Our Story

Part 1: How We Met, Our Engagement

The Mister and I met at a conference in Las Vegas in February 2009. I was the jaded, fast-speaking, suit-wearing red-head running around like I was in charge or something and he was the muscular, tanned, jeans-sporting surfer that refused to leave without asking me on a date. Oh wait. That's not right. It was I  who asked him on a date. 

That evening, we ate at some place in the Mandalay Bay hotel, which I recall to be vaguely Russian and full of red lights. I couldn't tell you what we ate, because, I am one of those incorrigible women that refuses to consume anything but bread crumbs and vodka on a first date. (Not to worry, two months into our dating relationship I was scarfing down whole steaks, and stuff, on his dime.) Anyway, to say that we hit it off would be an understatement. We stayed out so late--or, as the case may be, so early--that I hardly had time to shower and don a blazer before heading back to the conference. Alas, gentlemen that the Mister is, he showed up at my station sharply at 8 a.m. with a cup of black coffee for me. In spite of any peripheral snickering coworkers who may or may not have been present.

That night the Mister delayed his flight out of Vegas in order to take me to dinner at a friendly little tapas spot, wherein both of us could prove to one another our great prowess at selecting hoity-toity wine and European finger foods. Following dinner, we engaged in a very bitter-sweet goodbye, both resigning ourselves to the fact that a West-Coast/Midwest relationship wasn't logistically probable.

But then, the Mister received word from work that he would be in Chicago for the following two weekends. I did my best to monopolize all of his time spent in my frostbitten cosmopolitan city. Apparently, he found me charming, because, soon after, when I announced that I was moving to Las Vegas, a mere six hours away from his San Diego home, to, er, help out some family, he did not think me obsessive and politely stop returning my calls. In fact, he welcomed me with open arms. 

Thus began a six month stretch of the two of us alternating San Diego and Las Vegas weekend visits, and yours truly attempting to act like she understood the West Coast by employing phrases like "gnarly," and wearing screen-print t-shirts.

By late summer, I was offered a job in Portland. And so, I moved. Shortly thereafter, the Mister moved. (It's probably worth noting that said Mister has a flexible job which allows him to live nearly anywhere.) In 2010, we collectively decided that living in a city where it rains everyday and where at least 30% of the population is comprised of aging, unemployed hipsters, is sort of depressing. And, having begun to discuss the possibility of marriage and houses and 2.5 kids, we thought it wise to put semi-permanent roots down in an area nearer to family. 

I began looking for work in San Diego and Chicago. Chicago bit first. So, we packed up and hit the rode for Illinois. After a day's worth of driving, and me forcing an education of deep-dish pizza, cult-like baseball fans and other such Chicago-y stuff on the Mister, we stopped to spend the night in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Coeur d'Alene, contrary to what one might think of Idaho, is quite lovely. What with the lakes and the mountains and the fresh air and all.

In the a.m., the Mister suggested that we take a leisurely stroll by the lake in front of our hotel. Nothing fishy about this, except that, upon asking the Mister's opinion on whether or not it was warm enough for me to wear a skirt, he replied commanding me to, "look cute." Right, because you totally care about clothes and stuff. 

When we reached the lake, he started snapping a few photos of me, a pastime not unusual for him back then. Ahem. Then he asked me if I wanted to look through the shots. Of course. This is what I saw (each square was a separate photo):

Oh yeah, I also saw this:

Part 2: Our Wedding  

The remainder of our road trip to Chicago was marked by much googly-eyeing of one another and a short visit to Deadwood, South Dakota (I never said we were conventional), wherein we purchased our first Christmas ornament and tucked it away amongst our luggage for safekeeping. It was henceforth never seen again. Ahem.

If I could pull a Michael J. Fox and teleport back to that weekend, I would extend our trip for about a month. Once the Pandora's box that is wedding planning was opened, we enjoyed nary a googly-eyed moment until the first look on our wedding day. Truly, upon stepping out on my beloved Chicago soil--or, concrete, as the case may be--I buried my face in the revised edition of Emily Post Weddings and never looked back. 

Flash forward past many 'a cliche Bridgette Jones-esque meltdowns and the starving of yours truly to a bony size two, to March 25th, the date of our rehearsal. There isn't much to report about the rehearsal itself, save the fact that the church planner refused to wait a few extra minutes for our slightly tardy groomsman to arrive before proceeding with the dry-run, rendering everyone a bit fuzzy on how stuff was supposed to go down. I'll only be getting hitched once if I can help it, lady. But, please, by all means, let's wrap this thing up and get home to The Real Housewives marathon!

Our dinner was held at Gene & Georgetti, an old-school, Chicago steak-house, which has been serving up some of Chi's finest martinis and dead cow since the forties. G&G is one of my most beloved haunts and I was really stoked on sharing it with the Mister's California crew. All in all, the evening was quite lovely, with many a compliment paid to the Mister and me, from friends and family old and new, West and Midwest. 

I awoke sharply at six a.m. the following morning, and, unable to go back to sleep, proceeded to do several thousand sit-ups. 

My stellar make-up and hair crew arrived shortly thereafter, as yours truly was measuring the amount of quarter bounce-age achieved by her abs (which was none, if you were wondering), and went about the process of beautifying bride and bridesmaids a la a vintage Vogue ad. Uh-mazing. 

I hear the boys looked good, too. ; )

After much time spent sipping Prosecco and admiring ourselves, we headed to the location of the first look, which was staged in an elegant corridor of Chicago's landmark Palmer House hotel. 

The Mister and I have both agreed that the first look was easily the best part of our wedding; being that our big day was of the rather grandiose variety, this initial meeting was the only time the two of us had to slowly soak in the magnitude of what was happening. Tears were shed.  

Next, we hopped on our appointed trolley with the wedding party and cruised over to the church, which, difficult staff aside, was as Gothicly charming as ever. 

The next two hours were a blur of hurried photos and my continual, vehement denying of water, lest I have to pee while wearing the beautiful but cruel contraption commonly known as wedding dress.

 

My poised, executive-type father looked, for once, overwhelmed, fighting back tears as we lined up to walk down the aisle. While lined up, my heart decided that it was a good time to try and leap from my chest cavity, continuously, at which point I may or may not have begun hissing several desperate prayers that it stay put.

The aisle was impressively long. Duchess of Cambridge long. 

 

But I made it to my nearly-husband waiting at the other end. And, despite feeling sure that my wobbly knees, balancing dehydrated-ly in four-inch Badgley Mischkas, would fail me before I said I do, I found myself trotting back down the aisle, an honest woman. Phew.

The Mister and I exited for the reception venue in my father's 1968 Pontiac Le Mans, to many 'a wild cheer.

The evening was a mostly lovely, art-deco affair, held at Maxim's in the city's Gold Coast. Maxim's opened in the sixties as a replica of the famous Parisian restaurant, recently featured in Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris." 

It included a private dinner with the wedding party (which has been deemed the second favorite part of the day for both the Mister and myself), a vintage cocktail menu by our design, stellar food, even stellar-er toasts, the wrong cake, the highly amusing drunkenness of many family members, and a rockin' dance floor that just wouldn't quit. I would secretly like to experience the night as one of our guests; it has been graciously said to me that our wedding was among the best many folks had attended up to that point.

The Mister and I peaced out just shy of midnight, exhaustively and happily falling into a cab and traveling back to the Palmer House to spend the night before embarking on our Savannah honeymoon the following day. We had survived. We were married.

All photos courtesy of Life on Prints.

Also, a video. Which has lost considerable quality over YouTube, but remains, nonetheless, a basically accurate portrait of what went down...