So I don’t have a quote or thought or anything to introduce this post, because it’s a conversation over the course of the evening.  That’s just how the cookie crumbles sometimes.

Small moment of panic: I get married in eleven days.

Small moment of panic over.

Bryan and I went to meet with our photographer last night.  I was surprised that Bryan wanted to go, but after the majority of our engagement shots proved useless, I think he was a bit more clear on what we wanted from our photographer: mainly, we want to look like normal, attractive people.  The more attractive, quite frankly, the better.

And it wasn’t that the engagement shots weren’t shot well, it was mainly that he and I need direction.  You cannot just shout at us from fifteen feet away “LOOK LIKE YOU’RE IN LOVE”, because we will look at eachother like, “DID YOU HEAR WHAT THAT MORON JUST SAID TO US?”.  And if you saw our engagement shots, you made the comment that I either looked like I was trying to sell something and/or Bryan looked like he was waiting for me to pass out so he could take advantage of me.  Are we actors?  Yes.  Models?  Not so much.

So we sit down inside the living room of our photographer, and I notice she’s very intently staring into my eyes.  I figured she must be nervous (she’s just getting started in the business), and I explain how Bryan and I want the pictures to be gorgeous.  I go into how we’re okay with using Photoshop to some extent (obviously, I know we are not perfect and if we get pictures back looking retardedly fake, that’s not okay), especially to remove the obviously unattractive things about us.  She held my gaze the entire time I spoke, and I was touched by how nervous she must be.

After about half an hour, after I decide that I really like this girl and am happy to help her start her business, she runs off into another room to print out a contract for us.  Bryan leans over and says, “Honey.  You have something very large in your teeth.”

“Well, Jesus H. Christ!  WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!  GET IT OUT!!”  I leaned my teeth over, but he recoiled.  He obviously loves me enough to swear before God and country that he will stand beside in sickness and in health, but he will not dig in my teeth to remove something while we’re meeting with the lady who is trying to figure out what angle will best hide this giant sprig of something in my teeth.

I quickly scrape any and all teeth in the front of my mouth and then smiled hurriedly.  “Did I get it?”  Then the bastard nodded.

So the photographer comes back in, and I’m feeling slightly on-edge now because I have obviously removed something from my front incisor.  We laugh and cut-up and talk for another half hour or so and then excuse ourselves to make our way home for the evening.  Once we’re inside the Impala, I say, “Man, she’s got a loud voice, doesn’t she?”

He nodded.  “And you STILL have something in your teeth.” 

“OHMYGOD,” I scream.  “Why didn’t you tell me AGAIN?!”

He was giggling.  “I don’t know!  Why in the hell are you eating cockroaches?!”

“You said I got it!!” I whine, trying desperately to pick at my teeth again.

“Well, it was so frickin’ huge, I thought you couldn’t have missed it!!  BUT I WAS WRONG.”

So we screamed at eachother the whole ride home, through fits of laughter, about how he is forever from this point on to tell me, at the moment he notices it, that I have something in my teeth.  I made a vow to always carry a mirror in my purse so I can check my own teeth periodically (from Bryan: “Sarah, why don’t you do a hygiene check every now and again?  I mean, damn, it’s been hours since you’ve eaten anything.  Where did that shit come from?”).

We pulled into the driveway, and I exhaled.  “I wonder what she thinks of us,” I sighed.

He sat still.  “She’s probably figuring out a nice way to tack on an extra fee for all of the photoshopping she’s going to have to do.”