Coffee Winner!

Well, it was a long, hard road to determining a winner of this coffee contest, what-with there being seven contestants and all, but after hours of toiling during the commercial breaks of an episode of Law & Order: SVU that I may have already seen once today, I have come to a winner.

Here's a hint as to who it is:



No, it's not a fuzzy, wuzzy reincarnation of the 9 Lives kitty...it's my friend David Morris! I won't post a picture of him here because I haven't asked him about it, but I am personally under the assumption that he is the human version of Morris the Cat. Oh man. The urge to post a picture of David here is really strong. Like...Nutella and banana crepe strong.

Sorry I left. I had to troll David's Facebook page for a picture where he REALLY embodies Morris. The cat. Not the man. Who is David. Wait. I've even confused myself.

The moral of this story is that David won the coffee. Even though he doesn't really drink coffee. Isn't it ironic? Don't ya think?

One day I will write a detective novel about a main character based on David that is a badass detective like Dale Cooper, but instead of real coffee and pie, the David detective will drink decaf and sugar-free muffins. But still solve crimes and rescue Audrey from One Eyed Jack's.

Here is the story, in case you missed it! David, I'll bring you the coffee next time we hang out. Thanks for saving me the shipping charges!

I don't have a very loving relationship with coffee. If anything, I prefer a cuppa Joe at a diner, black. But even this can get to be too much, due to my extreme sensitivity to caffeine (symptoms include inventing things and hearing voices). So often times I'll just order a decaf (taken black, of course. Publicly I drink my coffee black because the bitterness reminds me of the bitter tears shed during the exodus, but privately it's because I hate trying to maintain the proper proportion of cream and sugar as the mug is refilled throughout the meal).

Anyway. I only have a couple of incidents that could remotely qualify as any kind of coffee story. There was the time I tried making coffee at the office and things went so badly I ended up having to run away. Or the time in college, after having studied the strange power of the placebo effect, that I secretly substituted my girlfriend's sister's coffee with decaf on the night before her final, but then didn't say anything when she kept frowning at the coffee and saying, "I think they accidentally put in decaf".

But I think the one I'll go with isn't so much a story, as it is a visual. Basically, one day on my bike commute to work, I got the idea in my head that it would be great to grab a cup of coffee from Philz on the way to the office. I figured: hey, I'm a good biker, I can hold a cup of coffee steady. It went pretty well, until I got to my shortcut behind the Best Buy.

The path that runs behind the Best Buy is, like, beyond bumpy. I think it was paved when asphalt was first invented and pretty much left untouched since. Through internet magic, you can actually see precisely what I'm talking about.

As I turned onto the road, a little voice somewhere in my head coughed politely and mentioned something about maybe this not being a good idea. But this voice was drowned by another, stupider voice, who was all like, "Hey don't listen to him! Woo, pina coladas!" (Lesson: never heed the advice of the voices in your head who are lounging around drinking pina coladas all day and making rude remarks to the waitresses. Those are LOSER voices.)

Well. So. If you were a passerby that morning, you would have seen a nerdy white guy slowly riding a bike while spilling scolding hot coffee all over his arm, screaming. Curious as to why he didn't stop or anything, but continued to keep spilling the coffee on himself the whole length of the street, you might have asked him why he did that. To which he probably would have said something like, "For some reason, I felt I had to just push through it, you know?"

Oh and it was awesome to read everyone's stories and I will maybe do another giveaway soon. That is, as soon as my unemployment check clears. Yeah. That's why I'm giving away cheap shit.

Oh and, also, David went to Berkeley, which is where I want to go, so now, David, you have to call them and tell them that I scratched your back, so now they should scratch mine. But only on the bottom half because the rest is really sun burnt.

Finally, second place was Owen (at the last minute), but all the stories were really fun to read. And Owen doesn't get a prize for second place, just cool kid points on my blog, which will translate to street cred after I publish my first novel.

