HOUSEWIFERY

When I told my sister, Whit, that Katelynn and I are going to learn to can this summer she text-yelled back, “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”

“Dude,” I responded, “I choose something to do and get totally awesome at it. This is just the thing I’m doing right now.”

That thing: housewifing.

For someone—me—whose life choices had firmly defined her as not-housewife, this is a puzzling revision. Except it’s not. I never said I didn’t want to be a housewife specifically. I said I never wanted to birth things. And I won’t. There are three pretty significant stumbling blocks that the parts and pieces of zygote-building would have to hurdle in order to knock me up. I never considered Housewife as an option because that job and motherhood usually party together. Instead my housewifery happened because I hated my boss, my husband hated my hating, we didn't need my income, and that darling husband said something like, Woman, quit if you wanna quit. So I went from childless* drug rep who teaches yoga sometimes to childless housewife who teaches yoga sometimes. Drop one noun. Snag another.

But what does housewifery even mean in my situation? To start, it means that my friends kinda hate me. It’s actually one reason I haven’t blogged recently. I a little bit can’t. When I write about my life people hate me and that leaves me a lil’ lonely.

Example—

A few months ago driving through Napa on an impossibly green weekday Jim took hold of my bare right foot crossed over my thigh and said, “I love these feet.”

[one friend just stopped reading . . . her husband’s not very attentive and she can’t deal with enduring this sap right now]

Fighting the urge to slip it from his hand and slide it to the floor, I asked, “But why? I live barefoot. They’re horrible.”

He rubbed a thumb along my rough heel. “Because they’re where my wife starts.”

[three more friends just clicked off . . . two never to be heard from again]

When he says things like that I coo that he’s darling and I kiss his neck, and then I say, “You know I can never tell anyone how cute you are, right? You’ll end up being my only friend and that will put too much pressure on you. You don’t enjoy girl talk.”

It’s not just the stuff he says though. He makes my day-to-day enviable.

Take right now for instance: I’m perched on what must be the softest bed in America, near an open window that overlooks SF’s Union Square while Jim is out visiting clients. I planned to take a few yoga classes today, and I still may, but right now it feels nice to just not. I do, however, plan to take the 8-minute walk to Lululemon for another Scuba Hoodie a little later. My big problem though is that I forgot my shampoo and conditioner at home and had to use some drugstore stuff that’s making my hair frizzy despite the pricey potions I added pre blow-dry.

Dear Reader, this out-of-town Monday isn’t a weird one. I’m exactly this spoiled all the time.

When talking with a friend a few months ago about how irritated I get when the housekeepers don’t tuck in my sheets just right (I actually had the spoiled audacity to bitch about that) she cut in, “Wait—they change your sheets too? Sorry, but what do you even do!?” It’s never a good idea at moments like that to reply, “Uh, I fill out the order form for the weekly organic box. I schedule the Tesla maintenance, pay the people who pick up the dog poop outside, bring the milk in from the front porch and pick up my weekly juice order. I request additional landscaping and leave out the dry cleaning. Oh, and I choose new carpet.” I have experiential confirmation that nothing makes you sound douchier than a response like that. More importantly—to me—it overlooks what I do that actually adds value.

I’m married to a man who would prefer not to think about anything that isn’t fun or doesn’t have to do with work. His life is about supporting me, his kids, and the parasites that literally live off of his kids’ child support. So I make a good bit of my life about making his easier.

Jim’s ideal world is one where he doesn’t have to think about what to wear or what to eat, where his people are happy, and where he feels loved. So I manage his wardrobe—I toss clothes when they’ve seen their day, clip coordinating socks to his shirts, pitch a fit when the dry cleaners crease his chinos, and hunt for shoes that are comfortable on the first wear. I handle his food—the evening before each work day I choose and pack his snacks and I make his lunch salad with vinaigrettes acidic enough to give him lockjaw, just like the man likes. To take care of the keeping-the-wife happy part of Jim’s ideal I go to yoga, teach yoga, buy clothes, visit family, keep friends, and learn new things. And to make sure he feels loved I don’t let my hobbies become more important than us spending time together and go to bed when he does so I can tickle his back for the whole two minutes it takes my guy to pass out.

