{flickr}

hope you had a great weekend. we started the week a little on the rainy side, but the air is cooling down which makes me soooo happy. you know what else makes me happy? this girl is getting married saturday.



we celebrated kate's bachelorette party this past weekend and it was a good time. see for yourself.

some highlights.



the "stripper" was a good time. note the woman taking a picture on her phone. haha. he was actually a very charming friend of lane's that agreed to add a little humor to the evening by pretending to be a male stripper.





parmesan fries at jct kitchen. get in my mouth.



we were a good time.

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The Best Medicine by Kate

I had my wisdom teeth removed last week, while Andy moved into our new apartment—a clever but painful plot to sit on my butt while my fiancé lifted heavy boxes. After some recovery time with my mom, she passed me off to Andy. When he came to get me I was waiting on the couch, ice pack covering my ginormous cheeks and bruised jaw. I could tell Andy was a little startled by the fact that he’s never seen me look so disgusting, but he kissed me on the forehead as if it were just another Saturday. “You look cute,” I mumbled.

He stared at me, paused, stared some more, paused some more, and didn’t crack a smile when he quietly said, “You too.”

Sweet comic relief—I was a lot of things that day, and cute wasn’t one of them. So for the first time in a few days, I laughed. I wasn’t thinking about how someone had just carved four teeth out of my skull. I wasn’t thinking about my plans to eat grits for dinner for the third night in a row. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that I looked like a beat-up chipmunk. I just smiled, and I laughed.

Until I tasted blood in my mouth. And felt it dripping down my lip. So I stopped smiling, but Andy, unhindered by stitches and swelling, kept on laughing. He wasn’t laughing at me; he wouldn’t be so unkind—but I was straight-faced and looking like a Twilight reject on the couch, so he certainly wasn’t laughing with me either.

You know what? I think he was laughing for me.

When we get married in a few months, Andy will swear on the Bible that he’s going to take care of me. In sickness and in health, he’ll say. And the truth is, he’s not my mother, so when I’m sick he might not always know what I need before I need it. He might not touch my head and know instantly if I have a fever or keep two ice packs in the freezer so when one melts, another’s ready. But my goodness, that boy can heal me. Just one taste of his deep down, uninhibited belly laughter, and I’m new again.
(Good thing I like his soul too, because I’d probably marry him just for the way he laughs.)
Andy laughs with his whole body. You know it’s coming when he’s completely silent but starts smiling, and then you see his stomach move up and down, up and down. Then he hunches over and tilts his head to the side, still smiling. Then comes the best part: He makes the strangest, most joyful sound I think I’ve ever heard—it’s like a cross between a hiccup, a wheeze and patterned labor breathing. And then he goes silent again.
Come to think of it, Andy’s laugh is a lot like an asthma attack. Maybe we should get that checked out.



{w. scott chester photography}

i know you've missed these. me too.

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Learning To Love Dogs by Kate

I’ve never been a dog person. I don’t dislike dogs—I just don’t usually notice when one’s in the room, unless it’s barking or licking me or doing some other dog-like thing that makes me uncomfortable.

Andy, though, is quite a dog person. He knows all the breeds, he rolls around on the floor with them and lets them lick his face, and he even has these special canine sensory powers that alert him when there’s a large dog within 50 yards. He once made a U-turn in the middle of North Avenue, right in front of a police station, because he spotted a Great Dane. He waited in a parking lot until the dog walked by, and then got out of the car to say hello. (I was there. It was slightly less creepy than it sounds.)


Long story short: The boy needs a dog. And he’s a good person who works hard, so he deserves a dog. And that means that I’m getting a dog too—a Great Dane.

Fun fact: The tallest Great Dane is seven feet.
 “They’re so maJEStic,” Andy says.

My first thought was that I’m not really interested in picking up bowel movements the size of watermelons or making room on the couch for a hundred-pound animal, or worse, smelling like one. But soon I’ll be sharing a house and a life, and I have to abandon my brattier tendencies. So far it feels pretty good.
I’ve learned this: You know you’re in love when something that wouldn’t normally make you happy makes you happy, simply because it makes your partner happy. So I’ve come to terms with getting a dog. In fact, I’m excited about the prospect of a four-legged addition to our family (don’t tell Andy). They’re really cute, and from what I hear, Danes are gentle giants. It’ll be fun to name our dog and take it on walks, and we’ll have someone to greet us at the door and another stocking to hang at Christmas. Plus, Andy said that if he can have a Great Dane, then I can have a brand-new washer and dryer—I might not be crazy about pets, but I LOVE GE Profile front loaders.