Love Letter

Dear Granola,

Please forgive me for being distant these past few months. I forgot how good you are to me. I like it when you crunch in my mouth. And when you partner with a few raisins for a little surprise, surprise - hold me back. You drive me wild.

Damn, granola. You so fine.

I'll be seeing you again. Soon. Real soon.

Melanie

Answered Prayer

Me: Do I have to do laundry?

God: Well, you've been wearing that outfit for five days, and I see you've moved on to the really big underwear, so - yes.

Me: Fiiiiine.

Win Delicious Coffee!

I like coffee. I like to drink it at least once a day, although sometimes I will skip, but not usually. And I don't care if you think it's a drug and I'm addicted to it because I think that's a fine amount of coffee to drink every day and I'm tired of pleasing you anyway.

Living in San Francisco has really introduced me to some fine, fine coffee. Long behind me are the days of waiting in the cold New York winter to purchase a cup of lukewarm battery acid from one of those silver cart things, along with fifteen other people dressed almost exactly like me in black and gray. Gone!

Now coffee has flavors! And I don't mean Dunkin' Donuts French Vanilla, I mean flavors like 'vibrant' and 'sultry.' Just like me. Does it work if I say this around mixed company: 'I like my coffee like I like myself, vibrant and sultry?' I will attempt this/embarrass myself in a very public situation soon and get back to you.

My favorite coffee of the moment comes from Barefoot Coffee Works in San Jose, CA (but I can get it a Birite, near my house). I am in love with the Reserva Del Diablo. One day I was poking around the market, taking my sweet time picking out a coffee because I love shopping no matter what it's for, and I read every single description on all the coffee they had for sale. I knew I wanted a light roast, and I wanted to stray from the typical SF faves (Ritual and Four Barrel) to try something new. When I read this description, I was in love:

Vibrant and sultry. Surprisingly crisp and sweet acidity with tangerine and clover honey highlights. Fresh red currants and lemony floral zestiness.

It is SO GOOD. I am currently drinking a cup, black, which isn't necessarily how I like my men, but it could be because I think Jose Reyes is a babe. I love this coffee so much that I want to give some away...to you!

If you love coffee as much as I do, leave a comment telling me a story revolving around coffee. It could be about your favorite barista, counting quarters to pay for your machiattto, or just sipping a cup on the couch with your new puppy. Or old puppy. I'm not picky when it comes to puppies.

I will pick my favorite story on Monday, and I will send the winner a 12 oz. bag of Barefoot Coffee's Reserva Del Diablo. The winner will be posted on this here site on Monday evening. See what I did there? Not only do you have to read this, but then you have to think about something meaningful and write it down. And THEN you have to come back to my blog on Monday. Boo yah. I'm smart. Or maybe I've just had too much coffee.

Can't wait to read your comments!

UCLA is Trying to Kill Me

Editor's Note: I originally wrote this on Tuesday night, but did not immediately post it because it made me sound so crazy. But then, I spoke to some other students at CCSF waiting to hear back from UCLA, and I decided that our stories should be told. We no longer have to suffer in silence. This blog is dedicated to my SPCH2 peeps.

Setting: My living room. The couch there is green. The carpet is beige, and of the wall-to-wall style.

Characters: Just Melanie. Striking eyes, voluminous hair, forlorn look shadowing her face like a veil of mystery.

Internal dialogue as follows:

So, UCLA said they would get back to me regarding their judgment of my character, I mean, admission decision, in late April. That is SO VAGUE. As far as I'm concerned, late April started on March 20th, so my neurotic ass has been checking their admission website at least once a day since then. Although, as it gets to be undeniably late April, I check it more often. Today I checked it four times, including once right now which you would think wouldn't make any sense because it's 11:11 PM and who the fuck admits a young girl from New York to college this late at night? Key words: You would think.

