From Day 30: Welcome to my world. Seatbelts not required, but strongly encouraged.

We've been engaged for eight months. Dating for over two years, I've had more than enough time to "get off the pot," as it was eloquently put by some of my friends. And not just the female ones.

I popped the question on New Year's Eve. Deb wore a red dress. She always looks good in red. I wore my standard khakis. And for some reason Deb always thinks I look hot in them. An early tip that she was the one? Or a sign of severe vision impairment destined to be genetically passed down to future offspring?

Never was I so sure of anything in this world. Buoyed by excessive alcohol, a ticking biological clock (guys get them too), and a natural urge to ensure survival of the fittest (vision impairments aside), I got down on one knee and asked Deb to marry me.

It wasn't the most romantic moment. Or the most graceful. But it was ours to cherish forever. Or at least a few days.

"No planning for two months. Guaranteed," Deb promised as she basked in the glow ofher engagement ring.
We didn’t make it two hours.
"Who are your groomsmen?"
"What food should we serve?"
"Where should we honeymoon?"
"When will we register?"
Why, oh why did I start us down this path?

Then I remember Deb's comment way back on our fifteenth date. "You know I'm not dating for sport." I guess neither was I.

And I know that I haven't found much sport in planning our wedding. Successfully blowing off every responsibility is a challenge in and of itself. What's to stop me from finishing with a perfect record?

My blushing bride, for one.

From The (Occasionally) Lost Weekend

We barbecue steaks and feast like kings. And now I can't wait to be served up for dessert. But it seems that dessert is lame-duck pudding.

"Roast me!" I proclaim.

"You suck!" Rick yells.

"You're fat!" Patrick shouts.

"Take a shower!" Jake quips.

"Don't you watch Comedy Central? Or even the Three Stooges? You could at least throw a pie at me. You're pathetic," I lament. "I haven't asked any of you for anything. And this is what I get? Deb's crew is available seven days a week. They talk. They cry. They plan. They share. What about me? I have needs, too. Do you guys even care?"

For the second time today, I sit in silence for what seems like an eternity. Then a break.

"Reno," Patrick offers.

"Reno," Rick seconds.

"Reno. Reno. Reno," everyone proclaims.

Sigh. "Reno, baby, Reno," I quietly accept. And understand. Men aren't programmed the same way as women. We're binary with decisions. Logical with reasoning. Uncomfortable with emotions. These guys are giving me as much as they can. And that's fine by me. After all, even an emotional wreck like me
shouldn't stay too worked up over this.

Before leaving San Francisco, Deb made me promise one thing: no strippers were allowed to make house calls. We could go to as many places as we could handle, but by no means were we allowed to host our own private party. That's reasonable. I saw no need to tell my friends as that type of coordination was way beyond their means. Why sound henpecked for no reason? Except that I am now being informed of our first destination: a suite at the Flamingo. The girls will be arriving shortly. Good, but bad. Thrilling, but chilling. Am I at the threshold of the Ultimate Bachelor Party? Am I about to bear witness to a multiple-girl fest? And are they going to serve up a big Craig sandwich? Will I simultaneously, miraculously also win every round of 21, craps, and roulette in the place? Will every slot machine spill its gold to the tune of "Craig! Craig! Craig, you lucky dog!"

Deb is so going to kick my ass.

From Day 12: What's mine is yours, and what's yours is yours.

Our first private dance lesson is tonight. Considering my previous stellar performance in group, Serge, our instructor, fast-forwards to the advanced steps.Does he think I have talent? Boy,do I fool him.

"SLOOOOW. SLOOOOW. QUICK. QUICK," Serge implores.

I reply with a quick, slow, slow, quick. "It'll come back to me. Trust me."

"SLOOOOW. SLOOOOW. QUICK. QUICK."

It's not happening. Deb is steaming. I am sweating. Serge is screaming. Too many steps. Too much work. Go here. Now there. Hands up. Knees bent. Smile. The beats. The moves. The coordination. The humiliation.

I cut the lesson short. "We’ll practice at home. Promise."

I'm wiped for the day. I even mess up the plop on the couch and land my ass on the floor. But in knocking off a cushion, I find a five-dollar bill under the love seat. All isn't lost. That money should be enough to pay for one dry roll at the wedding dinner. Butter, of course, will cost extra.

From Day 4: Honk if you're getting married.

"The Vegas Express leaves in thirty minutes," I yell out.

Deb and her family are making the nine-hour trek in a rental van.

"Last chance. I know you want to hop in," Deb offers.

"I'll stick with my flight tomorrow. Looks like it would be a tight squeeze."

This isn't your standard rental van I'm loading up. It's a mini-wedding on wheels. I cram in the wedding dress (triple-boxed to keep my prying eyes away), a seamstress tool set capable of outfitting an army, a first-aid kit worthy of an Everest climb, and enough makeup to cover every Rockette at Radio City Music Hall. I think the fifty-dollar backup dress is being driven under separate cover. It, too, getting greater protective service than the president.

Could this van be the start of a new business?

Lose a nail?
Missing some lace?
Forget an usher?
Dial 1-800-WED-HELP

I tap the back ofthe van after I finally slam the doors shut. I feel like a paramedic who just loaded a critical patient in the ambulance, sending her off to life-saving surgery.

I'll miss Deb. But not enough to brave riding the "I Do or Bust" bus.

The van heads off into the horizon. I wave until I can’t see it anymore. Then I wave an extra ten minutes. Just in case something is forgotten and Deb heads back. Or she decides to test my love.

From Day 1: I do. Now hit me.

"Whazzup?" Drew asks over the phone. "We're at the buffet. Want to join?"

I lose it. "Can you think ofanyone else besides yourself? Now you call me. After you're already there. You know it's MY wedding, right? You're supposed to care about ME."

"Easy. We care. We saved you a seat. Next to the dessert bar."

"Fine." No point arguing. Maybe I just need a good meal.

A meal, not a buffet. Guess I caught Deb's nausea from last night. Granted, I try to buffet. My plate's loaded with standard Vegas fare. Beef. Pasta salad. Cheese omelet. Biscuit and gravy. Macaroni and cheese. But instead of scarfing down the food like everyone else, I wind up in the bathroom with my finger down my throat praying for it all to be over soon. Before this I've been able to keep my nervousness mostly to myself. But now I'm out there for all the strangers in the Luxor's Pharaoh's Pheast Buffet bathroom to see.

My last meal as a single man, and I cannot eat it. I wish my friends would take a moment and worry about me. Or even chew with their mouths closed. I doubt they would stop eating those ribs to hold my head up in the bathroom stall. Maybe if I plan my medical needs around the next turkey delivery at the carving station? Note to self: stop thinking about food.