the details, part one: centerpieces

So, I never really talked much about our wedding aesthetic. Or to put it another way, The Details. This is because I thought my Details would bore the shit out of you. On the other hand, I well remember from my own hazy days of wedding planning just how valuable idea sharing is in this community. To that end, I present to you: The Details Series. If you look very closely, you can detect the sarcasm in my use of title case.

I am not showing these to you in hopes that you will leave me some kind of highly complimentary comment that makes use of many more exclamation points than necessary. I’m showing them to you so that if you’re considering taking a similar tack, you can see how it turned out for me.

For those of you dear, gentle readers who are disinterested in The Details, I am truly sorry. Allow me to offer you a reading alternative.

Okay then! Let’s begin. The first installment in the series is: centerpieces. I know. Try to contain yourselves.

As a brief refresher, I collected clear, green, blue, and milk glass vases from thrift stores, and then we went to the farmer’s market and basically bought every kind of flower they had available in every color they had available. I’m not even sure what some of the names of the flowers we bought are, because I am that lame. All I know is that they were flowers, and that was good enough for me.

We also got available “filler.” In our case, this was eucalyptus branches and other assorted, like, you know… green leafy stuff. We tried to buy proportionally, but we ended up running out of filler at the end, which was stupid because that was the cheapest of all and we should have just gotten extra in the first place. But one of our groomsmen made an emergency trip to Trader Joe’s to pick up some more there, so it worked out.

By the numbers:
95 guests
six 16’ tables (two 8’ tables pushed end to end)
one 24’ head table
60 vases ranging from small to medium width, and short to tall (we tried to keep it under 10 inches, though, so that people could see around them)
2-4 vases in each centerpiece
three centerpieces per guest table
seven? centerpieces at head table (sorry, I was too busy having fun at the wedding to count exactly)

If this is the kind of thing you want to do for your own wedding, I’d highly recommend is to do a trial run a few weekends before the wedding. Go to your local market or flower vendor of choice, and pick up a selection of blooms and filler. Toss them into a few of your vases so you start to get an idea of 1) how everything looks together, and 2) how much it takes to fill the vases you chose. Once you have a handle on that, you can extrapolate forward from your test results to arrive at an estimate of how much of each kind of thing you need to buy before the wedding.

Also, I cannot recommend not caring about flower type enough, because not only does it make arranging a snap, but it makes it easy to substitute another flower should you run out.

Vases: $75
Flowers: $140
Labor: $0
Total: $215

We didn’t use any kind of foam or tape to help support the flowers inside the vases, because we wanted the assembly to be as fast and easy as possible. It was just vases, flowers, filler, and water. Oh, and some scissors/pruning shears. I forgot about those. We bought four of them. I have no idea how much they cost, and I’m too lazy to look it up. Let’s assume they cost a total of $6,934.77. No wonder we were missing a large chunk of our budget. In retrospect we shouldn’t have gotten the diamond-studded ones forged from 24-carat gold.

Really, I cannot be clear enough: do not stress over the centerpieces. I know you’ve heard this before, but Nobody. Fucking. Looks. At. Them. I went to a wedding three weeks after my own, and two days later I came home from work to find a flower arrangement on my front porch. No note. So mysterious! Was it for me? Who could it be from? Who would just drop off flowers at my house? Um, yeah. Turns out it was from the bride. She’d been trying to get rid of her leftover wedding centerpieces and in desperation had abandoned one on my doorstep. I had just been to her wedding, and sat at a table with one of these centerpieces for a substantial period of time, and I did not even recognize the damn thing. I didn’t actually even figure it out until she texted me later. Oh yes! Hi! That. Right.

Nobody said anything about our centerpieces to us at the wedding, complimentary or otherwise. Some people did, however, feel compelled to take them. Since I never indicated that the centerpieces doubled as guest favors, I cannot fathom how anybody arrived at the conclusion that they had lucked into a vase free-for-all. And I am still slightly bitter about losing my favorite milk glass bud vase.

So the moral of the story is that your guests will either ignore the centerpieces or steal them. Hence, they DO NOT MATTER.

The good news is, I think that for being inconsequential, our centerpieces turned out just fine.


All photos by Christina Richards.

like fish in a barrel

For old times’ sake. Because this is seriously taking me back to the good old days of snark. Back when I was all fresh-faced and sprightly and thought the wedding industry existed solely for the purpose of mocking it.

