My having been one of the rare grooms-to-be to post on The Knot’s DC message board has brought some traffic to this website.

While posting on The Knot isn’t the most masculine thing I’ve done (that would be when I did a tough-guy shot: snorting salt from the back of my hand, downing a tequila shot, and squirting lemon juice into my eye), I’m not embarrassed about it. I was hoping Margaret would see my posts there and think I was actually helping us plan our wedding.

Anyway, if you’re visiting this site for the first time, here are some of the most popular posts for you to check out:

• Songs we don’t want to hear at our wedding reception: Meet a do-not-play list
• What the groom will be sporting
• It’s my special day—everyone says so

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

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

My relationship with Christine has been varied and trying (mostly for her): she’s been my colleague, manager, landlord, minion, and colleague again. Once she could get past her first impression of me as a big dork, we became friends too. (Although her first impression, of course, remains correct.)

Christine is guano crazy, but somehow her advice for me is always dead on, even it is what I don’t want to hear. Her best counsel has pertained to work and women, and as I’m thrilled with both, I thank her.

A few years ago I wrote a fake sitcom pilot for my old website based on my experiences living in Christine’s basement apartment. Here’s the outline I wrote about her character:

A French-Canadian who converted from Catholicism to Judaism and works in development, [Christine] enjoys cooking exotic food with organic ingredients and reading about leftist guerrillas, native peoples, and furniture. A perfectionist, she prides herself on taking 20 minutes to do a job that could be suitably accomplished in five. To be played by some random actress whom no one in America has heard of save [Christine].

If you want to learn more about Christine, ask her to send you the link to one of her online dating profiles; she’s learned—the hard way—not to share them with me.

Christine also has the role of being the mother of a good friend of mine. I first met Liam when his school was canceled because of snow. Christine brought him into work and deposited him at an empty cubicle where he played a Clifford the Big Red Dog video game. As playing with Liam and Clifford trumped editing a report about the sustainability of midwives in Ghana (they aren’t), I introduced myself.

Later in the day I called him (Liam, not Clifford) to my cube and asked him if he ever got mad at his mother. He nodded. I told him I did too sometimes and when I did, I threw balls of paper over the cube wall at her. Liam and I then proceeded to do just that.

Now Liam is a delightful, intelligent 10-year-old who is mature for his age. Last year he had not one but two girls following him around his classroom, offering to clean his desk for him. So he reminds me a lot of myself at that age.

What I admire most about Liam is his optimism; he has no problem telling me that he’s stronger than I am, even when he’s on the floor examining the sole of my boot. He’s also as competitive as I am, which might explain why he’s the only person I know who’s still willing to play Monopoly with me. And for that I thank him.

Anyway, if you are chatting with Christine and Liam and the conversation hits a lull, ask Christine about reusing dirty paper towels. Or ask her to move back to DC from Montreal. And ask Liam for his thoughts on taxation, the Middle East and religion, or how to repulse a French-speaking stewardess.

*scheduled to attend

As word got back to us that the hotel was telling guests our reserved block was full, Margaret had more rooms added to it. So you should be able to get the discounted rate for both nights.

But if you still have a problem, please let me know. They guy we’ve been dealing with at the Hamilton Crowne Plaza has been fantastic (Margaret said she wants to leave me for him, only he’s not probably interested in women).

And for more details about the hotel, please visit our accommodations page.

When we still were deciding where we would hold our wedding ceremony and reception, we learned that as soon as the word “wedding” was mentioned, the charges increased.

So instead of telling people upfront that I was hosting a wedding, I said it was a reception. I didn’t lie; if asked I said it was a wedding. Regardless, eventually, the venue’s coordinator would ask for specifics. When I said that it was a wedding, I usually was told that the price he or she quoted me earlier no longer applied; the facility had “special rates for weddings.”

When I pressed for the reason behind this special rate, I had some interesting exchanges:

• “We’ve charged all of our other weddings more money and it wouldn’t be fair to those brides if we charged you less.”
• “We give special attention to weddings.” When I asked if that meant that they didn’t give special attention to their other customers, there was silence
• “Mothers of the bride are difficult to deal with.” I found it offensive that they were prejudging my mom. And sheÂ’’s easy to deal with.

Regardless, all of their responses centered on the concept of “my special day.”

You see if “my” day (never once “our” day) was to be special, I would need extra attention and that required more money. Time and again people tried to sell the notion that the day must be perfect and for a little bit more they could make the wedding of my dreams come true.

I am not the bride-to-be who has had a vision since childhood of what her wedding day would be like. I assumed that there would be a groom and depending on who the groom was, members of my family would be in attendance (thankfully they’re still showing up, despite it being Zach).

I knew, however, somethings that I did not want

• poultry—my beef is not with the bird, but rather with the industry where the big processing companies exploit small chicken farmers
• a traditional cake—(you’ll have to see what weÂ’re substituting for cake at the reception)—Zach and I don’t like cake that much, ergo no cake
• a veil—just a personal decision; I don’t want to wear one

Funny thing is though, no matter how clear I had been with potential caterers and dress shops, they don’t listen.

One catering company, listed as one of the best in Washington, DC, by the Washingtonian (”brides like this 79-year-old company’s food and service; an ‘event designer’ is assigned to each wedding”) submitted a potential menu of chicken lurking under wild mushrooms, as well as an elaborate multi-tiered cake encased in spun sugar flowers.

And while looking at dresses at a snooty Alexandria, VA, bridal shop (Hannelore’s), one salesperson ignored my refusal of a veil and plopped one on my head.

She then said, “See, don’t you look beautiful with the veil?”

I said, “I think I’m beautiful anyway” and left.