I will be in Dr. Chance's office in two hours. My headache hasn't gone away. I've had it for a month now with no other symptoms except for the new lump on my left eyebrow. My money is on sinus tumor.

So, last night while in bed I attempted to cheer myself up by asking Lindsey, "What do you like?" I expected to hear things like puppies and pink things. Without hesitation, however, she began her list by saying, quite seriously, "Smooth surfaces—" Of course she was unable to continue due to my thunderous laughter.

I never thought it would be possible for one person to say two things of this magnitude in the same day.

Lindsey was sitting in the recliner, blinking furiously.

"Lindsey, what's the matter?"

"I opened my eyes too hard."

Later that night in bed she was rubbing and batting her eyes. I stared at her for about 60 seconds until she said, "My eyes are easy to open. They're slippery."

This is Olive, the spider who's lived with us for the past two months. Every night she makes a new web outside our door. We both normally dislike spiders (at least so close to us), but we've grown fond of Olive and her spidery ways.

Happy Halloween!

Also! I have a spooky story to tell thee, children, so gather 'round.

Actually, it's a dream I had last night, in all it's glory...and gory detail.

          I was with Lindsey and a bunch of other ladies in London, England. We were there to recruit students for my university. A strange, old building had been rented for the day. It was yellow with many small, round windows and creaky boards within the floor. The day went horribly, with no visits from students. At about 5 P.M., before we began to give up, I went out. I marched to the schools, made big, loud speeches, and returned triumphant with multitudes of students in tow. Everyone was so happy. I was the hero.

          If that weren't enough: afterward, we cleaned up, women still singing my praises. When I was the only one remaining, my cousin Nathan came a-calling. We spoke about trivial matters, girls, and the like, as boys tend to do, while I continued to clean. Suddenly there was a bear! He had been roaming the corridors, and we had to escape. I dropped cups and silverware, and the two of us ran in the opposite direction. After two hallways and a flight of stairs were behind, we naturally assumed our safety. Oh, how wrong! The bear reappeared! I had had enough, and exploded through a wall. Safety, at last.

          However, we were then in a large wooded area with my entire family. It was a desolate place, with only a few abandoned barns separating the trees and old shrubs. With not-so-great surprise I heard shouts. "Look, there!" "Oh, my God!" Alien spacecraft darted over the horizon, above the trees. Everyone was terrified, but, yet again, I was there to save the day. I led the lot of us to one of the barns, where we barricaded ourselves in. After a good while, I decided I should go out to investigate. My brother Carlyn volunteered to accompany me. Our journey to the ranger station was a safe one, until we opened the door. Bam! the bear was inside. He grabbed Carlyn, and in true dreamlike fashion I jumped on the mass of bear and man now rolling before me. I was able to sway the bear, we quickly returned to the barn, and then back to civilization with the entire family.

After a Star-Warsesque medal ceremony, Lindsey and I went to Cracker Barrel to celebrate.

OK, I made that last part up—I thought it was a nice addendum.

Lindsey was supposed to be in Maryland right now, but she had a little setback. Friday night we gradually drove to my parents' house (I stopped a dozen times to take pictures of the amazing clouds resulting from the coming storm). We all ate supper and watched Cast Away. Lindsey began complaining about her stomach, which had bothered her the night before, too. We thought it was nothing, went home, and she went to bed. At about 1:40 A.M. I heard her moan, ran into the room, and she calmly requested to go the hospital. Actually, it was more like this: "DEARGODI'MDIVIDINGINTWOGETMETOERNOW!" Six traffic violations and twelve minutes later we were in the hospital waiting room, watching fourteen hundred Hispanic children climb onto and devour a helpless old man. We were called back within five minutes.

Three and a half hours later, we walked out—Lindsey tipsy on morphine, and me a little more in tune with my femininity after four issues of Women's Day. Did you know there are almost two hundred million different kinds of tampons?

I can't write this blog entry in good conscience without mentioning the mediocre conditions of the Stanly Regional Medical Center emergency room. Did I say mediocre? I meant crappy as crap can crap: clumsy, blind nurses, dirty rooms, and shoddy equipment. Oh, and everything and everyone was s   l   o   w. At one point I walked back to the main area to ask if Lindsey could go pee, and there were at least eight nurses and two doctors just standing there staring at something. I don't think it was an X-Ray unless it was the funniest X-Ray of all time. One more Oh—the intravenous drip literally dripped ALL OVER THE FLOOR. And guess what else? No one noticed the leak until the end, when we pointed it out. "Hey, doctors and nurses whose skills people depend their lives upon, the IV is dripping all over the floor right next to several electrical plugs where anyone could fall and be electrocuted." This hospital should pay us.