I’ve been busy going through and tossing out our boxes of papers, samples, and other paraphernalia that had stacked up during ye olde wedding planning days, and at the bottom of one stack I found a magazine called Seasons Brides. It’s this free quarterly publication I’d spotted on the front desk of the Las Vegas Bella Bridesmaid store at which I’d first tried on my wedding dress. I’d snatched it up and taken it home with me because, Lordy, was it ever god-awful. This thing looks like it was laid out in Microsoft Word by someone drunk on wine spritzers and Trajan Pro,1 and it reads like it was hastily written by someone who learned English by studying old copies of Cosmopolitan. In other words, it’s perfect fodder for mocking.

So please enjoy this special excerpt, punctuated with my bracketed commentary:


In every relationship, the first priority should be to get close and stay close with your partner. Don’t keep your distance. On the contrary, enter his zone and stay in touch. Communication isn’t always speaking aloud, but speaking with your body. [For instance, farting.] Follow your basic instinct and staying close wouldn’t be as hard as it sounds. [Really? Because you are making it sound like nuclear fission.] Remember always make sure you’re smelling your best and your breath is fresher than a baby’s bottom. [This can be achieved by sucking on baby wipes. Also: WHUT.]

Here are some of many examples to bring out the personal and physical in your groom.2

  • Whisper or blow in his ear.
  • Tease him by brushing your bottom against his body, this can be done at all times of the day or night. [And preferably during family reunions.]
  • Walk around in your undergarments.
  • Give him Eskimo kisses.
  • Glide your fingers through his hair. [Ask him why he’s prematurely balding.]
  • Use everyday items as a playful prop to stimulate his body. [Like steak knives! Or an inkjet printer!] He might in turn use his own prop on you. [I see what you did right there.]
  • Keep smiling until he smiles. [He will eventually become nervous and begin to slowly back away. Be sure to track him closely, or he may escape. Just like the last one did. And you are not going to let that HAPPEN this time, are you. ARE YOU???]
  • Play tag around the house, “the Tarzan and Jane way.” [Permit him to tag you, so that he can club you and drag you by the hair to his cave.]
  • Hold him while watching the sunset together. [When your arms tire, tie him to a chair.]
  • Kiss the back of his neck. [Slowly reach in his back pocket and slip out his wallet.]
  • Give him a massage. [In his pants.]
  • Hold his hand. [In his pants.]
  • Lightly trace “I love you” on his chest. [See if you can feel him trace “prenuptial agreement” on yours!]
  • Take a bath together. Use the sponge to wash his body. [Preheat oven. Lightly season him with salt before placing in the broiler for 8-10 minutes.]
  • Lay on his lap while lounging on the couch.
  • Feed him with your hands. [“Here comes the airplane! The airplane’s coming! Rrrrrreeeeeeeeerrrrrrrr bbbreeeeeoooooooowwwwp BOOP!”]
  • Go skinny dipping together in the ocean. [If you do not live near an ocean, approximate the effect by standing naked in your front yard and holding the garden hose over your head.]
  • Hug him from behind and don’t let go right away. [Or at least until you spot the box of doughnuts sitting on the boardroom table at his office status meeting. Sprinkles! How did they know you love sprinkles!!!]
  • Tickle him with your hair.
  • Play footsies under the dinner table. [Remember, it wouldn’t be as hard as it sounds if you follow your basic instinct.]


1 I’m sorry. This is an indulgent design-related joke. Please carry on about your business.

2 Of course, there are myriad other tips out there, too.

flattery gets you everywhere else but here

This one goes out to those two people who voted that they wanted to see only my most unflattering wedding photos. Please accept my apologies for making you wait so long for the horror.

Oh. Did I say horror? I guess that could make sense. Because I am about to open up a bag full of a lot of potentially squicky, uncomfortable stuff. The contents of this bag include several deep-seated insecurities with regard to various body parts, a bunch of truths and lies about cameras, what’s left of your self-confidence, a general sense of mortification, and the struggle to mentally connect the dots between your still image on screen or paper with the live one you see in the mirror every day: Do I really look like that? Is that even the same person?

So I didn’t mean horror, after all. I meant hilarity.