Nutshelled: housewifery for me means that I take care of the guy who is taking care of me, and the rest of the time I do whatever the hell I want, and I do it in a really nice car.

We’re good partners. We are religiously aligned. Our priorities match. He likes to talk business. I like to hear it. I have skill sets that enhance his work and home life. He’s good at the money making. I’m good at the money spending. He comes with me to art museums. I accompany him to baseball games and occasional outdoorsy garbage. We each feel well-supported. We were happy when my daily wear was high heels and pencil skirts, and we’re happy now that I wear more Chucks than heels and leggings than skirts.

I was born pretty uptight. For most of my life that served me okay. I got shit done. I felt good about the shit I got done. It gave me something that felt like happiness. But I don’t feel like I have to be like that just now. If I need to go into hyper-productive mode I know how; it’s built into me. 

My relationship with Jim caught me at a good time. The first month we started seeing each other was the month I finished graduate school. I’d been doing driven and stressed out for a long time and I was ready to give output-as-priority a break. I was managing the emotional trauma of a cheating ex-husband, and I finally had some space for fun. If there’s anything people know about Jim it’s that my husband is fun. So I let it happen. Without really knowing it, I was ready for something else. I’m now up to my ears in Something Else.

I’m crushing housewifery like I crushed drug repping, like I crushed school, like I crush all the shit I choose to crush. Anyone can make almond milk every Wednesday, Dear Reader, but it’s only badasses that use Thursdays to make crackers out of the pulp.

•••

* But Megan, you can’t call yourself childless! You have step kids! Yes, yes I do. And I don’t. When Jim and I got married we talked about what my role with his kids should be. Jim wasn’t looking for someone to be a parent to his kids. His younger children have a part-time mom. And for the older two that don’t, Jim’s a great dad and mom and those two’s mothers-in-law (wink, Traci!) are about as stellar woman as exist on the planet. A stepmom wasn’t necessary. Instead we decided that I would support him as a parent and be the kids’ friend as much as they were okay with—I would give them the assurance that their father was loved and would help them in whatever way they needed. And that’s just what I told them in the letters I wrote the kids when we wed.

The relationships have evolved over the last couple years. It’s different with each of them. Anyone whose done the blended family thing knows that the bonds are tenuous and the relationships perpetually delicate. I do my best to not overstep my boundaries while still being available in the capacities the kids need.

Initially, I helped out and made myself available because I loved Jim and he loves his kids. It’s nice now that I adore those little dorks for themselves and get to enjoy relationships with each of them and their significant others that are unique to them and independent of their dad.

So am I their stepmom? Only if that’s what they want. I don’t presume. I try to identify and respect boundaries. I just act as their dad’s other half and have a really good time with them both when he’s around and when he’s not.

SHOWERING

This morning while eating his cereal and staring into the backyard Ben said, “What if shadows had shadows?”

Last night he asked me to cut out a Sponge Bob turkey that he made for school because, “You do everything perfect.” I will therefore give him anything he wants at any time. By which I mean I will execute the three clicks it takes to order his desires off Amazon. I bought him some rad snow boots earlier this week and am looking forward to inheriting them as a hand-me-up. We wear the same shoe size now. He’s nine and grew an impressive four and a half feet this summer.

I’m in my office where R2D2 and C3PO are bickering on the other computer screen, Sophie is lolling on my lap, and the lil’ space heater under my desk is doing its damnedest to upgrade my attitude. Cold makes me cranky. But a cadre of adorable boots that have recently come by way of Zappos should serve to make me less winter-rotten.

This weekend will be about doing nothing since last weekend was about a baby shower and in two weeks there’s Thanksgiving. We are staying in Sparks for the holiday this year as our teeny pregnant lady will be 36 weeks and doin’ no traveling. We get to host and if I have any sense at all I’ll delegate every food assignment and keep my own efforts to table decorations. For y’all, decoration is the thing I do decently.