Luckily it was just a kidney stone. When Lindsey sees that little word "just" in the previous sentence, she will probably punch me in the groin—it was extremely painful, I have to admit. When the nurse left after explaining that the doctor had requested morphine be given, Lindsey looked at me and said, "Isn't that the stuff they gave Giovanni Ribisi right before he died the most horrible death ever?" We proceeded to quote Brian Regan for several minutes. "Say eight!"

We made it out by 5:45, grabbed some Bojangles, and slept until one o'clock.

A guy nearly lost his manhood to a brick earlier tonight on America's Funniest Home Videos. I winced and let out a slow moan. I looked over at Lindsey on the couch, who simply said, "I'm glad I have everything on the inside!" and proceeded to pat herself to prove it.

Lindsey is spending the week in Atlanta for her job. Our conversations while she's away are always fun.

Brian (11:25:16 PM): So, what are you doing in that room all by yourself?
Lindsey (11:25:17 PM): looking at Emily's pictures and watching Friends
Brian (11:25:28 PM): how did you know I'd axe?
Lindsey (11:25:42 PM): because i know you better than you know yourself
Brian (11:26:17 PM): that's not true
Lindsey (11:26:34 PM): umyesitis
Brian (11:26:43 PM): OK
Brian (11:26:50 PM): what am I thinking?
Lindsey (11:26:55 PM): boobs
Brian (11:27:12 PM): whoa
Brian (11:27:18 PM): how about now?
Lindsey (11:27:27 PM): boobs
Brian (11:27:42 PM) GET OUT OF MY HEAD

My new wife has been gone this week on business, and I don't like it. Apparently, she doesn't either. The first thing she said to me Monday night was, "When I left, the dancing girls didn't jump out of our closet and throw themselves at you, did they?" I hesitated.
        "No, but Scarlett just left."
        "Johansson? That's impossible, because I had dinner with her."
        "She was probably pretty hungry."
        "Asinine."
        "Think so?"
        "Yes. And by 'inine' I mean 'hole.'"

I've always been an adept bachelor, on every front. In the process of acclimating to married life, however, I seem to've lost my ability to clean and cook. Like a domesticated pig released into the wild, it didn't take long for me to harden to a life of survival. However, I make a very bad pig, or a good one depending on the metaphor.

So I've resorted to speaking aloud to my imaginary friend Scarlett, who silently coaxes me through the day. "That red underwear can't be washed with those white t-shirts. You washed your own clothes for years before this. Remember your training." Despite the pinkness, I've done fairly well. With this help I've remembered to take my vitamins, shave, and buy additional smoke alarms, too.

"Don't open four quarts of green beans. Despite your craving, you can't eat that much."

"America's Funniest Home Videos will come on again tomorrow. You need to go to bed."

"Here, watch me pout needlessly."

Still miss my wife, though.

If you know me well, then you understand my love of The Andy Griffith Show. It represents my childhood, aids my nostalgia for times gone by, and is just a great show. No one has ever beaten me at the trivia game (but I haven't played my aunt Lisa, who would give me a good run for my money) and I have all of the black and white episodes virtually memorized. An important part of "TAGS" was the Darling family, a band of mountain folk played in part by a bluegrass band named The Dillards. They aren't very well known, but should be, especially by fans of bluegrass. Or good things in general.

The Dillards have made a habit of visiting the Oakboro Music Hall each summer. I saw them last year and was the first to buy tickets for this year's show. I brought my family and Lindsey along. Everyone in the building had a great time.

Rodney and Doug Dillard are the only original members still playing, which tells me how remarkable it would've been to see the band in the prime of their beginnings—over forty years ago. The amazing thing is that these two men still play as if they were in their twenties—Rodney is 64 and Doug is 69. Rodney still uses the guitar he played on The Andy Griffith Show, and, of course, a big difference you would note immediately if you're a fan of the show, is that he speaks a great deal more. He told stories and joked around before, during, and after the performance. The recollections and stories they shared were very interesting, and the nostalgia factor was nearly maxed out, but the true treat of the event was simply the music. Just like last year, they played "Dooley," "Doug's Tune," and other regulars, but also "Walkin' Down the Line," by Bob Dylan, and a couple old gospel tunes including "Somebody Touched Me." The latter I'm not very familiar with, but Rodney involved the crowd by having them sing different parts. Even if you don't appreciate songs such as that, you would've enjoyed the harmony and volume produced by the interaction of the crowd. Terry Smith again joined the band on stage, and they rendered a superior version of "Orange Blossom Special."

Also, this is how close I was: near the end, when the group was answering questions from the audience, Rodney's microphone stand fell from the stage—I jumped forward and grabbed it before it crashed the floor. He stopped talking, looked down at me, and said, "Well, you're not on drugs, are you?"

We went out back after the show, and I met them again. Not only are they the most talented of all senior citizens, but they're some of the nicest—the kind you'd prefer to be in front of you in Wendy's. I shook their hands, got another autograph, and spoke with them for a minute. Lindsey was very impressed by the whole thing (and wrote about it here). Hopefully they'll come again next year—they're starting to feel like friends.