How else can you react to pictures of yourself that aren’t really very good? I suppose you can cry about them, or send them through the paper shredder, or put your wedding dress back on and sit in the middle of the living room floor carefully cutting models out of bridal magazines and pasting them over your own image while alternately guzzling a bottle of raspberry-flavored vodka and cackling maniacally to yourself. Because wedding photos, like everything else wedding-related, seem to carry a special weight. This weight can make it harder to come to grips with bad photos of you taken at your wedding, because their very existence seems to capitalize, boldface, and underline all the fears you had locked away about your looks.

Which happened, of course, the very first time I started clicking through my various wedding pictures. It was so weird to see how simply moving from angle to angle — frame to frame — could induce a fun house effect on my physique. Fifteen pounds were gained, then lost again. Arms transformed from sleek strands of linguini to lumpy sausages. Chins receded and disappeared into necks, only to tentatively protrude again.

I was initially embarrassed, but then a strange thing happened. I started to giggle at my ridiculous-looking self.

We all have our own individual “problem areas,” of course. My most despised ones are my chin and my upper arms. There is just no way around it: my face is rectangular, and kind of masculine. I have a weak chin that’s made even more so by my tendency to clench my teeth together very hard. Add to that the fact that I lost some weight in high school everywhere but my upper arms, and since then no amount of toning exercises can eliminate the flab.  These were the genetics I was dealt. There is no changing them. At some point, I have to be okay with that.

Have to be.

Look, I am not insinuating that in these photos I resemble some kind of wretched, hideous, bloated, snaggle-toothed, cross-eyed, deformed, demonic, and malodorous beast not even a mother could love. I am not suggesting that upon reading this you should rush to the comment form and attempt to convince me that NO, I actually look GREAT, omigod, what ru even talking about ur crazy gorgeous lol.

What I am hoping is that you will laugh, too.

Because, damn. Some of them are bad.

And I am also hoping that after laughing you will feel a little bit better, because we all look bad sometimes, don’t we? That doesn’t mean we’re inherently ugly. It means that… oh, who the fuck knows what it means, except that we’re all in this together.

We might as well have some fun, right?

Ah. Oh. This gets things off on the right foot. Excellent job with the mushy, dimply neck. For my next trick, I will grow another chin.

This. This is a face I’d heretofore been unaware of making. But apparently I do make it, and quite frequently, too, judging from the number of times it appears in photos taken during the wedding. Look, I understand that if it’s inherently me, I can’t really knock it, but come on. It’s like I’m grinning, but I’m also grimacing. I am baring my teeth at you: rrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Me bride. Ha ha! BRING BRIDE DRINK! NOW! Ha ha ha! RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. Arr.

Uh. Huh. Hmm. Uhhhhhh… duh? Ha ha. Huh. Heh.

“The crowd gasped, but by then it was already too late. The bride had contracted a serious case of Sausage Arm. For a few long, horrible moments, the situation looked grim. Then Aunt Hilda suddenly remembered the jar of sauerkraut in her purse. If there was only a way they could dig up some mustard, well. Then they could turn this travesty into a party.”

Guess what I look like in profile? I look like I have no jawline. Seriously. I look at photos of celebrities, and it seems like the space between their chins and their necks stretches on for miles, providing actual definition to their faces. Sort of like this:

The photoshopped image above will always be what I wish I looked like from the side. But no. No, my destiny will be to fulfill my womanly duties by bearing a bunch of children with weak chins and and slack jowls. They will surely thank me later for the fine genetic pool from whence they sprang.

Oh, but it gets better as the evening progresses.

What fine, unfocused, greasy-faced specimen is this?

Surely one who should open her mouth even further.

Seriously, folks. Back away from these goods. Or you might get hurt.


And now I present to you: the dance of the giant velociraptors.

Won’t you join me? No seriously, join me or die.

Further evidence to support the fact that all of my photographs should be taken from below, and with flash.

Listen, I hope you’ve enjoyed our time together here today. Go forth, all ye engaged, and know that there will be wedding pictures of you that you will never want anyone to ever, ever look at. Unless, of course, you choose to post them on your blog for all the internet to see.


[this post will self-destruct in 5… 4… 3… 2…]

UPDATE: A number of kind souls have so far pointed out that, whatever, I look fine in these pictures. So then I realized: you know all those times you’ve been shown a photograph of yourself, and you say, “EW,” and the other person is like, “HUH?” Yeah. I think that’s what is happening here. Those photographs where we cringe and think we look our worst actually appear to others as … normal. Or something. This is kind of disturbing, because either a) each of us is more awful-looking than we actually think we are, or b) society has left us all terribly, horribly warped. I’ll let you decide which is right (hint: it is B).

