Fetus’ first street harassment

Nothing like a 70 degree day in March to bring all the creepy, obnoxious men out of hibernation.

I’ve been walking around Boston all Winter without being approached by anybody besides the people in vests for various good causes. Yesterday broke that streak.

I head to the park.

“Hey pretty lady, can I walk with you?”

Ignore. A mile later I settle onto a bench and pull out my book. A guy shouts at me,

“Nice hair.”



NO. I do not need to thank you for your verbal harassment.

What part of my pregnant belly makes you think approaching me is a good idea? I have enough hormones coursing through my body right now to tear your head off with my bare hands.

An hour later a gaggle of guys saunters up.

“Hey girl, I like your Sew-KOE-Nees.”

What the heck is he talking about? I glance at my sneakers. Ah Saucony. Wrong pronunciation buddy. You should try not talking out loud.

street harassment

College/newborn baby, it’s party time!

My baby growing continues. 16 weeks. Yes, I’m counting the days.

Before I got knocked up, I thought pregnancy was counted in months. Now all I hear are weeks. 40 weeks. That’s a lot of weeks. I ask Captain,

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I’m getting ready to go to college.”

“College? Can I blog that?”

“Yeah. I know things are going to be really different, but I’m not sure exactly what it’s going to be like.”

“Except this is a little bit longer than a 4 year commitment.”


“And if you don’t like college you can always just quit, but we’re gonna be stuck with this kid forever.”

“Yeah.” Captain is looking worse. I tell him,

“I was really excited to leave home for college.” I was excited for freedom. Now I’m excited for a lifetime of responsibility. Or my best attempt at it.


Senior year of high school wearing UMass hat, shirt, shorts, sweatshirt and socks. It’s getting exciting.


The excitement has worn off.


I graduated. Success.


Squatty potty did not pay me to write this, but any day now

Before I got knocked up, I’d heard of one pregnancy symptom: morning sickness. For thirty years I assumed morning sickness means you feel a little sick in the morning and then life goes on. Nope. I felt like I was going to die. I thought I might be sick for the rest of my life.

It turned out I was only sick for a few months, BUT it also turns out that there are a lot of random symptoms that seem totally unrelated to pregnancy, but persist nonetheless. What their biological advantage is, is a mystery.

My symptoms in no particular order:

  • Nausea
  • Exhaustion
  • A lot of mucus and boogers. So many boogers. I haven’t had this many boogers since I spent 12 hours on a dirt road in Africa with the windows open.
  • Bleeding gums. WHY?
  • Serious food aversions. I have gone from eating everything, EVERYTHING, to 3 or 4 different foods, if Cheerios and Honey Nut Cheerios count as two different foods.
  • And sometimes it’s hard to poop. Pooping used to be easy. I looked forward to my 20 minutes in the evening with the toilet and Consumer Reports magazine.

The real Jessica is gone and this new Jessica I’m dealing with is a tired, sick, boogery, picky eater, poop filled Jessica. I hear that five months from now I’ll forget that that Jessica ever existed and will be agreeable to getting knocked up again.

Last weekend, 15 weeks pregnant, I drag myself to the breakfast table. Captain is concerned. He asks,

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Anything I can do?”

Just listen to me talk about my boogers again.

I’ve signed up for every pregnant mommy group nearby. What’s better than talking to Captain about my boogers and poop? Talking to lots of women about their boogers and poop.

One woman asks me,

“Have you tried the squatty potty?”

“The WHAT?”

“Squatty potty. It’s great. It helps open up your colon.”

My colon needs all the help it can get. I order the squatty potty.

All packages that arrive at our condo building are signed for by the concierge. He then notifies residents if you have a package. I receive a notification and go to claim my package:


The return address on the mailing label is glaring at me. Really? Everyone needs to know that I ordered a toilet stool? Captain tries to reassure me,

“It could easily be for a small child.”

That we’re 3 years away from having.

But it works and I ordered another one despite the address label. This way I can pick my toilet based on the reading material I’ve left by each one as opposed to which one has the stool.




Pony, will you accept this rose?


I have a terrible confession to make. I started watching The Bachelor. I have no reasonable explanation for this besides that Jon Stewart abandoned me and I’ve been floating between TV shows ever since. I enjoy a little Trevor Noah, a little Jimmy Fallon, a little Stephen Colbert and a little Ben Higgins.