The baby shower last week was—I’m pretty sure—a raging success. The house was tidy, darling, and full. Katelynn got showered with a boatload of gifts and left here with over a thousand diapers to add to the collection she’s got going. Tons of her people shuffled through our house, embroidering quilt squares here, filling candy bags there, writing on advice cards, and eating eating eating. Trust me here: use Whole Foods. I’ve got experience in this food-ordering thing, and using Whole Foods for catering is a sure-fire win.

For weeks before the day of, my world was about details for this quilt-themed baby shower. I'm not so much known for doing things halfway or even reasonably, really. 

The momma-to-be is an ardent and talented quilter and put together some quilts for her babe that she was down to display at the shower, so with that in mind I designed invites and advice cards that looked quiltish and matched the decor to the general color theme she put together, making garland after garland of mixed paper flags, having Jim hang 20-some-odd big honeycomb baubles from the ceiling, and staking giant—seriously giant—coordinating balloons to the lawn outside. Traci put together a charming quilt project where guests embroidered muslin squares and she will piece them into a quilt that matches Katelynn’s color scheme, which I think couldn't be more appropriate as Traci is Katelynn's quilting godmother.

As we were setting up for the shower the night before, Josie surveyed the extensive decorations and asked me to do her party. “What are you having a party for?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she replied, "it’s Friday?”

Jim flew my ma in for the shower, a thing of which one does not truly realize the value until the morning of the shower and Megan is losing her shit. It’s good that my life has few acutely stressful situations. Pretty much no one handles that worse than I do. Mama Sue got stuff done, handled me like a champ, and when Jim looked at her with wide eyes exhibiting the futility of dealing with me in such a state, she nodded her head in sympathy.

Shortly before the food arrived, when Jim was hanging a garland over the back doors, Ben asked what he was doing and Jim replied, “Trying to make Megan happy.” 

One notable part of the shower occurred just after Katelynn finished opening gifts. I was across the room fidgeting with something and Katelynn called out, “Hey Megan, it’s time for a Grandma photo.” Classily, I hollered back, “Go to hell.” Kathy, Nathaniel’s awfully super mom, headed for Katelynn’s chair and as I followed I mouthed at Katelynn, “I hate you” which was of course intended as a gesture of love.

Come December my husband will be a grandpa, and the parents-to-be are getting quite the kick out of calling his 33-year-old childless wife Grandma. I’ve come to terms with it. My job is to buy them cute stuff. I can do that. I can do that all day, son!

That gonna-be Grandpa and I did Halloween weekend in Vegas. The first night we went to Cirque’s Ka. Then the following evening we had tickets for Le Rȇve. And then after that show Jim said, “Wanna go to O?” So we did that too. Two Vegas water shows in one night means I spent three hours straight with a dropped jaw.

But in writing that out I realize that it’s not out of my ordinary. Living with Jim means that a minimum of 60% of the expressions you wear are stunned, impressed, or incredulous. (The next 30% are delight. And the other 10% are depression, dismay, and disgust as influenced by effing whoremones that sweet Jim can’t fix, though boy does he try. Poor perfect man.) He’s anything but average and funny as hell. Just ask him. Wink.

BUTTERED UP

Dustin is a pilot. A freaking pilot. He has a license to fly planes. In the for-real sky.

Last week while he was taking his practical exam I was in Vegas on my way to the airport. In the cab and in line at Southwest I checked my phone every three seconds to see if Jim had yet texted me the results. I was fretful that I’d get on the plane without knowing! Phew!—I got the “He passed.” text before we were airborne.

When I got back to Reno I went straight from the airport to yoga and then as soon as I got into my car to drive home Jim and Josie called me. Jim said, “Can you come to the mall?” then there was a rustle and Josie was on the phone, “Please come and help me choose glasses. These guys are worthless. They say every pair is cute. They’re wrong.” I made for the mall, we got some glasses selected, and, you guys, Josie-girl rocks those specs like she was born in ‘em. (Bonus: now she can clearly see the board in math class.)