But seriously, you guys. I hardly look attractive in these things. I don’t know where you get these insane ideas.

the visual record

Photography is a tricky thing.1

Photography is both art and science. It is record and story. It is truth and fiction.

From the moment we enter the wedding planning world, we start to develop a love-hate relationship with photographs. First, you’re bombarded with brightly saturated, shallow depth-of-field pictures of cute and trendy must-haves. If you’re anything like me, you likely got wide-eyed with the possibilities… and then you got pissed off. This stuff costs how much? Do they think I’m freaking Martha Stewart over here? I don’t have time to make 200 pinwheels by hand! These expectations are ridiculous!

Then, you’re bombarded with photographs of other weddings. At first, they look amazing. Thirty weddings in, you suddenly realize that the joke is on you, because you’ve clearly been looking at different details of the same exact wedding shoot. All the brides and grooms have now blended into one cute, hip, impossibly thin couple with a propensity for adorably mismatched vintage place settings. You gradually realize that the style blogs are full of shit.

Somewhere along the way — probably in self-defense — you begin to scoff at the phrase blog-worthy. Blog-worthy? Whatever. We are real people with real weddings. We come in every size, shape, color, backstory, and age bracket available. We have ugly cries and mountains of stress and poorly-crafted decorations and half-assed centerpieces. Oh, we are worthy in every sense of the word, dammit — we’re just not going to be featured on Style Me Pretty or Snippet & Ink any time soon. As in, like, ever.

So then you switch to only looking at photographs of “real” weddings. Ah, finally, a place to call home. A place where the people look different and the sentiment can’t be faked. But that’s not the best plan, either. Because, oh my god, how do these people still manage to look so amazingly good? They seem so genuine, happy, and emotional. Everyone is so present in their own individual moments. Everything looks like it came together so well, and without a hint of drama. The guests are all smiling and crying. Somehow, all of their outfits are better than the ones you’re considering for your own wedding. All of their details are more poignant than your own. It all looks so effortless. And even while your heartstrings are being tugged, your brain is lamenting the fact that your wedding could never, ever, ever look like this.

Or maybe, after all, it was just me who went through this. The endless cycling between scoff and swoon; covet and resent.

Understandably, I developed a bit of anxiety around wedding photography. Because I understood what it felt like inside the planning of my own wedding, and it did not seem to line up with what I was seeing on my computer screen. I didn’t feel coordinated. I didn’t feel prepared. I didn’t feel pretty. I didn’t even necessarily feel happy — at least at first. From the outset my wedding seemed like a useless pile of last-minutes, halfhearteds, and coulda-shouldas. I was afraid that I shouldn’t expect very much to come from it.2

Then, just a few weeks after the wedding, I saw the first pictures our photographer Christina Richards posted on her blog. And I thought: Oh, my god. My wedding looks blog-worthy.

And I loved it.

And I was confused as hell about this.

It took me a long time to sort through it. Hell, even now, as I write this, I’m not sure I quite understand. I feel like I spent so long alternately railing against the relentless visual imagery and succumbing to it that I almost feel embarrassed that my wedding photographs look so good. Does this make me fake, too? Am I a style blog waiting to happen?

No. Of course not.

Am I suggesting that the only way to make your wedding look really good is to hire a professional photographer?

No. Of course not. Meaning isn’t generated via photographs. And if professional photography isn’t your bag, don’t do it. Spend your money on something you care about more.

Here I feel the need to wrap this up with some sort of call to action. A proposal to redefine the meaning of blog-worthy, perhaps. A rallying cry to take back our self-worth from the badlands of other-wedding-envy. But no. What we need is some good old-fashioned sense kicked into us. We need to stop listening to others.3 We need to stop caving in so easily to doubt. We need to stop feeding those voices that say I could never look like that or my wedding could never be that nice / pretty / cool / sincere / relaxed.

Because I saw my wedding from the ugly, messy inside. And what came out of it, both on film and in real life, was still beautiful. No, you can’t see the shitty stuff that went on behind the scenes in my photos. You can’t see all the stress and tears and hard work and late nights. You can only  see the beauty of that day, and the love. And what I said up there, that meaning cannot be generated via photography? I mean that. But what’s also true is that a good photographer can take the best parts of your day and make art out of them.