Those educated mofos sent me an email last week at 10:20 PM to ask me a question about my application. 10:20 PM. What the hell are they trying to do, kill me? It's like there is a bullet heading for my eye, and it could be filled with a really cool and refreshing contact lens solution or it could be filled with that acid that they used to burn Roger Rabbit and I have no idea what's in the bullet, and there is no way to tell, and it could come at any time, day or night. I would sleep with my eyes open, but that's dangerous when there is a bullet aimed at your eye.

Also, I'll bet they can see how many times I check that shit, and they were initially going to let me in, but now they're not and it's because they think I'm crazy and should just wash my teeth and go to sleep instead of obsessing over something I have zero control over. Yes, I said 'wash my teeth.' And I meant it.

Reason to Love San Francisco #12: Happy Hours at Gay Bars

I have found myself in sports bars countless times in my adult life, only to feel entirely excluded by the fracas on the bazillion televisions. I could be in the middle of telling a really funny story, and then all of a sudden the whole place erupts in deafening cheers, and my story is ruined. Sure, I've had my flings with sports, but never to the point where I could go to a room full of strangers, drink drinks and have the game of the moment act as the cement that glues the evening together. It's not that I can't imagine this happening, it's just that I usually experience this sort of camaraderie with Sex and the City or Top Chef.

Enter San Francisco:



That's right. This bar in The Castro not only advertises an exceptionally late happy hour (2 to 8!), but also the fact that they play Project Runway at 10 PM. And, as if that's not amazing enough, they just throw in the weekly lineup for American Idol and Glee. I'm not so much a fan of A.I., but I'll lap up an episode of Glee any day of the week like I'm a kitten and each new episode is a warm bowl of milk.

Point: San Francisco

(Get it? Point? Like, sports? Man, am I good.)

Somehow We Are Related

I recently told my brother about the mysterious joy that is Fage 0% yogurt. In case you haven't heard about it yet, it's basically the best tasting yogurt in the whole world and it has like 90 calories per gallon. Ok, that's might be a slight exaggeration, but that shit is low in calories.



It looks innocent and plain, but, let me tell you, it is anything but. I knew my bro would like it, and I was excited when he texted me a few days later.

Jesus this yogurt is like cream cheese

Even though it had been awhile and there was pretty much no context to the message, I've had lots of practice communicating with the younger one and I understood that he had purchased the Fage and was quite enjoying it. I was in class, so I did not respond. Then I forgot about it and never texted back.

The next day I received another text from lil' b, again with no context.

I don't understand how Dannon and Yoplait are still in business

I puzzled over this one for a minute, but then realized that we had not shifted gears from our text conversation of the previous day. I thought about my brother, and that he must be standing in front of his open fridge, spooning cold yogurt into his mouth, and I became worried that he would overdo it and stop liking the best yogurt ever in the whole world. So, I texted him a meal idea:

i love it like this: half a banana, sliced at the bottom of a bowl...half a cup of fage...two tblspns of granola...a drizzle of honey...mmmmmm

Hours later, I received this response (in three parts because it was so long):

Jesus you work so hard at this stuff. My recipe, absently open fridge when subconscious is hungry, see yogurt, spoon finds hand and two scoops. NOMNOMNOM. now mouth is cold, eat fistful granola, better but plain, needs sweet, dribble honey in mouth, oh no it's too good can't stop! Mouth too sweet now. Finish with banana to neutralize excess honey and belly is happy and slightly hurting a little from being content. Snacktime is complete

I love my brother, even if he deserves to be fat, but isn't.

Pillow Talk

Once upon a time, when I was about eight years old, my birth father and I took a long trip abroad to England, Scotland and Wales. I have a sketchy memory of the trip, but I have never been able to forget seeing The Starlight Express, a musical roller skating fantasy experience with questionable costume choices that made my young mind question the male anatomy - but that's another blog post.