Lindsey had never really fixed me a meal until yesterday. She's fried things in the microwave, toasted some bread, and opened a few cans, but had yet to really cook (but I don't mean dancing). Last night after returning from an exam, I opened the door to a big, steaming plate of great food that Lindsey had prepared. Grilled chicken, macaroni and cheese, green beans, and potatoes. That may sound bland to some, but I'm a bland person and for me, that is the epitome of good food. It was the kind of meal I would request before lethal injection. Everything was delicious—the beans were cooked with ham, the cheese in the macaroni was perfectly smooth and tasty, and the chicken was mouthwatering. She had sliced, stirred, poured, measured, mixed, timed, scooped, and even "dashed," as I was made aware. I stuffed myself and rolled over to sleep forthwith.

I'm in my car, which is going about 70mph. It's 2:05 A.M. and we're near Emporia, VA. It's very foggy and the highbeams are having trouble cutting through. I'm excited because I will be able to see Lindsey's grandmother in the morning. She is lovingly referred to by her family as Gammy. I always look forward to seeing her because she has Tootsie Pops and criss-cross huts.

There is no one else on the road. Everything is black and without us the night would remain a bleak, wet void. But nope, we are piercing through, making our way to loved ones. We are going to fish, eat, and laugh about stupid things that only we remember or care about.

As I look above this slender Dell flatscreen at the white slashes perforating the road, I'm reminded of late night journeys between my house and Virginia. I remember shockingly cold nights in Lynchburg—standing outside of a dormroom at midnight, watching my smoky breath as I wait for Lindsey to come out and kiss me goodbye.

I'm also reminded of a trip we took to Lindsey's parent's in Yorktown. It was a few days after Christmas of 2004. We had met snow by this point. With our musical resources exhausted, we decided to memorize Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire." An hour of that song nearly drove me nuts, but now I know every word. Guess which is my favorite line?

Tomorrow I'm going fishing with my new mother-in-law. Not that I have an old one. Anyway, we're going fishing on the Yorktown Pier where she caught an 18-inch manta ray this past week. After twenty-four years of brim, bass, and catfish, it would be nice to catch such a foreign creature.

We are at an Exxon now. "Surf City" by the Beach Boys is playing over the sound system. It's still a strange thing for me to visit such a modernized gas station. The one I normally use just recently updated to computerized pumps. Part of me feels left out because I seem to be just now catching up with the world. I haven't had a check card until a few months ago. It's great to be able to simply stick that sucker in and go. The Beatles are now singing. This is a great gas station.

This laptop is like a shining beacon in the night here. Three bugs are exploring the screen.

Technology is wonderful. It's 2:43 A.M. I'm in a car going 75mph, typing up my thoughts, and listening to "Fat Bottomed Girls" by Queen. Since I was little I've hated reading in the car—a headache has never failed to accompany car reading. I feel like vomiting, but I can't stop.

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.

Friday nights at Brian & Lindsey's are going to be killer, I can tell.

or "Grab Your Umbrellas Or Hit The Back Button", because I'm going to get mushy.

I love my wife. She is the greatest girl in the Western Hemisphere. She loves me more than anything and never lets me forget it—whether she's checking my nose for boogers or hugging me during late night homework sessions. She's cute and sweet. She's my Cutie Pie, my Sweet Face, my Shmoopsie-Poo. I mean, just look at her.

Gorgeous. Of course, I don't love her simply because she looks like a supermodel. She has other qualities. Like talking on the phone.

Perfection.

I'm only joking, you know. It's hard to tell you how great my wife really is. But I'll try. For example, sometimes my temper can get the best of me, but Lindsey knows how to cool me off and get me back on the track to my senses. She's always kind and has the best temperament of anyone I've met. She counterbalances me with her optimism and always has the right outlook on every situation. She also gives great surprises. Like Leo Kottke tickets, 5th Avenue candy bars, midnight milkshakes, and other things that will remain secrets.

Secrets are something I like having, because they're fun to have with Lindsey. It's great to be with this person that knows everything about me. We have secrets about each other, and about all other things—memories and inside jokes, crude things even! It's great to have a girl who can appreciate being stupid and silly. This is another quality Lindsey excels in demonstrating. She understands my burping and farting, and even joins in occasionally. What? That's gross? Grow some perspective™. Lindsey can sing "Whoop There It Is" and move right into "Bohemian Rhapsody". She'll act like a dark cynic and then use baby talk about a puppy she saw while riding in the car. One time she was lying on the bed, and when I looked over she was picking her nose. She simply stared back at me and said, "I love you!"

