Sunday we were in a brew pub next to our hotel to watch the Super Bowl. We got there early to get a great spot in front of the TV. A couple sat next to us, the man was wearing a Sox hat. Figuring I’m going to be next to these folks for four hours and that they’re friendlies, I asked them where they’re from.

He responded: “Reading, Mass. You?”

Usually I say I’m from the DC area. If the other person is from Massachusetts, I’ll say just outside of Boston. I don’t have a canned answer for when the other person is from my hometown.

Me: “Same here. Pine Ridge Circle.”

His wife said they lived on a street I hadn’t heard of; no surprise, there’s been a lot of construction in Reading of late, and she said that it’s part of a new development.

Me: “I actually live in DC now; but I grew up in Reading.”

They smiled. “Did you go to school in Reading?” he asked.

Me: “Yep, RMHS class of 94. Parker Middle School and Joshua Eaton too.”

Woman: “I was your math teacher. I’m Diane Portman.”

I felt like the fool that I am for not having recognized her, she looks the same (and I didn’t write that last sentence just because we gave them the URL for this blog). I blame the context: I hadn’t seen her in about 15 years, and I don’t recall ever having seen her outside of a classroom. Certainly not at a brew pub in Waikiki.

Of course, I called Dan immediately as he’d had her for a teacher as well. While outside on the phone, I realized how bizarre it was for my wife and middle school math teacher and her husband, Stan, to be drinking with my wife

Anyway, for the next five hours Margaret and I sat–and drank–with the Portmans. We had a fabulous time talking about their travels and ours. Afterwards they came up to our hotel room for some more wine. We’re heading to their place for dinner next week.

And that’s all I have to say about the events of Sunday.

In the next few months we’re profiling all of our wedding guests. Check back to see what we write about you.

I met Teresa when she was one of my fraternity’s little sisters at Wake Forest. I took Teresa to my first formal as a member. She’s a cheap date: I was ready to splurge on some good hooch for the evening, but when I asked her what she wanted to drink that night, she said Boone’s Farm. I countered, offering to upgrade to Franzia, but she declined. So off to the 7-11 I trekked.

Teresa moved to DC around the time I moved here, and she roomed with the previously profiled Erin Ma. In addition to spending her time hanging out with Dan S., Aaron, Matt R., and me, Teresa was an intern for President Clinton (no, we never made a joke about it). She and Erin also enjoyed playing cards together.

Teresa and Mark got married a couple of years ago. Mark is also a Wake grad, but I didn’t know him until Teresa picked him up.

Those of you who attended my 30th birthday party might remember Mark as the guy who showed up and promptly took a nap. And there’s no euphanism here; “take a nap” is what he did.

I’m often asked if Mark’s “a good guy” by my fratnerity brothers. I’m happy to report that he is and has been a positive influence on Teresa—her sense of humor has become more perverted since she met him. That’s good.

Anyway, if you’re speaking to Teresa and Mark and the conversation hits a lull, ask Teresa what her ex-landlords thought of her and Erin. And if you are talking to Mark—this reminds me: Mom, remember the list of topics we have that Dad’s not allowed to bring up at the reception? Mark works in transportation, so please add that to the list. Dad can talk to Mark, but talking about Mass Highway is verboten.

*scheduled to attend

In the next few months we’re profiling all of our wedding guests. Check back to see what we write about you.

I met Sean Br.in high school. Despite him being good friends with Sal too, they are as different as, say, the Italians and the rest of humanity.

If Sal pays his friends not to hang out with them, Sean is the one of us taking the money, already thinking about what he’s going to buy at Lil Peach (Chris, of course, would be the one telling Sal to cough up more cash, calling him a nasty name, and then denying that Sal gave him anything at all).

And Sal, if you remember, is known as “Nice Salvi.” No parent in Reading has bestowed such a title upon Sean. In fact, Sal’s dad banned Sean from their house for a couple of months because of Sean’s late-night shenanigans. And my mom greets Sean with his full name.

