Reunited and It Feels So Good

When it's only 7:30pm and your date is in the parking lot in nothing but his socks and his underwear, you know it's going to be a great night.

Chris and I went to our 10 year high school reunion last weekend.

We spent the first night having drinks with 80 of our closest classmates at Life's a Beach in Flower Mound.
Two guys looked to be having a bad acid trip, one mom of two was stoned, and everyone else was happily drunk.
It's a nerve-racking thing to walk into a room full of nearly 100 people that you haven't seen in nearly 100 years.
I myself had 3 margaritas.

Everyone looked great. Everyone was nice. Chris and I had fun surprising old friends with news of our engagement.

We spent the better part of Saturday morning trying to process everything. Who was where and doing what, and who probably went home with whom.

We did some last minute shopping for clothes Saturday and Chris picked up his dry cleaning. I got my fake tan sprayed on and had my favorite stylist James do my hair.

In honor of the 1997-ishness of the whole weekend we opted to play some Super Mario Bros. 3 in lieu of watching Tivo or doing anything even somewhat related to 2007.

Taking our time to get ready and chatting about who we were anxious to see and who we wanted to avoid, Chris realized the dry cleaner had given him the wrong pair of pants. Instead of the grey slacks he had bought the day before, the dry cleaner had given him some black khaki's he had bought 9 years before.
In the spirit of the evening he put them on and tried to make them work.
Unfortunately for Chris, the pants landed right above his ankles.

The dry cleaners was then, of course, closed and our only options were to go buy even more pants, wear 1998 pants, or dress in jeans.

Feeling the pressure of the evening, we jumped in the car and started searching for someone who would sell us men's pants at 8pm on a Saturday.

For anyone counting, Kohl's is open until 10.

We ran inside, located the grey slacks, paid and left.
At this point I had on my fancy dress and Reef flip-flops. No way was I running through a Kohl's in my high heels.

Chris proceeded to undress in the parking lot, and get ready using the rear view mirror of the Pontiac Sunfire parked next to us.

And we were off.

The night went off without a hitch.

The small talk didn't feel small. The mood was happy and excited. The graduates looked great, and no one threw any punches or passed out on the dance floor.
Everything felt very natural and sincere. Everyone was proud to tell the truth about what they're doing and who they're with.

But then again, who knows?

How many other people were in flip flops and a fancy dress or half-naked in a Kohl's parking lot 20 min. before arriving?

These are the things I want to know at the 20 year.

The Art of Choosing Art

I take great care and pride in taking pictures.

Chris takes great care and pride in playing music.

It should come as no surprise then that I'm in charge of wedding day photography, and Chris is in charge of wedding day music.

When looking for a photographer Chris had to endure many a night of listening to me lament about the lack of quality photographers in the DFW metroplex.

"This one can't frame a picture properly, this guy doesn't have a clue how to adjust for a good depth of field, this boozo has the creative eye of a fruit fly."

It's just not good if it's not me.

There was a moment when I saw myself walking down the aisle, arm-in-arm with my dad, camera hanging around my neck.

After a month of ardent searching we celebrated the arrival of Janelle and Jeff into our lives.

J&J own a small studio in Grapevine, have a photo journalistic approach to wedding photography, know how to use f-stops properly, and more importantly, completely indulge Chris and I's crazy ideas.

I knew Chris would have similar quality control struggles in his search for a band.

We have now listened to and eliminated four hundred and twenty-one bands.

Okay, maybe not that many.

A few of the groom-to-be's critiques:

"The horn sounds like it is dying."

"They have an 80's picture with 80's haircuts."

"The guitarist is 80 and will have a heart attack after the first song."

"The vocalist sounds Iranian."

"There's not enough money in the budget to feed the Fats Domino drummer."

"The vocalist sounds like she's singing through a mouthful of tacos."

Part of me kind of enjoys listening to the critiques.

It helps remind me not to take life too seriously.

Then part of me wants to suggest everyone bring their own iPod just in case we can't find a skinny, non-taco eating vocalist.

Next week we're going to another bar to check out another potential band.

All I'll say is that I'm completely on board with any element of wedding planning that features a tall Cosmo.

One Day, Six Years

Most people remember what they were doing 6 years ago today.

The intensity of the day didn't leave much room to forget.

But who remembers what they were doing five years ago today? Four years ago today? Or even two years ago today?
It's a shame that sometimes it takes such a powerful event to help us remember where we were or what we were doing at a certain time in our lives.

Enter the journal.

I have a bookcase full of journals.

Journals that started as far back as the 2nd grade when my dad gave me my first locking diary. It's blue, has a bear on it, and the lock still works.
The first entry describes a Brownie Scout trip to the zoo.

The details, even the existence of that trip, would be all but lost if not for the seven year old me opening my diary and taking notes.

September 11, 2002 I spent in the common room of my "residencia" in Spain, explaining to Italians and Spaniards and Brazilians my understanding of what happened in my country a year earlier.

September 11, 2003 I argued with an Argentine that North American friendships are just as strong as South American friendships.

September 11, 2004 I spent 15 hours in my new second grade classroom. Mom and Dad "pitied the fool" and came up to help me. Mom hung fall leaves while Dad oiled my desk drawer with some Bath and Body Works products. It was that day that I started to "feel like I was emerging from the overwhelming heaps of crap" I'd been under.

September 11, 2005 I was struggling to decide whether to send a sweet message to a guy I was dating. The decision became a moot point when I accidentally hit "send" instead of "save as a draft."

September 11, 2006 Chris came over to my apartment and we played Scrabble. I had "that feeling in my heart. That feeling that tells you 'this is right.'"

September 11, 2007 Read over the last 6 years of my life. Watched it pass before me like one of those old reel-to-reel home movies. Felt good about where I've been and where I've yet to go.

Decided to keep on journaling.

Which Came First: The Dress or the Stress?

How is it possible that in my "Bridal Bargains" book there are 6 pages about tuxes and 93 pages about wedding gowns?

Are women crazy because of this imbalance, or is it because we’re crazy that there’s this imbalance?