Yep, that's her. That's my Lindsey Pop, my Lindsoid, Lindzorz. I'll be lying in bed asleep. Suddenly I awake to the sound of her voice. When I look at her, she's talking in her sleep. She says things like, "I don't like purple shoes," and, "This peppermint is not the right size," and, "Stop licking me," followed by boisterous laughter.

Look, she's even cute in her driver's license. She looks like a news anchor. "Tonight on Lindsey Hathcock Live we have a very exciting exclusive look at Star Wars: Episode VII with Harrison Ford, George Lucas, and Mark Hammill. Bob Dylan will also be joining us to talk about his new radio show, an upcoming album, and who will be joining him on tour in 2007. Finally, J.D. Salinger will speak with us if time permits."

In my dreams, I reckon. But that's just the thing! Who needs dreams with a mate like her? Not me, unless we move into more questionable content.

Anyways, in a nutshell, Lindsey is the cutest cute that ever cuted. I love being with her and look forward to all things we hope to do together. I see beach trips and Christmas mornings. I see mountain hikes, road trips, concerts, movies, family get-togethers, and countless adventures of discovering everything. Whatever happens, we will have love and laughter. Lindsey is great. I love her.

A month has passed since Lindsey and I were married. It's been the time of our lives so far. There has been great fun, yet many tough times, too, as we adjust to a different way of life. I've learned a lot as we've moved into a house, dealt with jobs, signed contracts, and bought big things. The first is that a generalization has been proven in the fifty-seven boxes and bags Lindsey brought from Virginia with her.

1. Women have lots of things.

When I say things, I mean crap. I've tried to be nice about it, but most of it is just that. In going through her endless stuff, we've found ten beverage warmers. I'm no warm beverage expert, but I don't think even Santa Claus had that many. Right now they're all lined up on the mantle as a reminder to visitors that cups are important, easy storage can be a curse, and consumerism is all pink, warm, and healthy. After the cups were arranged on a table I had a fun time pretending to be Indiana Jones from the climatic scene of 'Last Crusade.' Yeah, I'm adorable with youth. Anyway, after I gave up finding anything resembling a whip, I stumbled over a box of shoes, stood up, and promptly fell into another. If Lindsey ran out of table tops when using those cups in college, she surely had no trouble decorating the rest of the dorm room with high heels, sneakers, and flip flops. After playing a virtual game of Tetris with the room, I gathered four boxes of shoes. These weren't little boxes. The smallest measured about 2'x2'x1'. But the volume isn't even the most disturbing thing. What caught my surprise is the fact that some of them are almost EXACTLY THE SAME. I counted six pairs of very similar brown shoes. Into the mix I brought three pairs of sneakers, two pairs of dress shoes, a pair of sandals, and flip flops. According to my calculator—and it's a good calculator—with the amount of shoes I own, I could only supply the feet needs of 1/7 of a girl.

2. Girls like girly things.

Here I am trying to compose a nice, modern, hip, intelligently arranged home when all sorts of fancy glassware, smelly candles, and cute kitchen novelties get in the way. I was assembling an entertainment center for the living room, and when I finished Lindsey handed me a pair of glass candle holders and said, "Put these in the bottom shelf." I know, I can't believe it either. I said, "That's where the Nintendo is going." Apparently, when you get married, even if you pay for something with your own money, and go to the store and buy it, and put it together, the other person still has a say in how it's used. I'm going to find a way to get rid of those glasses. "Oops! My fishing rod fell into the entertainment center."

3. Girls do not like gory movies.

All I was trying to do was watch Dawn of the Dead (you know, the new one that came out in early 2004—it's great; you should watch it). Five minutes into the movie a little girl zombie breaks into a house and rips out the throat of a lady's husband and proceeds to chase said lady around her bedroom. Nothing major, right? Lindsey freaks out and now she can't be alone in the house for the night, turning on every light and asking me to check behind the shower curtain. She's also now protesting scary movies, but I'll be darned if I give up Alien and Rosemary's Baby (or The Garbage Pail Kids Movie for that matter).

4. Nor do girls like violent video games.

I was playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas on my PlayStation 2 as Lindsey watched from the couch. After about five minutes she said, "Is there a point to this game?"

"Yes, but I'm just playing around, now." I was driving a fire truck through a crowd of beach-goers while helicopters and police cars assaulted me with their bumpers and bullets. Another couple of minutes passed before Lindsey spoke again. By then I was on a busy road, ramming my sports car into motorcycles.

"Why don't you like to just drive normally? Stay on your side and avoid smashing things and running over people?"

"That's the whole point," I said. "I can do that any time, but I can't go around like this in reality. It's fun to just cause havoc in this game. That's part of the appeal—I can break all rules of society with no consequence."

"I don't like to break rules."