Go. Please go and look at our wedding photos on Christina’s blog. If you like the photos there, please leave her a kind comment. She sure as hell deserves it.


1 Okay, this totally goes completely against the tone of this post, but whenever I read over this line I hear it spoken in my head in the same way Rick James said “Cocaine is a hell of a drug” in that one Chappelle Show skit. No? No? Come on.

2 I mean, except the happiness that comes from being married, of course.

3 Easy as pie, non?

wait for it

We’d gone to bed the night before the wedding feeling broken and demoralized, and when I woke up around seven on the day of our wedding I felt… pretty much the same. The morning was wrapped in a thick layer of dismal grey clouds, and so was my mind. The incessant whine of the distant foghorn wasn’t helping my mood any. I got up, showered, and commenced packing all my necessary items in preparation for moving over to the beau’s parents’ rental house, where I’d be getting ready.

There had been no magical overnight transformation into a serene, blissed-out bride, as I’d halfheartedly hoped for. But you know what? Something happened that morning anyway, something I can’t put my finger on. No, that much-sought-after wave of joy never did pass over me, but at a certain point I just gave in to the flow of the day. There was no use worrying or trying to figure anything out anymore. I’d have time to sort out my emotions later. Right now, I was just going to focus on what was in front of me.

I’d set aside the chunk of time between 8:30 and noon to get myself ready, and I am happy to report that for the most part the morning meandered in a leisurely manner. There were doughnuts, bagels, fruit, and yogurt. There were mimosas. Our photographer came over for an hour, during which I quickly changed out of my street clothes for a brief photo session with my dress. My hair was done, but my face was bare and I didn’t bother with the undergarments — still, my aunt cried when she saw me with that dress on. I presented my brigadiers, mom, and (almost) mother-in-law with necklaces, and then it was my mom’s turn to cry. Overall, being forced to sit still and make conversation with my closest people helped distract my brain, which was otherwise singularly focused on reminding me that OMG I AM GETTING MARRIED TODAY AND PEOPLE WILL BE LOOKING AT ME.

It was a pleasant time while it lasted, but noon came around with a vengeance. I had to cut my makeup time short and rush to get dressed so I could make it in time to have lunch at home, where the beau had been getting ready with some of his groomsmen. It was a little surreal walking into a house full of guys with my wedding dress on, flopping down on the couch, and proceeding to check my email. The guys, however, were on their way out, leaving the beau and I alone for the first time with our full wedding regalia on. “Hello,” I said. “Hello,” he replied. We quickly arrived at the conclusion that each of us looked very nice, then stared at each other for a beat. “Here’s your sandwich,” he said, handing me a paper bag with my favorite combo: prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, and basil. I ate greedily, standing over the table so nothing landed on my dress, unceremoniously licking honey mustard off my fingers. In between bites we caught each other up on how our mornings had gone.

It was just like normal, but it wasn’t. We were us, but we were different.

You know, so much emphasis is typically placed on moments such as these. Standing as we were inside a life moment that arrives preprogrammed with heavily scripted meaning, it was refreshing to experience it on our own terms. There were no dramatic embraces, no tears, no special sense of this is it, we’ve finally arrived. For some, that won’t feel right. But for us, it was comforting. The beau and I are not especially romantic or sentimental people, so to spend those special few moments together on our wedding day inside our hideously cluttered home, casually stuffing our faces with sandwiches — that was the ultimate unplanned tribute to ourselves.

We couldn’t linger, though, because we had to meet one of our photographers at the courthouse at 1:00 p.m. for some pictures alone. At 2:00 we headed down to the Historical Museum to take the shots with our families. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so much in my life, and I don’t mean that in a good way. By the time we finished the posed photos, guests were beginning to arrive. I flitted back and forth between the courtyard and our staging area — a room inside a historic building from which my brigadiers and I would make our entrances — greeting guests and touching up my makeup. Being able to say hello to folks as they came in and invite them to help themselves to a glass of champagne helped take my mind off the fact that the ceremony was quickly approaching — but not nearly for long enough.

At some point my anxiety finally crested so high that I sequestered myself in the staging room to calm down and go over my vows. I leaned against the wall and read them over and over again, trying to burn the words into my brain. I glanced up and locked eyes with my best lady. “Oh my god,” I said. “I’m going to die.”