Andy will make sure the pup gets fed and bathed and exercised, and that it doesn’t eat me. And to his chagrin, he’ll keep it out of the bed—because I can let a giant dog into my life, but not my bed. And when the time comes, I’ll embrace my role as a doggie mama and make an effort to love our furry friend until I can’t help but love it. Before long I’ll be crazy about that dog. 
I hope Andy doesn’t get jealous.
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Traditions We’re Skipping by Kate

When it comes to wedding traditions, I believe in picking the ones that work for you and leaving out the rest. I’ll wear a long ivory dress and my dad will walk me down the aisle (But come to think of it, I’m not really interested in being “given away.” Maybe we’ll go with “Who presents the bride?”), and of course, we’re embracing tradition by getting married in the first place. But we’re not following all the rules. Andy and I plan to skip these five traditions: 

Bouquet toss 

If you’ve ever been a single woman at a wedding, then you know that standing in the middle of a crowded room while a hundred happy couples watch you desperately try to catch a hand-me-down bouquet can be a horrifying experience.  

Words like “submit” and “obey” 

We’re going to use short and sweet wedding vows from the Book Of Common Prayer. But while I’m sure we’re in for a lifetime of giving in to each other’s demands, Andy and I just aren’t comfortable with the old-timey “husband makes the rules, wife makes dinner” language. I think we’ll stick with non-controversial words like “love” and “trust.”  

Bride’s side and groom’s side 

This is a wedding, not a ball game, and there won’t be side taking of any kind. (Full disclosure: My opinion might stem from the fact that Andy knows more people than I do so his side would probably be fuller, and I tend to get competitive—so its really just a recipe for disaster in our case.) 

Garter removal 

First of all, I’m not really sure what a garter is. Secondly, I sometimes duck when Andy so much as kisses me in public—I’m certainly not going to let 200 people, including but not limited to my grandmothers, watch him grope me. Later that night, he can remove whatever he wants in the privacy of our hotel room. 

Seating chart 

Our wedding guests are big boys and girls, and they can decide where they want to sit. Since single people get to bring dates, no one should feel like it’s the first day of school and they don’t have anywhere to put their tray. Also, we’re trying to keep the planning process as simple as possible, and a seating chart sounds so…time-consuming. 

Which wedding traditions would you skip?
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Every Picture Tells a Story by Kate

There’s no place like a funeral to meet your fiancé’s extended family.

This past weekend I traveled to Florida with Andy’s family for his grandmother’s funeral. Walking into the visitation, I found myself in a selfish panic. Which comes first—“Nice to finally meet you” or “I’m so sorry for your loss?” Is hugging appropriate? Would they notice the hole in my blouse? Were people going to cry? Dear God please no weeping strangers. But they warmly welcomed me and the whole thing turned into a bittersweet family reunion, as funerals often do.

After the service we went back to Andy’s grandfather’s house, where photo albums were conveniently strewn. The family started reminiscing, and after a day of trying not to cry, they let a few much-needed tears of laughter slip out.

At one point I was sitting alone on the couch and Andy’s grandfather backed into the empty spot next to me. I didn’t quite know what to say, so I picked up an album, assuming that pictures of his grandkids at Christmas would lead to an easy conversation. But I opened the book to find a collection of photos of his late wife. Not exactly what I had planned. I tried to gauge his reaction, and he nodded, as if to say, “Go ahead. I’m ready to talk about her.” I flipped through the pages as he narrated—there were old black-and-white images of her in sundresses from before they were married, faded pictures of her pushing their kids in a stroller, recent ones of the pair holding hands and wearing matching blue T-shirts at their 60th anniversary celebration (60 years!). Every photo had an anecdote—sometimes about his wife and sometimes about the cabinets behind her, the baby she was holding or the vacation they were on. He got wistful once or twice, but mostly the fond memories made him laugh—and oh, how an old man’s laughter is contagious. When we got to the album’s end I realized that without knowing it, Andy’s grandfather had treated me to an old-fashioned love story.

His grandson and I have a love story too. It began a few years ago, and I commit to documenting it with pictures—real, printed-out pictures that go in albums, not iPhoto libraries or desktop folders. I’ll keep them in order, scribble names, dates and places on the backs and slide them into books that I pull out on special occasions.

I can only hope that 60 years from now I’ll have the chance to sit on a couch, flip through a photo album and tell some wide-eyed kid about how much fun I’ve had with my husband. But since I get to imagine this scenario however I want: It won’t follow a funeral, and Andy will be sitting right beside me—because frankly, I’d rather die first.