5. They really do spend that much time in the bathroom.

I see the inside of a bathroom for probably twenty-five minutes of each day, including my shower, shave, and waste relief. However, when Lindsey goes into the bathroom to get ready in the mornings, I might as well go build a model plane. One time I was so bored for so long that I painted a side of the house. Eventually I made a game of it. I see how much of the house I can paint before she's done, and then next time try to break that record.

6. My wife thinks that I can fix anything simply because I'm a man.

I was an intellectual kid. I watched Sesame Street, read, made up imaginary worlds, and looked at squashed bugs in my microscope. I never learned how to build engines, weave shingles into a roof, or lay concrete. Still, Lindsey expects me to fix four-hundred-pound appliances with all the ease of looking at a butterfly. Apparently, working with electrical wiring is not very much different than plucking blades of grass, either.

7. Fishing always involves a headache, wet pants, and/or spilled tackle boxes.

Lindsey tries, I will give her credit. But there are lots of problems. For starters, if we're using live bait, I have to put it on the hook. I have to assure her that the worm doesn't feel anything and actually enjoys being torn into four or five pieces. When she catches a fish, I have to convince her that, just like worms, fish don't feel pain and like to have their mouths and eyes pierced. I think she finally saw through this pretense when she hooked a snapping turtle. I finally got the hook out of his mouth, and, since I'd had little fun until this point, I threw the turtle like a baseball—far, far out into the middle of the lake. By this point Lindsey had had enough emotional stress and finally released it with a lot of tears. "He's dead!" she moaned as he hit the water. In truth I reassured her that he wasn't dead, or even hurt, and that I wouldn't have done that if there was a chance he would've been. (The turtle is fine. He was there the next day.)

So, fishing with the wife is like fishing as two people because I do everything for both of us. Lindsey's mom is going to be disappointed when reading this (she's a good fisherman, for a girl). I have confidence, though, because she is learning. She asks lots of questions such as, "Which end of the stick do I hold?", "How many bobbers do I put on the string?", "I wonder what size rock I'm stuck on?", and my favorite, "Do you have any ChapStick in your tackle box thing?"

8. Super Soaker fights are not to be initiated indoors.

9. Whether traveling on interstates or winding through country roads, it is not OK to do so like a race car driver.

Again, I need to give Lindsey credit here. She can go pretty fast herself (about 15mph over the limit), but gets a little scared when I do (30mph or more over the limit). I try to convince her that I know how to drive, that people will get out of my way if I cross into their lane, especially if I have my lights on. She just doesn't understand how the road works.

10. It's not a good idea to take dozens of pictures of her just after waking. Especially not with the flash. And especially not before she's awake.

I've learned this the hard way, at least twice. Oh, and never, ever even go into the bathroom with a camera in your hand if she's on the toilet. No.

Now for the good news. I've made fun of Lindsey throughout this post, but to be truthful, she's very down to earth and understanding. For example, it's OK if I give her a gift wrapped in aluminum foil, and she doesn't get all that mad if I clean fish in the living room. She may be girly in a lot of ways, and that may limit the extremity of my male immaturity, but it's a good thing. I don't want She-Hulk asking for my comb to get wood shavings from her armpits. I like my cute, sweet Lindsey who's afraid to put worms on hooks and can't stand the sight of ugly feet. I love my little wimp.

Lindsey Proctor became Lindsey Hathcock on May 20, 2006. I'm still Brian Hathcock, unfortunately.

The wedding went by very quickly. I was nervous for none of it, which was surprising. I woke up that morning, got ready, and right away it seemed I was standing beside the minister watching my bride travel the isle. I repeated some things, lit a candle or something, and we were done. The reception had an even shorter lifespan, it seemed. We were introduced after a string of bridesmaids and groomsmen, ate, cake, done. The one constant was a Canon 20D in my face, which I quickly tired of. The photographer took so many pictures, that picture-taking is the main memory of the event. When I look at the pictures next week, all I'll be able to say for each is, "Hey, I remember posing for that picture."

OK, it wasn't that bad. It was a "very beautiful wedding," according to a buttload of women. It tasted good, I know that. There were shrimp, chocolate strawberries, and other "food" like that, but I had green beans and a pound of icing.

I think people had a good time. One thing I was disappointed about was the music. I spent at least a solid 20 hours working on gathering and arranging music for the reception. But a lot of it wasn't heard because the time ran short. I was aiming high, I guess, in assembling four hours of music. I danced, though, which I have never done in public. It was a big hit, I think. You might see a picture later on, but there is no video, thankfully.

As we exited the church, Lindsey and I grabbed handfuls of birdseed bundles to hurl at those assembled outside ready to pelt us. It was a spontaneous thing, and I think I hit someone in the face, which I didn't mind after the trouble I went to later in cleaning my car.

We left for Nags Head through a crowd of cheering people. Lindsey said the experience of driving away was surreal, and I guess I felt it a little, but for me it was pure excitement, relief, happiness.