I know the show is killing my brain cells, but so does wine and that doesn’t stop me. I couldn’t stand to watch the show before because in addition to destroying my brain, I was also envious. Not envious of the process, but envious of the supposed final product: True Love.

Now that I’m head over heels in love with Captain, the show is much more enjoyable. I am no longer watching it and wondering if I should be updating my Match.com profile or applying for the show. Although this season there was a pretty cute pony in the running. She’s got my vote for the next bachelorette.

Fort Point Grand Prix: here come the rednecks and the fancy coffee

I went to my second neighborhood association meeting for Fort Point the other night. People are not happy. There is going to be a Grand Prix race in our neighborhood Labor Day weekend for the next 5 Labor Day weekends. Captain is a little happy.

The problem is that the 3 day race will take place on the actual streets that we drive on everyday. Never mind that it will take months of construction to prepare for it and then take it apart. In exchange for the inconvenience, Captain wants a free pass.

I tell Captain,

“I’ll be getting out of Dodge.”

“Hopefully not in a Dodge.”

“Hopefully in a Toyota.”

That’s right, we’re car shopping. Zipcar I still love you.

The other item on the neighborhood meeting docket was a new coffee shop going in under our condo window. Captain is not thrilled. I’m thrilled. Under our window isn’t ideal, but the place looks like it’s going to be gorgeous.

There are going to be big windows, an outdoor patio, comfy chairs and two fireplaces. That’s two more fireplaces than our condo has now.

A woman tries to argue with the coffee shop man,

“There are already several coffee shops in the neighborhood including Dunkin Donuts, do you really think there’s a market for more coffee?”

I’d argue that there’s always a market for more coffee. Also, as much as I appreciate Dunkin Donuts, there are different types of coffee shops. Ones with fireplaces and ones without. Our neighborhood does not have any coffee shops with fireplaces.



This guy needs to start his own Meetup group: Foreskin or against

I went to a Meetup group last night. I was hoping to make some like-minded friends or at least talk to someone besides my house plants.

I did talk to people. I’ll have to try again for the friend making part. I’ve met the group leader once before and she’s great. Everyone else was new to me.

In the middle of the discussion, the floor is opened for questions. The discussion has been very specific, so I’m hoping the questions will be specific. One guy shouts out,

“How do you feel about circumcision?

“That’s a very personal decision for every family.” And entirely off topic.

Not only does this guy continue to double down on circumcision, but he’s taking time away from the topic we all came to talk about. More on that another time. I promise. He continues,

“I’m circumcised.”

I do not care about the state of your foreskin. The moderator tries to be diplomatic,

“There are many arguments for and against. I recommend you doing research on your own time.”

“One argument I heard is that if you want your child to be intellectual you’ll circumcise them, or else their main focus in life will be masturbating.”

Well, the supposed intellectual-circumcised correlation is not working for this guy.


Are all presents open? Good. I’m going back to bed

Being a Jew, I still can’t wrap my head around the whole let’s wake up at the crack of dawn to open presents Christmas morning thing.

I understand being 5 years old, being awake at the crack of dawn anyway and always ready to open presents. As an adult, it’s hard to fathom why we do this to ourselves every year. Why doesn’t Santa come after lunch? That’s a very reasonable time. Santa wouldn’t have to work the night shift and I could sleep until a reasonable hour.
I have an amazing photo of Captain and me in very sexy (not sexy at all) Christmas robes. I can’t post it until it’s approved. It’s too soon to jeopardize my marriage.

The things we do for our white leather couch

Captain and I don’t agree about everything.

He thinks having a humidifier is important. I couldn’t care less. Captain asks me,
“Doesn’t the air feel dry to you?”
My nose produces enough oil for my entire body. I’d probably have to sit in a sauna before the air would start to feel dry.
The humidifier is demanding. The red light flashes all of the time. It wants more water. Never mind that Captain just gave it water 3 days ago. Also the water canisters are very large and our sink is very small. It’s hard to get water in the canisters and not everywhere else in the kitchen.
As long as Captain and the humidifier want to be together and I don’t have to tend to it, bring on the moist air.
Captain had to travel for work last week. I was home alone. Everything was going well until the humidifier started flashing it’s stupid red light. You’re thirsty, my plants are thirsty. Everyone just needs to relax. For two days I walk past the empty humidifier and ignore it.
Day three. Captain will be home soon. He’ll be really happy if the humidifier is running. I decide to refill it. I get water EVERYWHERE. Maybe we don’t need a humidifier if we have puddles of standing water in the kitchen.
I should’ve waited until the day Captain was returning because the humidifier had the nerve to run out of water AGAIN. I filled it again.
Captain gets home, glances at the humidifier and asks me,
“Did you have to fill the humidifier?”
He knows I’m not happy about it. He tells me,
“Thank you.”
“I did it for you.”
“It’s not just for me. It’s good for the couch too.”