While Jim and Katelynn waited to pick up the stylish spectacles, I drove Ben and Jo home. When I pulled into the garage and saw Dustin’s motorcycle I said, “Our pilot is home!” Josie said, “We have a pilot!” When I saw Dustin I told him, “The best part is that you were this person when you passed you’re exam,” I pointed at his mismatched purple and orange-striped Toy Machine socks, “You were wearing those.”

That boy was completely himself when he took the test. He was wearing a beanie to tame his impressive spray of bleached-over-the-summer-and-growing-out hair. He has ridiculous tattoos. He wore skate shoes. And he’s the reason my black nail polish is missing. The kid is 20 and is consistently the same person no matter where he is. He got his dad’s stellar work ethic, and he studied like hell to reach this milestone.

I too reached a milestone of sorts last week. Dear Reader, I graduated from yoga school. I know that should have a whole lot of wahoo to it, but when you’re already teaching, the huzzah is a little less enthusiastic. At that point, the diploma is more like a box checked than a ticket through the door. Don’t misread me, I am really proud of the accomplishment—it was hard and worth the effort—but the culmination is somewhat tarnished when you don’t need the certificate to get the job. I done already gotted it and now I’m just doin’ my damnedest to deserve it.

Also there’s the part about the 200-hour RYT training being just the beginning of so much more necessary education. I need a long ass workshop on anatomy. I need one on adjustments. I gotta learn more about prenatal modifications. As ever, the more I learn the less I know.

I’m loving it, by the way. I am loving teaching. I have students that I already adore and miss when they aren’t there. I’m giving it my all. I read an article a few months ago about what yoga students want from their teachers and one of the top items was “Learn my name and use it.” As a student myself I agree. There’s something about your teacher making clear that they know you’re in the room.

On Monday I took Bikram before teaching my Warm & Mellow class. Between classes Jim and I texted. He said he was tied up with the new alarm system at work and he wouldn’t be able to make it to my class. Because every husband spends all his time dying to know what his wife is eating, I texted back, “Dammit. I thought I brought chocolate almond butter. Instead: pepper chickpeas. A terrible snack trade off.”

When I finished teaching class and came out to the lobby I discovered my husband sitting on the bench by the window. Despite the late hour, he came to the studio instead of going straight home after work! He took a bag of bagels, a jar of almond butter, and a jar of chocolate spread out of a grocery sack. “It’s not chocolate almond butter,” he said, “but it’s the best I could do.” He had two plastic butter knives in his shirt pocket, and he asked if he could make me a bagel.

When he read my food text he went to the grocery store. And then, from the butter aisle, he called my sister, Whitney. “What the hell is almond butter?” He said, “I can’t find it.” She explained that it’s like peanut butter and would be on the same aisle. My Jim went looking for almond butter with the dairy butter. Whenever I think he must have reached the cuteness threshold he does something like this.

That man is the strudel on my cake. He’s the cherry on my sundae, the Saturday in my week, the breeze in my evening. He's the wag in my tail. All the good things, James makes them even better. (Don’t worry, I’m making me gag too.)

LABOR-SAVING APPARATI

Caitlyn got my KitchenAid mixer—that I had for, like, three years and used maybe ten times—leaving me the opportunity to get a merrier hue than gunmetal. Cornflower blue won my heart. So now I have a cornflower blue KitchenAid mixer. I’ve decided to initiate it with snickerdoodles, crispy ones, sweet James’ cup of tea. Maybe tonight. Probably tomorrow, based on projected yoga-class conclusion times.

Now that I’m thinking of it, here’s how Caitlyn got my mixer: Whitney accosted me at a family event and told me that while I don’t need a stand mixer, Caitlyn does, so I should give mine to her. I said, “Uh, no,” giving Whit her cue to launch into a pressure-full, logic-laden pitch after which she closed me, saying, “Will you commit to giving Caitlyn your KitchenAid mixer?” Baffled about how Whit was able to best my years of corporate sales training worth thousands of someone else’s dollars, I sort of said yes and then a couple weeks later I was mixer-less, which didn’t matter at all until I realized that there were cornflower blue ones, and I was therefore in sore need of a new kitchen contraption.