Being completely alone for eight days of our honeymoon was wonderful. The house was great—far too large, but great. We spent lots of time on the beach, lounging in the house, and exploring the area.

We also saw some wonderful sunsets.

And sunrises.

After Nags Head we weren't ready to leave the ocean, so we made the long journey down to Myrtle Beach, SC. We stayed there another two days, hitting the hotspots we usually visit on our yearly summer trips there.

We reluctantly made our way home, dreading thank-you cards and work, but that dread was easily gulfed by our fun and anticipation. We stopped in Dillon, I bought a couple bags of fireworks, and we found our way to Albemarle in time to see X-Men 3 with Justin.

It's taken me a while to get this entry on the site because of married life business. There may be more pictures in a couple weeks, but I won't be writing much more about our wedding day. Friends and family, you can always read the wedding blog Lindsey and I kept from October 2005 until now, detailing some things about the wedding. There are a few more pictures here and those previous.

Life is fun right now. We have a lot of work ahead of us, but things will be great now that we don't have to worry about tuxedos or Jerry Falwell.

By now Lindsey and I are at Nags Head and we've been married for 24 hours. Praise God and thanks to everyone who made our wedding special. Yes, I'm writing this two months before yesterday even happened (starting to feel like Marty McFly here), but I know that even if aliens invade, gunmen arrive, or, God forbid, a dress strap breaks, it will have been a wonderful event simply because of what it is. Thank you, Proctors and everyone else in Poquoson, Yorktown, and the surrounding area who were involved, especially the members of Poquoson Baptist Church who welcomed me. I feel like I suddenly have a big new family. I've felt this way for nearly two years now, especially with Lindsey's immediately family. But now that it's official, well, it just feels great.

You've all been such a big help. Dee Forrest, Sylvia Wood, Sandra Lindell, Donny Goodrich, Bobbi Fordham, Pastor John, thank you for your cooperation and help. There were a few tough times, but we made it through.

Thank you, Kathy, for being a great mother-in-law. I don't know what's with all those rumors and jokes about mothers-in-law (Fred Flintstone just had a rare, unfortunate situation, apparently). You're great. That "in-law" part is negotiable.

Ashley, what can I say! You've always been very nice to me, right from the start. You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a real sister. Too bad I wasn't there to torture you as a child.

Bud, thank you for also being great. I remember when I first met you in KFC's parking lot in Albemarle. On that first day I could tell that you're a fantastic person and father. I look up to you, and not just because you're 6-foot-7.

I could never forget Gammy, who has become a grandmother to me. I lost both of my grandmas in 1994 and I've missed them a lot. You are a wonderful addition to my life and I love you, Gammy.

My biggest thanks goes, of course, to God. Without Him, Lindsey and I would never have met.

Lastly, but not quite least, Lindsey. Thank you for loving me and proving to me that there are some people out there worth risk; that things aren't as bad as all that; that I could find somebody worthy of love and who would echo it fully. You've loved me through all my bad times, when others would have left. You've helped me. You've probably saved my life, and only you can know what exactly I mean by that. To others wondering what that means and whether it's a cliché: it's closer to reality than rhetoric. Lindsey keeps me straight; "I walk the line." But enough with this talk! I love you, Lindsey. Let's start our life together.

Don Corleone had it right when he said, "A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man." Although not exactly what I had in mind, the core principle is the same: family is one of the most important things in life. I love my [extended] family. Today we gathered at uncle James' house for fun and food. Josh, Jodi, Nathan, Jordan, Justin, Alexis, James, Cynthia, my parents, Cynthia's brother Ted and his family all piled in. Justin has bought Alexis a big trampoline, which is lined with a protective net to prevent clumsy boys like me from falling out. We flopped like manic fish for at least an hour, hitting and kicking a giant ball at each other. We were children tonight, and it was great.

I'm pleased that at twenty-four I still act like a child, or have the ability, anyway. I have lots of responsibilities, and even more now that I'm getting married. But I can still be silly and carefree. I see many, many adults who have let "the weight of the world" get to them. When one leaves childhood, he's a part of the "real world," and he sees things differently, usually without the curiosity and hope childhood allows. I'm going to do my best to hold on to that throughout my life. I think too many people lose it. (Let's see if I'm successful fifty years from now.)

Tonight was a reminder of that. It was probably the last time we'll have that sort of get-together before I'm married. I stopped looking at it that way, though. That makes it seem like something is ending and things will forever change, and that's not how it is. Things will still be the same, except that Lindsey will be a great addition, who will make things even better.

As I've written, midnight has come and gone, so 'today' has become yesterday. This is a special day, the day I first met Lindsey. We didn't officially start dating until the latter half of June, but I'm still reminded of her when May 7 comes. How would my life be different now if she hadn't bumped into me that day? A lot of people would say, "Oh man, I don't want to think about it." I do because it reminds me of how fortunate I am.