Ready for some fresh buns

Still in my jammies, but getting dressed any day now.

We went to my mom’s house for Hanukkah. This is a list of some of the things Captain and I received:

  • Underwear (always a winner)
  • Car tire inflator (Put car in front of whatever you’re giving Captain and you won.)
  • A big book
  • Chocolate
  • Apples
  • Oranges
  • Pears
  • Swiss cheese
  • A lot of hot dogs
If you’re still looking for something to get us, we could use hot dog buns.

You’re right, I’m still in my jammies


My only excuse for not blogging more often is a shortage of material. I have plenty of time. I have the kind of time that makes me think,

‘Maybe I should get a bar job so I have something to blog about.’

Another thought that has crossed my mind,

‘I could write a really really long blog, like 200 pages long, and see if someone or myself will publish it.’

In theory this sounds great. In practice it ends up with me in my jammies, on the couch until 3pm, surfing the net for cat videos.

Captain says,

“You could go somewhere else to write.”

Yes, somewhere without Internet. Maybe a dive bar.

Captain is excited about the whole venture. He wants me to work on the long blog. He tells me,

“You should try this at least once.”

At this point I’m running out of excuses.

So you’re saying I look like a sexy snowman?


Every Winter it’s the same: the warmer I want to be is directly disproportionate to how stylish I look.
The other night Captain and I are getting dressed for a tree lighting ceremony. It’s two hours long. I ask him,
“What’s happening for two hours?”
“I don’t know.”
There was dancing, singing and a lot of thanking people I’d never heard of. There was also fake snow falling. With Hanukkah we light the candles and get on with our lives.

I don’t want to be cold. I hate being cold. I put on my sleeping bag coat. It looks exactly like what would happen if you sewed sleeves and pockets on a winter white sleeping bag. I know it’s not sexy, but that still doesn’t stop me from asking Captain,

“Does this look ok?”

“Oh yeah, you look like…”

“A snow bunny?!”

“Yeah, that’s what I was going to say.”

“What were you going to say?”

“I was going to say you look like a snowman.”

He adds,

“Are you going to blog about this?”


What’s my name again?

Everyone keeps asking,

“How’s married life?”

It’s great and very similar to before. The best thing about married life is that I don’t have to plan a wedding. Also I have someone to file my taxes for me for free and I have a new last name.

I’m struggling to respond to my new name: Jessica Curtis. I don’t know who that person is. I also struggle to write my name on paperwork. It’s like I’m in nursery school again. I’ve got my first name down, so it’s like my second year of nursery school.

The name change was a dilemma. I gave it a lot of thought. It’s a patriarchal system. I have my father’s name. If I keep my name, I keep my father’s name which is not the same as my mother’s name

If I hyphenate my name, Burday-Curtis, then I have my father’s name and my husband’s name.

The only way to escape the patriarchal system is if Captain and I made up an entirely new name for both of us and our children. This completely cuts us off from all lines of our family.

So we’re Curtis and our kids might figure out how to spell it in the their first year of nursery school.


If anyone can eat two Thanksgiving dinners it’s Captain

Thanksgiving, the holiday that my family and Captain’s family celebrates. This year we’re doing both families in one day.

Wake up, drive one hour to Captain’s family. Celebrate for four hours. Drive one and a half hours to my mom’s. Celebrate for four hours. Drive one hour home. Relax.

This is the best solution. But it sets a dangerous precedent because where does the sharing stop? What happens when our kids are dating someone, will they go to three or four Thanksgivings?


House Hunting Dealbreakers

The house hunt begins.

I have a feeling this is going to be a long process, but we’re thinking about it.  Someday we’ll need more than one bedroom and I’d like a closet that doesn’t smell like chicken.

Captain and I went for a hike yesterday. Captain has been wanting to tour the suburbs, so while we’re southwest of the city I suggest,

“Why don’t we drive around and look at some of the towns?”

We start driving around Milton. We’re barely into it and Captain exclaims,

“This is what I don’t like.”


