor. I'm sorry that I'll probably die many years before you do.

I need to go finish our thank-you cards.

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