Something else I remember from this trip is seeing a seller in a train station, hawking blankets. Except instead of yelling, 'Blankets for sale! Blankets for sale!' he was yelling, 'Duves for sale! Duves for sale!' My last name being 'Duve' and my residence being podunky Connecticut, I had never heard the term before. We couldn't stop, as we were in a rush, and my father wasn't concerned at all, but I was scarred for life because some wacky English guy was clearly SELLING MY FAMILY. I eyed my preoccupied father with disdain - I had always thought my parents would be more worried if this ever happened.

Of course, for the rest of the trip, I watched every corner for another shady character. The jolliness of the English accent, once so charming, was now a clear harbinger of doom. Every time someone said, 'Bloody Hell,' I knew what they meant - they were clearly referring to real human blood. And forget about strangers telling my father what a beautiful daughter he had! I would shrink back behind his big man dad legs, and hide my beauty from the funny talking Duve sellers. They just wanted to grab me, and then turn a profit on my porcelain skin - I knew it. Did I ever think to ask my Dad about this? Nope, just lived in terror for a little while, until I got home and eventually cleared up the situation.

But...it's finally happened. When I definitely wasn't Googling my own name this afternoon, I found (tap feet on floor for simulated drum roll) THE MELANIE DUVET SET:



Kinda anti-climactic, eh? After twenty-seven years of anticipation, I was kind of hoping for something super amazing. Like this Chinoiserie Duvet set from DwellStudio:



I feel like it's not asking too much to have Dwell change the name from the 'Chinoiserie Duvet' to the 'Melanie Duve.' And, yes, they should leave off that worthless 'T.' What does 'chinoiserie' even mean? Hang on. I'm gonna go look it up.

Ok, so I just ate an apple. And then checked to see if my laundry was dry yet. It's not. Which made me sad, so I washed four dishes. And now, I'm back. But with bad news. Chinoiserie means 'a style reflecting Chinese art.' That's bullcrap. Chinese art looks like this lady:



Ok, to be honest, I had to search for awhile to find that one because all the first images that Google spat out kinda looked like that duvet. So, I guess I understand why they chose the name, but I stand by my petition the change it. I bet that they would sell so many more bedcovers if they just made that one small, inexpensive change. I mean, there's what, three of you reading this? And, obviously you would all want your very own Melanie Duve to snuggle with every night. Except my brother. That's gross. But don't worry, brother, I've thought of this already.

Behold, the 'Ryan Duve Cover!'



It's funny because my brother is a scientist.

Wait, what was I writing about?

I'm going to the gym.

Wheeee!

Smile Like You Mean It

Sometimes I stare at my face and try to determine where the wrinkles will come in. I started doing this a few years ago, and I realized that I was getting some above my lips (from smoking cigarettes - bad), between my eyes (from furrowing my brow unhappily at other New Yorkers on the street) and above my eyebrows (from showcasing my amazing control of eyebrow motion).

It was like I was looking at my future, but what lie ahead wasn't written in stone...just etched lightly in human flesh. I decided then and there to take a hold of my own destiny. I stopped smoking (the battle continues - it always will), I stopped frowning (unless I have a very good reason). And I made more eyebrow movements than ever before (because I liked those wrinkles). AND I began smiling more (because I would rather laugh lines than frown lines).

Smiling is the best part of this. Ok, maybe quitting smoking is the best part because I won't die as young, but smiling is pretty great, too. It's contagious. And I have really good teeth. And it turns out I'm not alone.

I met a guy at a potluck the other night, and he has launched something wonderful called The Great Smile Project. Basically it is hundreds of pictures of people, and none of them are smiling, until you roll your mouse over them - then, their face lights up and they beam at you. It's a very nice experience. Here are some of my favorite smiles:







Don't you feel better already? I do! And the best part of The Great Smile Project? They are recruiting smiles now! Word on the street is that they want to try to get one billion smiles. That is so much happiness. I can hardly wait!

My smile should be up there soon, and yours should be, too. Because, if you are reading this, then I probably like you, and I want to see how good you look when you smile. Also, if I hate you, then maybe I will hate you a little less when you are smiling.