There’s some other new cooking gadgetry ‘round here too these days. There is a kitchen torch because I should get to brûlée sugar atop lemon curd on my English muffin in the morning. There is an immersion blender that won’t be useful until soup season, and even then will get used maybe three times all winter but will be worth it since I won’t be pouring portions of hot soup into the blender and thus risking the kinds of burns real cooks suffer from and subsequently display as soup merit badges. I got a kitchen scale because using my postal scale for baking was weird. Oh, and a cast-iron skillet. I finally have one of those.

If Jim did so at all he did it covertly, but my husband probably shook his head as all these kitchen things arrived. It’s not like I cook or have turned over some new leaf in the home’s heart. All these instruments were just things I’ve been wanting for a while, and now seemed like a good time. So if I decide to crack open one of my many cookbooks and use it as more than reading over breakfast and actually make something other than a big salad, I have tools.

Reconsidering, maybe Jim didn’t shake his head, because the garage is stocked with tools that don’t get used regularly, but are great to have when he needs them. Eh, but he’s actually fluent with those tools—I think he really got a kick out of the look on my face when he showed me how to use the glass cutter; Whoa, I say—and I, on the other hand, am a self-admitted kitchen dunce.

That’s another something about Jim that’s great. He “lets,” so to speak, me do whatever I want. “I’ll support you” comes out of his mouth even before I finish saying what I’m thinking I want to do. I think he trusts that whatever it is that I'm planning is something I've considered with my bright little mind and so is at least not the worst idea.

It’s not lip service either. An example: I’ve been thinking I want to do a local yoga teacher training workshop, and yesterday I sent him the link asking what he thought. “I’ll support you” was what he thought. But he doesn’t just divorce himself from the conversation either. When I was deliberating on a new computer I was all over the place on which one I wanted. We talked it through, he made sense, I went with the one he thought would work best for me, and, as I type these very words on it, I’m happy with my choice.

Happy with my choice in regard to laptops. Happy with my choice in regard to a second husband.

It feels odd and sensational to be so dizzily enamored with my spouse. I didn’t feel that way before. When my first marriage happened at 20 I treated the marriage as a strategic achievement, which it was, and a failed one at that. This is different. I’m itchy to have Jim hold me. I always can’t wait to talk to him. I respect the hell out of his mind. He’s someone I feel that I need to live up to not make excuses for. 

I keep wondering when I’ll get past the differences in my new life as compared to the old. Time will do it, I’m sure, but I’m not there yet. The contrasts are too stark, and they come out in such simple things. At five this morning Jim went mountain biking with some friends. After ten years married to the other “man” I’m still so blown away that Jim a) exercises, b) does so outdoors, c) does so before work, d) has a for-real job, and e) has friends. It’s such a simple thing to him, going mountain biking before work with friends, but to me it’s a pile of ways that he’s an improvement on what I dealt with before.

How in the hell did I get so lucky? I ask that a lot.

Also, Sophie has taken to having crabapples from the backyard as her second breakfast. I’m guessing that will lead to some puppy gastrointestinal upset that will bum me out. At least she was unsuccessful in opening the food coloring that she dragged out of the pantry yesterday. Mine is a very rotten little dog.

LONE WIFE

I’m always taken aback when a gal says something like “Jeremy and I have been married for a year and this is the first night we’ve spent apart!” Seriously? In an entire year one of you didn’t have occasion to go someplace without the other? Not that you wanted to get away, but in the course of living your lives you didn't have to go on a business trip or there wasn't far-off family to visit and your spouse didn't have the vacation days to spare? I've heard that line often enough, and it's ever sounded rather pathetic and codependent. (Eyeroll face, for independence is, like, my nurtured knack.)

Jim and I have been married a bit over a month and he had to go out of town. I am spending two nights without him. And I’m fine. I miss him, yes, yes, and I send mawkish texts and he sends mawkish texts, and I wish he were here instead of there, but real, grown-up life means that you don’t always get to spend every night with your significant other even if you’re technically newlyweds.