Lindsey and I are registered at Wal-Mart and Target. What else do you need, right? (Well, maybe Cracker Barrel gift cards.) I can view these online, and I check about once a week out of curiosity. It's exciting to see things "Fulfilled." Not because I want things, but because it shows that there actually are people out there who care about me (this is a delusion—they care about Lindsey).

My big question is, why hasn't anyone bought me that black 60GB iPod yet? Who needs forks and plates?

That's how far I drove this weekend. My record for a weekend is 1517, when we went to Nags Head the first time.

This entry is going to be a checklist, basically. Hit the Back button now, please.

I picked up Lindsey at Liberty University on Thursday afternoon and we headed for Yorktown. We were on the go throughout our stay, with little downtime, but it was great. On Friday, we picked out new glasses for Lindsey and met with Pastor John. I also had to wait in a very pink, flowery room for about an hour. I had to do the same thing a year ago, but I guess the initial trauma never fully faded. I flipped through the same TIME magazine forty-two times.

Bud drove us to President's Park Saturday morning. It was great for a group of nerds like us (and hey, I can get culture credit for it at Pfeiffer). We were also able to visit with Marni (Lindsey's older cousin), her 9-month-old son Alex, Uncle Wally (Lindsey's grandmother's older brother) and Aunt "Chicken," and, of course, Gammy. Saturday night was spent making and decorating brownies for Stevie's birthday bash to be held the next day (which we wouldn't be able to attend). We crashed at Gammy's Saturday night after taking her back home.

I also bought some swimming trunks for our honeymoon. Forty-six days.

My dad and I were walking at Norwood's park yesterday for a little exercise and conversation. We walked three miles, most of which I thought about Lindsey and our wedding. Within our little park are usually several ducks and other birds. A kingfisher makes the park his home; he's always perched on a few select tree limbs and wires (I saw him swoop down to the water and snag a small fish today). I can't wait for Lindsey and I to have the ability to go walk there whenever we want.

A black car drove by the park covered in toilet paper and dragging cans. I hope they decorate my car like that. I can't wait to drive away with Lindsey.

Lindsey pulled into the service station and triggered the fuel door to pop out. Standing behind it, she pulled out her check card only to watch the fierce wind take it. As she fumbled for the piece of plastic with all the dexterity of an infant monkey, she continued the process of tipping out her marbles. Spinning up and around, her kneecap smashed the fuel door. "AAH!" Balancing time with embarrassment, she quickly grabbed the pump, forgetting to unscrew the gas cap, which she then had to pull off sideways and left-handed.

I love her, but her embarrassment brings me endless joy.

And yes, we still call them "service stations." No convenience stores down here. Heck, some still go to "filling stations."

I'm in love with busy weekends, because I usually do nothing but school work. I'm also fond of using commas whenever I please to show pause even though sometimes I shouldn't, technically. Suck on it.

It was nearly 80° Sunday morning when Lindsey and I got up. We hadn't been to Morrow Mountain since October and I was itching to walk among trees. We spent the better half of the morning there, jousting with our walking sticks and being slobbered by dogs. After a few miles of coaxing Lindsey through tall grass and 45-degree rock patches, I drove her around to the other side of the mountain. There is where the Hathcocks have their yearly reunion. Hopefully she'll be able to attend this years'. It's a good ol' time of burnt hotdogs and pretending you know who anyone is. And trying to act like a supreme conservative who brushes his teeth before talking about George Bush.

We then met with Robin Williams' father about another house in Albemarle, but it was suspended from a cliff over a pit of ghetto children, so we declined.

The rest of the weekend was padded with a big family meal at Joel's Seafood, a stop by J. Talbert, and a couple ACC Tournament games. Good filler, I guess. Except for filling out the FAFSA. I hate Internet Explorer.

This week is our Spring Break. I'm at work; Lindsey wanted to come, so she's been here all day, too. I helped several people for the first four hours of work, but now this place is empty. Tomorrow we're going by the bank, I'm going to don a tux for the first time, and we're off to Concord to see Brokeback Mountain before it's gone. I want to see what all the fuss is about.

This weekend was a busy one, followed by a hectic week which hasn't allowed me to really think or write very much until now. My midterms are over. After insane study, I think I did well.

Lindsey and I went house looking again on Saturday. There is a quaint little house in Albemarle that is also very cheap. We may rent it. The last place we viewed was a dump and made the modest first house seem like a palace. The first house sits among several homes owned by various members of the Burris family. That makes for a nice, quiet neighborhood. The road divides a fairly rural landscape also, dotted by cows and lined with old wooden fences. But it's only a couple of miles from downtown Albemarle (if you'd like to call it that). It isn't our dream house, but it will be our first, and so I'm accepting and happy about it.