“All these traffic lights.”

“Traffic lights?”


“You want a town without traffic lights?”

I mention that I’m not sure where we’d have to move to, maybe Montana, if traffic lights are a deal breaker.

Captain capitulates,

“Some traffic lights are ok.”

We’ve yet to determine what number of traffic lights is the breaking point.



Integrity? We’ve got a law license to protect

A few months ago Captain and I were in Chicago for my brother’s law school graduation. That wasn’t the end of it. He took the bar. He passed it and there’s another ceremony to swear him in.

This is one too many ceremonies and not conveniently located. Also the last thing Captain and I want to do right now is get on another plane. We get on another plane.

My mom tells us,

“He only has tickets for three of us” including his girlfriend “so one of you will need to wait outside.”

We’re flying to Chicago to wait outside of a ceremony?

We all manage to make it into the ceremony. I would not have minded waiting outside. One of the main themes seems to be integrity, but I’m not sure, I’m fading in and out. The ceremony is 1.5 hours long. That is 89 minutes of speeches and one minute of swearing in.

My mom takes us all out for lunch. She slips my brother’s bar license into the bag with the leftovers. He’s concerned about getting food on it. My mom tells him,

“Don’t worry.”

I get up to go to the bathroom. When I return all 5 of our cloth napkins are gone. I peer in the bag. Yup, my mom has wrapped his law license in the restaurant’s dinner napkins.

We only need 3 more and we’ll have a whole set.



Not all airports are created equal

The trip home from the honeymoon.

We get in line for airport security in Santorini. Without a word of explanation another traveler pushes and shoves through the entire line until he reaches the front. A woman in line behind him starts shouting at him in another language. He starts shouting back. Two security guys just stand there.

More shouting. The security guys decide to step in. They send the guy to the back of the line and they take the lady into a closed room. We resume moving through security. My hair is piled on top of my head in a ballerina bun with a million hair pins. I set the metal detector off. The security guy motions for me to take my hair out.

Take my hair out? I just spent 15 precious minutes early this morning putting it up. I stare at him. He motions again for me to take it out. I really don’t want to. He sighs. Comes around from behind the scanner machine and scans my entire body with one of those wands, muttering to himself,

“Tall lady. Very tall lady.”

He never scans my hair.

We make it to Athens, but for some reason I wasn’t able to select our airplane seats online for the flight home. They were randomly assigned: 50E and 50F for an eleven hour flight. Doesn’t sound great. I approach the counter at our gate.

“I’m wondering about our seats.”

The woman takes our tickets and grimaces,

“Looks like the back of the plane.”  She types on her computer for a minute. “Yup, last row in the middle.”

“Is it possible to move them?”

“Not if you want to stay together.”

I walk back toward Captain. He asks,

“How’d it go?”

“Not great. We’re in the last row, in the middle of the plane.”

We board and now I understand the airline counter lady’s grimace. Not only are we the last row of the plane, but we’re sandwiched between two bathrooms. We sink into our seats. I ask a flight attendant about moving seats. She tells me,

“This is a very full flight. You’re lucky you’re sitting together.”

Two things:

One: A full flight is a full flight. What’s a very full flight?

Two: Maybe I don’t need to spend the next 11 hours with my husband and two toilets. Maybe 11 hours with no husband and no toilets should be considered.

We end up staying together. I glance at the back of my seat. There’s no individual movie screen. I look down the length of the plane, there are no screens anywhere. What sort of bargain international flight did I book? No seat selection, no movies… there better be food.

There ends up being a minimal amount of food for “free” and no food for purchase even though I’m starving and they’re being stingy with the pretzels.

One bathroom breaks, so a line starts for the remaining toilet a foot away from Captain. Every once in awhile a flight attendant goes in the bathroom and sprays some air freshener, but that combined with farts, combined with the airplane meatball sandwich smell, is not pleasant.

Several people around us have taken to covering their faces. The flight attendant asks them,

“You can smell that?”

Everyone nods. Why does the flight attendant think we couldn’t smell that? The only way to be closer to the toilet is to be sitting on it.

We land in Toronto. We have just under two hours to make our connecting flight to Boston. Seems doable, but we are in the back of the plane and I have a sinking feeling we need to go through immigration.

We arrive at Toronto airport’s passport control for the US. There’s a giant board that says this is a 3 step process. I see huge lines for Step One and Two and I can’t even see Step Three. What is this? I’ve been through a lot of bad border control situations. This is shaping up to be one of the worst.