The Secret Life of Girls

You know what girls do? We dress up. And then we talk about it. And, sometimes, we talk about getting dressed while we are doing it at separate locations even though we are going to see each other in less than an hour. And there is a very good reason for this.

The other evening I was getting ready to go out with two girlfriends. We were heading to the birthday party of a new friend, and we weren't really going to know anyone else there. So, naturally, I was a little nervous about what to wear. The people at the party didn't know me, and they weren't going to know how fun and smart I am, or that I'm really good at baking. All those people were going to know about me was what I was wearing, and that had to be awesome. Because I am awesome and I have a serious moral dilemma with false advertisement.

So what's the awesomest thing about me that I want to capitalize to these strangers who could potentially be movie directors and then cast me in a heart wrenching biopic about an anorexic figure skater with an abusive husband and an addiction to shopping? I couldn't decide. After I had thrown everything I own on my bed, and was in a state of panic while tightly clutching a pair of gray cords in one hand and a sequined gown in the other, I texted one of my friends.

Sweating from the hugeness of it all, I feverishly bashed my qwerty keyboard. 'What are you wearing?' I asked her, hoping to sound nonchalant. Sometimes when I ask boys I'm dating what they are wearing, they look at me like I'm crazy, but they just don't understand that we have to match, but not matchy match, because if that director is at that bar, then he will never cast me if I am wearing a plaid tunic and my friends are in cocktail attire because it clearly means I don't pick up on social cues, and who wants to spend six months filming a life changing movie that will make Precious look like a wimp with a star who DOESN'T UNDERSTAND SOCIAL CUES.

Luckily, my friend understood precisely what the issues were, and she texted me back exactly what she was wearing:



And then, before I could begin to freak out over the great jeans vs. skirt conundrum:



A calming sense of relief emanated out of my junky ass tiny screen phone. Not only was I reminded that my friends are very attractive, but I could also confidently slide some Frye boots over my skinny cords and throw on a cowl neck sweater. I texted back, just to give her the 'thumbs up:'



(Note: The emotion of my face is a combination of joy and avoiding a catastrophic career move with my fast thinking and fashion savvy).

When my phone beeped again, a sharp alert darted through me. Had she changed her mind? Was she wearing something else? Did she not read the 'going to a kinda-friend's birthday party where you don't know anyone and one of you might become famous forever based on what you wear' clause in the girl code? Or was she...flipping me off?



I turned the screen sideways, and then upside down, genuinely perplexed. At least she hadn't changed her outfit. My phone beeped again:

'I was trying to say THANK YOU in sign language.'

I had totally forgotten she was bilingual.

My phone beeped once more. It was from my other girlfriend, and I could read the panic between the lines:

'What are you wearing?'

I'm A Very Kinky Girl

Well, I'm not a very kinky girl by San Francisco standards, but at least my hair maintains it's kink. Oooooh. That's funny 'cause my hair is mega curly. Annnnnyway...

There are some great mysteries of this wacky city. For instance, why is Bay to Breakers allowed? How come people can shoot crack into their veins on the street without getting in trouble? And why do so many people keep the fur on their bikes after Burning Man? It rains like 75% of time time people! Plus, you look like an ass.

And then, sometimes, I pass this place:



Looks official, right? Just a giant-ass building plopped in the middle of The Mission. Well, it turns out, as per their official website, that it is an old armory. Built as a replica of an old Moorish castle in 1914, it was used by the National Guard until 1976. And then the shenanigans started. It won't tell you on their site, but a large portion of this massive building is rented out to Kink.com. And don't click on that link if you are at work because it is not a hair salon for the spirally gifted. IT'S A PORN STUDIO. And not a regular, tame, consensual porn studio, but a FETISH PORN STUDIO.