{ATL}
click on the image to enlarge

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It's the Box that Counts by Kate

One Saturday I called my boyfriend to see when he was picking me up for dinner. He sounded funny and said he was “driving around,” so I did what any respectable girlfriend would do…I pried. “Just driving? Why? Everything okay?” I asked—because in my experience, people only go for drives when they’re upset about something, and those people are usually women. “Everything’s fine,” he said, exasperated. “I, uh, went to the coffee shop.” Riiiight. I wondered what he was mad about and continued painting my toenails.

Andy showed up at my house a few minutes early, and when I opened the door he was scrambling to his knee. I didn’t hear a word of his speech, but I saw a little wooden box and what was inside—a beautiful ring that Andy designed himself, using his grandmother’s diamonds. We hugged a lot and cried a little, and I eventually said yes.

Before he told me about the ring, he asked if I liked the box. Andy drove all over town that day, box shopping. (Suddenly, I felt guilty for grilling him earlier. Whoops.) He combed antique stores, boutiques and jewelry stores until he found the perfect one. There’s a slit in the velvet lining—Andy cut it because he thought he could slide the ring in there, like a jewelry-store box. But under the velvet was wood, so it just looks like an accident.
I love my ring. I love that it’s a family heirloom and a product of my fiancé’s creativity. But somehow it’s that darn box that turns me into a sap. When I put my ring in it every night before bed, I picture Andy going from store to store, looking for the right box. I picture him cutting into the bottom, to no avail. I remember opening my front door to a teary-eyed Andy, all dressed up and down on one knee, holding that box in his shaky hands. I remember him asking the host at the restaurant that night,

“Got any tables for an engaged couple?”

Compared to people who write “WILL YOU MARRY ME” in the sky, or hide rings in dinner rolls and champagne glasses only to watch their girlfriends choke on three months’ salary, our story’s not climactic. But I wouldn’t want it any other way. Big things will happen in our marriage—some we’ll choose, like moving or having a baby; and some we’ll suffer, like deaths in the family or losing our jobs—and we’ll celebrate and grieve accordingly. But for every major occasion, I want a hundred subtle reminders that I picked a good soulmate, and I want to do the same for him. 
I pray for a lifetime of little boxes.



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Picking flowers

Meet Kate. She's my friend, she's a wonderful writer, and she's going to be writing a series about her engagement tales. She's in love and getting married. Here she is with Andy. Aren't they cute? You'll love them. This story made me laugh. Enjoy!



{wscottchester}

It caught me off guard when my fiancé chose our wedding flowers. Andy’s not really a flowery kind of guy—in the years I’ve known him, he’s given me plenty of dresses and meals and DVDs, and even a sparkly diamond ring, but never flowers. He doesn’t comment on pretty gardens or bouquets at other people’s weddings, and he doesn’t even like floral prints on clothing. The guy couldn’t tell a daffodil from a lily.
Granted, Andy has lots of opinions on wedding stuff—from menu (pig-in-a-blankets) to décor (paper lanterns) to photography (only the best)—but I assumed I’d go solo to the florist. I’d ask what kind of flowers he liked for the bouquets, and his response would go something like this: “Don’t care as long as I get to plan the honeymoon and I’m gonna need to expand the guest list and don’t forget those paper lanterns oh and will you wear your hair down?”

But then one day Andy called to tell me he spotted the perfect flowers for our wedding in someone’s yard. He didn’t know the name but described them as “big flowers made up of lots of little ones.” The next day, he drove me by the spot and pointed out (you guessed it) a hydrangea bush. “We can even pick them from people’s yards!” he said, as if petty theft was the brightest idea he’d ever had.

My instinct was to say, “Hydrangeas wilt, and when exactly did you become the bride?” But I looked out at those blossoms and back at my fiancé, and in a satisfying moment of premarital compromise, I realized a couple of things: 1) I don’t really care what kind of flowers we have at the wedding, as long as they’re not sunflowers; 2) How cool is it that my future husband is so invested in our wedding that he thinks about bouquets and centerpieces when he’s driving down the street?; and 3) Hydrangeas are cheap—even if you don’t steal them.

So on October 17, I’ll put on a big white dress and walk down an aisle toward the picky choosy man I love. That walk will be symbolic—20 or 30 short steps toward merging bank accounts and sharing a bathroom, buying a house and having kids one day, arguing and forgiving each other, and eventually getting wrinkly together—and you bet I’ll be carrying hydrangeas.
(But for the record, I’m choosing the color.)

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