And I almost hoped I would.


taken by my best lady


Soon enough, the coordinator poked his head in and said it was almost time to start. And just like that the tremors in my stomach became quakes. My mother tentatively approached the room and stood just outside the door. “It’s okay, you can come in, mom,” I called. “I didn’t want to bother you,” she said, “but I wanted to wish you luck and say I love you.” Her mouth worked as she came in for a hug and I had to blink fast to fight back the tears. I already felt like throwing up — the last thing I wanted to do was start bawling.

Much later, on the phone, my mom told me how scared I had seemed in those final moments before the wedding. “You looked just like a little girl,” she recalled, her voice tender.

The music started. The groomsmen had already filed out, and my brigadiers were now walking out one at a time; tethers slowly being released into the sky.

Now I was alone, and now it was my turn.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped outside.


I imagine you can fill in the details from here. There was a ceremony, there were cocktails, there was dinner and dancing, and then later, an afterparty at a bar. A wedding script not unlike so many thousands of weddings that have come before.

And just like all the weddings that have come before, there were plenty of things that went wrong that day, of course, and plenty of disappointments. But this being my 200th post on this blog, it seems fitting that right now I should only focus on what went right. And so I present to you, in no particular order, a list of some of my favorite memories — with photo accompaniment! — from the wedding day and beyond.

  • Standing around in a circle with the wedding party right after the ceremony, slugging cherry bourbon from a flask.
  • Reading the Facebook comments and updates from our friends the day after, in which they talked about what an amazing wedding weekend they’d had.
  • Our dear friend Fabio’s über-dramatic reading of the Magnetic Fields’ “Love is Like a Bottle of Gin” during the ceremony.

  • Hearing my great aunt and uncle, whom I barely know, tell me during the reception that hey, times have changed and it’s okay if I don’t take my new husband’s last name.
  • All the times one of our friends said: “That was the best wedding I’ve ever been to.”
  • The groomsmen admitting that they almost lost it and started crying during the ceremony.
  • Spotting our caterer standing in his yard drinking wine straight from the bottle at 1:30 a.m. during our walk back home from the bar.
  • Hugging and talking to friends and family during the cocktail hour — and asking the coordinator to extend it because we were just having too good of a time for it to end.

  • Running up a row of tables high-fiving our guests during our grand entrance to Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage.”
  • Coming up to the champagne table before the ceremony and having one of the catering staff ask me: “So, which one is the bride?”
  • Fabio getting temporarily left behind by his ride the morning after the wedding, because he was too distracted by talking to my parents.
  • How the fog rolled in during our first dance, then proceeded to roll right back out again for the rest of the night.

  • Looking down during the ceremony and noticing for the first time that our officiant wasn’t wearing any shoes.
  • The absolutely amazing butternut squash ravioli we had at dinner — and the raving compliments we received about it afterwards.
  • Sitting at the head table during dinner and looking around at our guests chatting and laughing, our wedding party next to us, the color of the flowers in the sun — just taking pictures and soaking it all in.

  • The beau’s brother pulling me aside during the cocktail hour and telling me how amazingly personal and meaningful our ceremony had been.
  • Ugly-dancing like a spastic fool during “The Humpty Dance.”
  • All the toasts and cheers. Of course.

  • The praise we got for our signature drink — the Ginger Rogers — for which the beau had infused the liquor himself.
  • Hearing from all the people who were touched by the ring-warming during the ceremony.
  • Seeing how many people enthusiastically donned the props we put out for our guestbook photos.

  • Watching two families come together on Thursday afternoon before the wedding when my parents, the beau’s parents and brother, and the beau and I hung out for the first time on our front porch, having drinks and gluing dessert plates.
  • Getting out of the shower the morning after the wedding to find the living room crammed with dozens of pals who’d dropped in on their way out of town to give us hugs and wish us well.
  • Inadvertently making the guests crack up during the ceremony.

  • Catching my uncle stuffing his suit pockets with cookies from our dessert buffet.
  • Packing for the honeymoon on Sunday afternoon.
  • How our DJ actually played all 18 minutes of the epic punk NOFX song “The Decline” towards the end of the night — and how our friends stood in a circle in the dance floor for those entire 18 minutes, shouting every word of the lyrics in unison.

And that? That, my friends, is good enough.


All photos in this post, except for the first one, taken by Aaron Rosenblatt.


Aaron and my one of my best ladies.