Can you imagine the awe and wonder that wash over me every time I pass it? I can't help ponder what wild fantasies are happening mere feet from where I stand. Is someone in a leather swing? Are they getting their hair pulled? Do they have a bikini waxer onsite? What do the shoes look like? It kills me that I will never know. Or so I thought.

Mission Mission recently made me aware of the fact that Kink.com just started offering FREE tours of the Armory! WTF!?!?! We can actually GO INSIDE! That's amazing. It's like seeing where magic comes from - magic, in this case, being porn. This guy from SF with an awesome Tumblr blog called The Tens recently went on one of these amazing tours with his whole office. I wonder what that office does? Maybe makes dog collars with ball gags attached? Anyway, check out these (mostly) safe for work pics from that tour:



What do you think it looks like in there? I mean, I'm generally impressed with a bidet, but I'll bet the buttsink in there is INSANE. And then there is this one:



According to The Tens, this is where ladies go to wrestle and the loser gets...punished. And all us creepy voyeurs can pay to watch the fun online. What do you think the lady wrestlers wear? I'm imagining lots of sparkles. Crotchless sparkles.

The only bummer is that all the tickets are sold out until an undetermined date. But you know I will be refreshing that screen until I get a pair of tickets. And then one of the great mysteries of San Francisco will be solved. Now if only I can figure out why all those people on segways in Fisherman's Wharf do not realize how stupid they look...

Wedding Dresses for Cheap Brides

I love weddings and I love Law & Order and I cannot sleep, so I am watching a little Criminal Intent and drooling over how cheap a girl can get a gorgeous wedding dress these days.

Disclaimer: I was not actively searching weddings this time. I was innocently visiting my favorite Gucci aviators on Nordstrom's website, and a little flashy thing popped up telling me to check out their wedding section. And who am I to ignore a flashy thing? I love flashy things more than a mama bird loves flashy things.

When I think of Nordstrom, I generally think of a high quality, designer department store, and I would imagine that their wedding gowns would be quite expensive. But no! They have a wonderful assortment of wedding dresses for astonishingly low prices. This BCBGMAXAZRIA Tiered Lace Gown would cost a thrifty bride less than $450:



Even though the model appears to be wearing flipflops, I love it. Maybe she is just demonstrating what it would look like when her feet hurt from wearing LeBoutins all night and she switched to flats for dancing? Anyway, she looks lovely. The deep neckline is flattering and the dark sash minimizes the waist, which can be tough when one is wearing white. And I'm sure you could switch it out to match your color scheme, but I really like the black.

But maybe you are even cheaper than that. Maybe you want an even lower cost gown. Worry not, my fellow sale searcher, because Nordstrom's has this Grecian gown for an astonishing $248:



Again, not dying for the styling, but COME ON! That dress is sooooo pretty! The asymmetrical shoulder is eye catching, but it doesn't detract from the elegance of the gown. And the price is amazing - I currently own dresses that cost more than that! Or at least they cost more than that before I bought them on clearance. I would want to try it on to make sure the bodice was fitted, as to avoid the pregnancy look, but seeing a I am personally not getting married any time soon, that would be weird. Even for me.

Ok, there are ten minutes left in the episode and Goren and Eames are about to break the case. Check out more great wedding browsing on Nordstrom's wedding shop.

Pretty Little Things

You know what's better than weddings? Shopping. Well, almost. We can say they are tied for first place in my heart, along with cheesecake and really nice bedding.

Sometimes I window shop online. Does that sound depressing? Ok, good. Because it is. All I want to do is order things and try them on. I want to have silk camisoles and fancy nighties and not a single pair of panties that cost less than $20. I want to live in a townhouse in Manhattan and have boxes upon boxes of beautiful things delivered every day. I will accept the packages in a Vera Wang dressing gown and Chanel No. 5. I will try them on in my dressing room, keep what I like, and ring the notoriously handsome doorman to take the rest back to the department stores. And then I will pour my third martini of the day. Now, I know this will never happen, but I dream about it.