We scan our passports and plane tickets and proceed to Step Two. We’re supposed to wait for our names to come up on a screen and then proceed to Step Three. Our flight leaves in one hour. I drag Captain to Step Three. We wait in line for 15 minutes. The guy checks our passports and his computer screen. He tells us,

“You have to go back to Step Two. Your names aren’t up on the board yet.”

“Our flight is boarding soon.”

“There’s nothing I can do. We’re waiting for your bags to clear customs. Air Canada might be able to declare your bags missing and then you could go.”

I’ll declare my bags missing, I don’t need Air Canada and their smelly bathroom seats to do that. We rush over to Air Canada. We get permission to go to Step Three.

Now finally we’re in line to go through passport control. Our flight is boarding. I go to the front of the line and ask a security woman,

“May we cut the line? Our flight is leaving soon.”

She looks at my ticket and says,

“No. You’ll be fine.”

Another lady comes rushing up to the security woman. She seems even more desperate than I am to catch her flight. The security woman shouts at her,

“Get a direct flight next time.”

Wow. I get back in line with Captain. We make it through passport control, only to be stuck in line for security again. Our flight is departing in 15 minutes. I leave Captain and his bad knee behind and sprint for the gate. I’m hoping I can convince them to wait for him and if not, then he can get on a flight tomorrow with our bags.

He lucked out and made it and amazingly enough so did our bags and the pink stuffed turtle I bought in Greece. Don’t worry, I declared it.


It’s not a honeymoon if there’s no skinny dipping. Don’t worry, we wore sunscreen

Everyone says you’re so exhausted by the end of it all, “it all” being the wedding. My body was tired. There’s only so much dancing in an 8 pound dress you can do. But mentally I was wired. I managed to go to sleep only to pop back up again at 6am ready to go.

Breakfast, pack and then off to the airport. Greece here we come. Captain’s ring keeps catching my eye. I’m with a married man! Seventeen travel hours later we arrive in Santorini. The taxi drops us off in a parking lot. Two guys pick up our bags and say,

“Follow us.”

It’s dark, there’s nothing nearby that looks like a honeymoon suite and two strange men are disappearing with our bags. I hustle to keep up. There are many flights of stairs. We’re losing ground on our bags.

We descend over the peak of a cliff and what we can’t see in the dark is our hotel, dug into the side of a cliff with the Aegean Sea stretching out to the horizon. We go to bed.

Two days later we put some clothes on and book an ELECTRIC mountain bike tour. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried one of these before, but it was amazing. It involves very little actual bicycle riding.

Next we rented a car. It was like a lawnmower for two. Later that night, strolling back to the hotel along the beach after a romantic dinner, Captain sighs,

“I miss my car and truck.”

Don’t worry, they’re waiting for you.

Captain’s honeymoon to-do list included a trip to the nude beach, so off we went. I’m glad we did it, but unless you’ve spent every summer of your life in a nudist colony, there’s a decent amount of concern for sun damage to one’s bits.

With our bits full of sunscreen, we’re finally able to relax. Two weeks later, it’s time to head home and get started on 30+ years of married blogging.

The open bar was a success

The wedding reception was not all roses and free cocktails, although there were plenty of free cocktails.

While Captain and I were busy being blown away/getting our photos taken, things were heating up in the cocktail tent. But not really, because the heater the hotel staff promised wasn’t heating.

My friend tells me,

“One lady said to another lady, ‘keep your f–king opinions to yourself.’ And walked off.”

I have no idea what that was about, but hopefully there’s some video footage.

Captain and I are ready to enter the reception hall and do our 3 minute long choreographed first dance. Huge success. Dance competitions here we come.

The toasts were perfect. My maid of honor went into detail about my food foraging skills and mentioned the time when I asked for and ate some stranger’s pizza crusts.

I know a good deal when I see one and that’s food scraps on someone else’s plate. Captain’s face in the photo below shows he’s still processing what a good deal food scraps are.