It just occurred to me that I need ice cream. I’m going to go root around and see what I can come up with. Hold please . . .

Okay, handled. It appears I polished off with the mint chocolate chip a few days ago, so vanilla was my only option. Boring. I like my ice cream to have lots of stuff in it. I think you should be able to chew your ice cream. So I spiced up what we had with add-ins. Butterscotch chips, chocolate syrup, whatever I could find. Now finished, I can say that my dessert was satisfactory, by which I mean that I will regret eating it.

After yoga yesterday, I spent last night, my first solo night as Jim's wife, unwrapping new yoga clothes that came in the mail, trying on the clothes, liking half, and writing “send back yoga clothes” on my to-do list. I caught up on So You Think You Can Dance via Hulu. I did a charcoal/black sugar mask. I had frozen yogurt for dinner; actually with the amount of add-ins I dump in there, it was more like a bucket of candy with a little froyo mixed in. I roasted some artichokes (gag) for Dustin. I logged my calls.

This morning I went to yoga. On the way home I swung through the grocery store because we were out of rice vinegar (totally unacceptable in this household; without vinegar all the vegetables in the fridge will rot 'cause ain't nobody eatin' 'em), Dustin mentioned he likes Asian pears, so I thought I’d be rad and hook him up, and the fridge didn’t have any cauliflower in it. After the groceries were put in their place and Brussels sprouts were roasting, I did laundry. All day I did laundry. (New for me.) Five, maybe six, loads. Not even all of it is folded yet. Will be before I go to bed though. See, there’s a season of Psych on Netflix that I haven’t seen yet and Shawn and Gus will keep me company as I fold what’s left of the stuff.

While the laundry laundered I cleaned out and organized the laundry room. Even though Jim and I got a ton of house stuff done before I moved in, there are still things that need doing. I knock the tasks off when I've got a few extra minutes and am out of avoidance tactics.

Tomorrow it's on to the fridges and freezers. Those cold boxes won't know what hit 'em. 

Typing this out has been painful. My hands are slow on the keys. This because I took an aerial silks class this evening and even though it ended two hours ago my forearms are still trembling and my knuckles are tender to the touch and throbbing. Lifting the spoon to get the ice cream from bowl to mouth was grueling, but I’m no quitter, so shaky spoonful by shaky spoonful I handled that sugary soup with the resolve of a champion.

WEDDING PHOTOS 4 OF 4 • THE PHOTO COUCH

As my little team was doing the last minute pre-ceremony decor, etc., Whit spied an outdoor couch we'd moved from the deck to make room for mingling. She and Ash decided it oughta be used and they moved it onto the grass. It became the impromptu photo booth. 

My pretty, pretty sisters-in-law and mother-in law. L-R: Linda, Janet, Gay, Laura, and DiAnn:

This next photo may be my favorite of them all. Jim loves his sisters like I love mine. And they have just about as much fun together as we do. 

Jim's son one, Dustin— 

Son two, the youngest, Benjamin. Only eight, yet totally, obviously his father's son: 

Another favorite photo of mine. This'n's getting wall space for certain—

Fiddle-ist Evangeline and her dandy, Andrew. Also, I've got guns, yo:

My flower girl. Her hair. My mom did it. Even though her six-little-daughters-raising years are past, Susie can still french braid the hell outta some hairs: 

While I have five sisters, only two were able to make it. The three that weren't there had about the best three reasons you could come up with for being absent. Mal lives in Belgium, and not only was I inflexible on the wedding date, I gave very little notice. Cat's baby Walt just had his cleft palate-closing surgery, thus traveling: unwise. And Haley was 38-weeks pregnant. So I gave them a pass. 