And today, as I stared longingly into the glowing screen of my computer through the tattered veil of my hangover, daydreaming of the life I was meant to lead, I came across this little number that I cannot stop thinking about:



I love it! Even though that model looks like she spent some quality time with the wacky tabacky before the photo shoot, she looks so cute. I love the combination of sleepwear and day wear - which can be hard to pull off. Surely we've all seen those poor, unfortunate souls walking around in lingerie tops and coming across as trashy and used up, instead of classy and slightly ironic. With improper fit, a disproportionate lace-to-fabric-ratio and the wrong undergarments, the look does NOT work. The top must be made for outer wear, as the above one is, and paired with the correct accessories.

I'm serious ladies. No matter how pretty your camisoles are, do NOT wear them around without checking in with me or your boyfriend first. I'm here all day.

Also, that sassy blue number is available on Free People's website, which is annoying, trendy and irresistible. So you should obviously check it out. And, of course, I am accepting deliveries in my SF apartment anytime, if you feel like making my day. But you have to come dressed as a sexy doorman.

I Love Weddings

So most of my girlfriends know that I love weddings. They make me so happy. I love the idea of them, and the planning, and the invitations, and even the seating charts. I LOVE love, too, which really helps. And I love all kinds of weddings. I love when old people get married, when boys marry boys, when my mom got married for the second time - anything! I think it is such a happy occasion and I tend to cry my eyes out.

I've kept this obsession a secret for a long time. I thought that it might scare off boyfriends or potential boyfriends or friends or my family because I'm 27 and my biological clock is ticking and this wedding insanity appears to the uneducated outsider to be my Jewish spinster neurosis kicking in. What's changed, you ask? Nothing. I have just realized that if I am going to find someone that I love enough to marry then they will HAVE TO DEAL WITH MY WEDDING OBSESSION. They do not have to share in it, but they have to realize it's there, and if it scares them off, then they weren't the right man for me anyway. Plus, loving weddings is probably one of my least weird neurosis, so if they can't handle it, then they would probably shit bricks when they learn how I feel about bunnies and cleaning my ears. Don't ask.

Are you still reading? Well, then you are probably my friend Valerie, and that's OK, because I love you. And I just wanted to point out that even though I hate camping and barns and rain and dirt, this rustic ceremony made me get all teary eyed and want to have a hoe down in a barn. Ok, not totally the second part, but I think they did such a good job! And they did so much of it themselves. And that girl is SKINNY!



I hope I am that skinny on my wedding day, but that I am not in a barn in Utah.

I absolutely love the chalkboard mural:



I wish I was that artistically gifted. If I tried to create something like that everyone would probably think that I gave some retarded children finger paints and let them go hog wild on my wedding decorations. Which would make me look like a caring, sweet person who is spending time with children with special needs. Shit. Maybe I should do that for my wedding.

I also love how beautifully the rain worked for them. The shots of them in the woods with the umbrellas are surreal.



Although why anyone would ever want to go hiking is beyond me. Especially on your wedding day. But, hey, to each their own. I usually feel bad for couples when it rains on their weddings, but this really worked out.

The final thing that I love are the wedding cakes. Again, I don't love logs, but they used them so nicely!



I also like it because they were able to have a variety of different cakes and there was no cheesy wedding cake factor to their sweet desserts. I will bet they tasted amazing, and if I was there I would probably have had like six pieces. I mean...one piece.

Oh, and they had board games at their wedding. I love board games, but I would think they would be bummed out if anyone played them, no? Although it would be hilarious if, when you opened them, they were all changed to be about the couple. Like Scattergories, but the lists would be like 'Things Suzy Doesn't Know About Johnny.' Ok, maybe that wouldn't be funny.

I feel a lot better now that my secret is out. I think I will post about weddings more often. And a special thanks to the fabulous Joanna Goddard for first posting about this wedding. And for being a great blogger. I hope one day I can meet her. Or that she just knows who I am.