Next it was time to circulate to all of the tables and say hi to everyone. We had a relatively small wedding, 80 people, but when you’re going table to table, 80 seems like more than enough. We hit the last table just as the fireworks start to go off.
That’s right, my wedding had fireworks. Ok, so we may have lucked out and scheduled our wedding on the same day as some town fireworks. Free fireworks AND I managed to keep it a secret. When does that happen?
The secret was a little blown, but not everyone knew. The morning of the wedding my flower girl runs up to me and declares,
“Did you know there are going to be fireworks tonight?!”
“Yes! How’d you find out?!”
“It’s listed on the board by the pool.”
So you’re saying all the kids know.
After the fireworks, it’s time to cut the ice cream cake. My mother-in-law put a beautiful bow on a lovely cake knife. Captain and I take the knife to the cake and…. nothing. The knife is not going into the cake. We try again. I’m having ice cream cake if it’s the last thing I do.
I press down hard. SNAP. There goes the knife. We dig our forks in. And that was the only bit of ice cream cake I had! Hopefully some made it to my mom’s freezer because I didn’t spend months considering ice cream flavors for one bite.
The band was amazing, so amazing and fun that they handed the mic off to guests to sing. Which is a great idea in the beginning and starts to be questionable once the open bar is in full swing. At least it seemed like everyone was keeping their opinions to themselves.
I would like to thank all the women who made my multiple bathroom trips a reality and didn’t let my dress drag all over the men’s bathroom floor. A bride does NOT wait in line.

A special special wedding ceremony

The honeymoon is over.

What a whirlwind! I’ve read that the wedding ceremony can be transcendental. My ceremony was special, but it veered off the transcendental track before I even walked down the aisle.

My mom puts my blusher veil over my face and I follow my bridesmaids down the long hotel corridor toward the outdoor ceremony overlooking the beach. We reach the end and line up behind the door to go outside. Music is playing and I catch a glimpse of everyone seated and waiting. It’s 2 seconds to go time. The hotel fire alarm starts blasting.

Really? The ear piercing bell removes any sentimental thoughts I thought I might have. The bridal party proceeds down the aisle. It turns out you could barely hear the alarm at the ceremony site, but nobody told me.

My mom and I step outside. We start to walk toward everyone. The wind swoops up and my blusher is gone. I shout,

“Mom! My blusher!”

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”

What she didn’t tell me at the time, was that it was so windy my blusher was standing straight up in the air and there was nothing anyone was going to be able to do. Not such a big deal considering Captain has seen my face before.

I walk up to Captain with my sobbing somewhat under control. I slip under the chuppah (Jewish wedding canopy) to join him. It’s a chuppah made for 5 feet tall people. I’m 6′ and Captain is 6’3″. Never mind that the florist upsold us on some chuppah greenery that is hanging down and slapping us in the face every time the wind blows, which is the entire 30 minute ceremony.

Something wet splatters me. There are so many things happening. I’m not processing much. Captain points at my shoulder,

“A seagull pooped on you!”

I look at my arm and shoulder. Yup. Covered in bird poop. I look back at Captain. I tell him,

“It got you too!”

There’s bird poop down the front of his suit. I’m clutching my great-grandmother’s handkerchief, which until now I’ve been using to wipe my nose. Do I use this to wipe up bird poop?

“Mom! I need a tissue.” Keep in mind the wedding ceremony is still in progress. If you ever need a Rabbi, I highly recommend ours. She was wonderful and hilarious. Plus she spent a good portion of the ceremony promoting my blog.

There were almost 100 people standing/sitting around outside with no cover and Captain and I were under a canopy. The seagull still decided to poop on us.

Five minutes later I glance down. There is bird poop the entire length of my gown. Now I want to cry for real. Someone tells me to let it dry and it’ll flick off later. Note to anyone wearing a wedding dress who gets shat on by a seagull. Let it dry; it will flick off later.

We’re pronounced husband and wife; Captain kisses me and we’re off for 5 minutes by ourselves. We planned on this before the ceremony. We enjoyed it, but good luck finding all the family members and bridal party people you want photos with after you’ve let them get away.

Between trying to round everyone up and keeping my veil from pulling my head off into the wind, I was over the group photos. The photographer can see my frustration, he asks,

“Do you want to take your veil off?”

NO WAY! When else in my life will it be acceptable to prance around in public in a ball gown and veil? This is it. This was our very special, windy, fire alarm, bird-poop filled day.



BIG DAY for Good Times with Jess

This is it folks! Today I become Mrs. Captain.

We’re going on a honeymoon to Greece. I’ll be really busy moving from the hot tub, to the beach, to the bed, to the tray of food someone has delivered to our room. Honeymoon blogging may or may not be a thing. We’ll both find out.