In spite of their absence, we managed to have a good time. It was a near miss, but we put our shoulders to the wheel and committed fully to fun. Whit (sister number two) me (first daughter) and Lo (sister number 6): 

My two best girls, Jess and Amber. From L.A. and Utah they came. They claim they didn't even plan to look like bridesmaids. Sure, sure—

Aunts Robin and Marcy: 

My dad and his siblings, Sue and Robin. Also, cake and the desire for more of it: 

When we Petersons squeezed onto the couch it was snug and I found myself flanked and quite squished by ample bosoms on both sides. 

So there you have it—our wedding day. I think it looks happy. Does it look happy? It was happy! Thank you, Ashley darling. 

WEDDING PHOTOS 3 OF 4 • POST CEREMONY

A last love for Shirl's ring after Gay handed it off to her only son: 

Team, my mother-in-law is a stylish dame: 

For crying out loud, is all—

Oh, and the bride and groom—

WEDDING PHOTOS 2 OF 4 • CEREMONY

On to the ceremony. 

Our wonderful officiant and friend Bishop Jess McDoniels and the debonair groom: 

Remember how I myself was an officiant at a wedding? Well that bride, my wonderful Evangeline, and her husband made their way from Boston to attend our wedding. She's a skilled violinist and played us down the aisle: 

Flower girl, Miss Violet Ingram:

Best man, Benjamin Elliker, Jim's youngest, and maid of honor, Lauren, my youngest sister:

Rather than having traditional readings, Jim and I decided to ask our parents to talk some. My dad. His mom. This shot is probably just before my dad started crying. (Something about what a wonderful man his eldest daughter was marrying, from a father who knows the stark difference first-hand.) 

Then Jim's mom Gay got up to speak: 

Because she was giving us Jim's dad, Shirl's, ring, it was bound to get emotional. (Sorry for posting a crying picture, sweetheart, but the honesty here was just to sweet to keep to myself.)

 

Man and wife. He and she. She and he.

We!

WEDDING PHOTOS 1 OF 4 • PRE CEREMONY

Photos. Here they are. I hired Ashley Thalman to do the shooting, and while I've got more than just a few reasons for wanting her, here are my main three: 

• She shoots real. Ashley doesn't edit the hell out of everyone until they are yes, super hot, but also super not themselves. I might not be a fan of my own face, but it's the one I've got. I think people should look like who they are in photos, even if they're not extra amazingly beautiful to begin with. 

• She's patient. Ashley's shot me before and she knows ahead of time that it's very likely going to suck. I don't do pretty all that well, meaning that I'm not serious or lovely or super smiley, and I'm more likely to pull a face than anything else. She endures. It's admirable. 

• Ash is Queen of the Candid. The moments on these special days that matter aren't the ones that are posed. They're the in-betweens, the unplanned smidges of honesty. Ashley manages to catch those in every session she does. 

So, in four different posts (because there are simply too many descriptive and worthwhile and photos of The Special Day to share in just one or two posts and because I rarely, rarely post photos here and you deserve a little break from the copy-heavy posts) here's what my wedding photog landed—

•••

I was a stress case before the wedding. Stuff to do and so on. (Not that I didn't have event people setting up tables and swags and stuff. I did. I'm an expert-level stresser. I have honed my stressing to a minute-detail level.) But when sister Whit and my mom and dad arrived the day before the event, I finally decided enough was enough and I'd do some delegating. 

"Whitney, you're in charge." 

"Everyone else, do what Whitney says."

My impromptu wedding-day manager, Whitney Ingram: 

Simple ceremony setup in the backyard:

The dress. Hanging above our bed with a bit of my massive, quirky collection of green glass:

The really, really beautiful bride: 

"Who did your invitations and programs?" 

"Me. Duh."

The dashing Dustin, Jim's oldest son, doing what he does so well and entertaining downstairs during the guests' arrival:

Lookie who made the trek over from Utah! Sandbergs!

The Elliker family hanging out in the living room. L-R: Craig (Fabrizio), Jim's sisters Linda and Laura (the lovely twins), Uncle Alan and Aunt Camille Cartwright, Janet (Fabrizio, sister #2), and Dustin:

Looks like the wind already got to the chiffon swags hanging off the deck—

A quick kiss before all the hoopla. Or mid-hoopla, you could say—