Furthermore it’s not just parents who have misgivings about Sean; siblings have them too. During the year that Gerrit and I were in high school together, Gerrit ranked my friends. Sean come in last. It wasn’t close.

Sean, however, does have redeeming features. Most notably he is the creator of Bru’s Brew, a potent punch that we enjoyed while partying at our parents’ houses while home on college breaks. It has one ingredient: whatever is available.

In 1999 my mother made a rum cake for Christmas dinner. Unbeknownst to her, the bottle of rum had been all water for four years (meaning my parents’ guests must have thought Old Man Everson watered down his liquor). Sean had used the rum for Bru’s Brew when I entertained one night while my parents were in absentia.

Needless to say, Sean is a blast to hang out with. As uptight as I was in high school, I can’t fathom how much worse I would’ve been without knowing him.

Emily is the respectable half of this couple. She and I (along with the yet-to-be profiled Dan S.) went to nursery school together back in the day. Sean and Emily married in 2002 and have one lovely, loquacious daughter who clearly inherited her intelligence from her mother.

Anyway, if you are talking to Sean and Emily and the conversation starts to drag, ask Sean if he learned his lesson. Or ask Emily about their wedding pictures that I’m forbidden from posting here.

*scheduled to attend

In the next few months we’re profiling all of our wedding guests. Check back to see what we write about you.

I first met Aaron when I pledged his fraternity at Wake Forest. The following year we were roommates. A few years later we roomed together again, with Dan S. and Matt R, for two years just outside of Washington, DC.

If my life were a TV show, Aaron would be my Kramer, my Arthur Fonzerelli, my Kenny. Only Aaron doesn’t die. He’s invincible. He’s told me so. Repeatedly.

He’s survived crashing his motorcycle, being hit by a car while riding his bike, being hit by a future doctor while patrolling the outfield, balancing a satellite dish on a 15-foot pole while two-stories high on a steep roof, leaving chicken on the counter for a month, having an extended stint on a park bench, staying in a hotel that gets rented by the hour or week but seldom by the day, and spending an afternoon at the gym after thinking that his God was dead. When some hoodlums carjacked him, they were the ones who fled the car at a stoplight.

I could go on.

And I will. Aaron is generous. He drinks his whiskey without a mixer, because it’s in your best interest. He’s so intent on grilling you the best burger you’ve ever had, that he’s so focused, so dedicated to your meal, that he won’t notice his arm is smoldering. And when we coached Little League, nothing stopped him from being at the field at 8 a.m to warm up the pitcher.

In sum, the man has two thumbs and loves…life.

Aaron has always been classy (especially with his pipe and silk robe), smart, and successful. But it wasn’t until after he met Jen that we can add “almost sane” to that list of adjectives. And I reckon there’s a good chance the word “alive” wouldn’t apply to Aaron if it weren’t for Jen.

Jen is quiet and quick witted. Unlike Aaron, who’s been known to show poor judgment from time to time, Jen only does likewise when she roots for the University of Maryland.

Not only has she helped Aaron, but Jen’s also done wonders for their dog Satchmo, who is essentially Aaron in the form of a beautiful 140-pound chocolate lab. Jen’s even been brave enough to spawn the son of Aaron.

Anyway, if your talking to Jen and Aaron and the conversation hits a lull, ask Aaron who drank all of his margaritas. Or ask Jen how Maryland did in the 2007 Orange Bowl.

*scheduled to attend

After last night’s Soprano’s episode, there is a 100-percent chance that we’ll play Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” at our wedding reception. Of course it’s been on non-stop since we got back from watching the show—and having gabagool—at Dan S.’s. (In Margaret’s defense, she’s been in New Orleans while I’ve been rocking out to Steve Perry and friends.)

And, just to further tie in the song with our wedding, the picture of us that used to (like the phoenix rose again and) adorns the top of the sidebar was taken at a Journey concert.