Other than the Oscars, we watched Duke fumble at home against Carolina. That's always a treat. And to think of the preseason projections made about the "new team." We lost 91% of our scoring force, and sport a light bench full of freshmen. "Fifteen wins will be a great accomplishment for this young team." I have no idea how they'll do in the ACC Tournament or the NCAA, but I'm very happy with the year so far. It was great to see J.J. Redick virtually scoreless for half an hour. I'm heartless.

Saturday evening my family and James' met at Joel's Seafood in Ansonville. Grampa was there, as was Justin, Alexis, Nathan, Josh, and Jodi. It had been a while since we were together like that. It was a great time as usual. I asked Justin if Alexis would want to be our flower girl. I'd forgotten about her taking on that job at Josh & Jodi's wedding. He said she would. Josh, Nathan, and Justin all again confirmed their roles as groomsmen. Apparently, according to Lindsey, we're suppose to be fitted this coming weekend. I need to call Jeremy and ask if he can make it. He's the wildcard—his choice decides the fate of the rest. If he can come and is willing to be a groomsman, then Nathan will probably fall back to an usher, along with Eric and David. I asked Grampa if he'd be my best man, but the trip to Virginia is a journey for the ol' guy, and he might not feel up to it. I hope he's able to, though, because it would be great to have my last grandparent in one of the most honored positions. Not only that, but I love him and I've looked up to him throughout my life. He's one of the rare few I admit to admiring.

Who knew that a wedding would be so easy to organize? I mean, really—this is a breeze. All you have to do is search through photographers, caterers, and the like, and choose the best ones for the job. Then rent out a place for the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, and the reception. The bridesmaids dresses have to be picked out, sized, and altered. Then do the same for the guys. And make sure they match. Wait, before all that you have to spend 3 months in indecision about colors for the wedding. Then, decide on what type of flowers and decorations will highlight the church. Unity candle? Someone to sing in the wedding? Who? What time will the wedding begin? Then you have to make list after list of who to invite from each side of the deal. Choose invitations. Fill out invitations. Mail invitations. Make arrangements for showers and parties. Spend nightmarish afternoons registering at different stores. Find a place to live. Choose where to go for the honeymoon and arrange all that. Select the food to be served at the reception. Pick out dozens of songs for it, the order they go in, and the DJ to take care of it all. Are we going to have games during the reception? What, when? You have to choose a cake and the person to make it. Find the perfect cake topper. You need to call Jeremy! How is the reception hall going to be decorated? Are we video taping it? I forgot how many hours the photographer is working for us. I think we should change this, I think we should do that. We need to get a marriage license. We need to buy wedding bands. Oh yeah, we have to meet with the officiant so he can confirm our sanity and expel any demons. When are we going to move all my crap from home and school to the new house? I have to get new glasses! Did you say something about a PowerPoint presentation? I hate the way I smile. Are we having our teeth whitened? Will birth control be affected by the other medicines you take? How long can we stay in Nags Head? I have class beginning on the 22nd, so I can't stay too long. Can I stay there for a while longer and meet you back home later?

All of this, and money is a part of nearly everything, too. Plus, Lindsey tells me the above is only half of it—as the boy, there are lots of things I don't even know about.

I wish we could skip all the flowers, decorations, and other frills. Part of me thinks of it as selfish. Why spend a couple thousand dollars on things dedicated to a single day? Sure, it's our wedding day, but there so many things of greater importance. What's important to me is the actual act of marriage and the gathering of friends and family. The reception/party is important to me for those reasons. We don't need to spend several thousands, however.

"Maybe you should consider what girls like. What's important to her. A wedding is different for girls."

Maybe girls need to straighten out their priorities.

Yeah, I said it.

My soon-to-be wife wrote this poem several years ago when she was a teenager. I found it the other day. Don't tell her I put this on my site.

Don't know where I'm going
I Don't know where I'll be
and all I know is something
is UP inside of me.

Not quite sure of how it came.
why it did, it's source...
But what I do know clearly is
that it's a strong, strong force.

Because Up is such a good way.
Up is such a right way.
Up's the only way that I should be.

Up is now a new thing
Up's the only true thing
and I know that I am UP
when you look at me.

This from a young girl too far deep in the terrible culture swamp of the mid to late 90s (boy bands, girl power, teenage television love, etc.). I'm not discrediting her; it's very sweet, and I cringed with adoration when I found it.

I meant to post this a few days ago. Lindsey's friend/roommate Emily (mentioned here) has an amazing great-grandmother. She was featured in a segment about her resturant Sunny Italy on UNC TV's North Carolina Weekend. You can view the episode here (click on the one for February 23, 2006). She's 96 years old and still running an Italian resturant in North Wilkesboro, NC. I became very interested after seeing the video, and found an article about Daisy and her restaurant (the second on the page, by Ken Welborn). I love things like this. I hope Lindsey and I can make it up there someday soon.