Linds and I have about 14 months until the wedding. Tons of time, yes. But we are quickly learning that in the crazy wedding world, things book 18 months in advance. So now that we have a venue and a caterer, the next big hire to tackle is the photographer.
This sounds like it should be simple, right? Wrong. Apparently I am the worst combination of picky and budget-conscious, because all of the photographers I like are crazy expensive.
Here's what we're looking for in a photographer, in order of importance:
1) Supportive of marriage equality. Verbally and emotionally.
2) A photojournalistic, candid-focused style
3) Reliable and accountable (with references)
4) Nice!
5) Experience with same-sex weddings
Unfortunately, every photographer I've encountered who hits all of these points is charging upwards up $2,500 for their services (as they should! they're super talented). And we may end up having to just bite the bullet and pay that much. But I'm still hoping to find a gem who is all of these things for less money.
And so I throw it out to you, social network. Any ideas?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The Ties that Bind
Last week, I was (kind of) enjoying a tempeh reuben at Arbor Brewing Co. when I recieved an email on my Blackberry that was probably the most effective buzzkill (literally) of my life. Most emails that I receive about our wedding result either in giddy elation (YAY!!!! WE CAN HAVE FONDUE AT THE COCKTAIL HOUR!!!) or frustration/rage (Really? If we don't hire a videographer we're going to regret it for the rest of our lives and not remember our wedding? Really.). But this particular email resulted only in tears, leaving me in a dark place over a week later. It contained the announcement that a close relative will not be attending the wedding, as it goes against her beliefs. It also contained the not-at-all-contradictory closing line: "I hope you'll accept me as I've accepted you."
This email was in response to my email announcing that Lindsey and I are getting married. This email was the latest installment in a year-long struggle after finally coming out to her, years after everyone else. This email flew in the face of the direction I thought we were heading in--progress. We had been talking about getting together for dinner, the three of us, so that she could meet Lindsey and we could begin rebuilding our relationship. I thought that 15 months would be enough for her to come around. I thought she would see Lindsey and I together and be forced to start reconsidering her beliefs. I thought she would attend the wedding, be uncomfortable, and put on a smile. I thought we had time.
But without even meeting Lindsey, without seeing me face-to-face in over a year, without any dialogue or discussion, she made her decision. We haven't even sent out Save the Dates yet, and she's already decided not to attend. It's clear that there's no hope there, and that she's already closed her mind and her heart to the possibility of participating in such a beautiful and important event.
And the shittiest part? I'm not even angry. Those who know me know how shocking that is. I don't have even one ember of rage in me to fan, to make the sadness less palpable. All I feel is hurt and anxiety. How could I possibly continue a relationship with her after this? How could I ever see her again and make small talk and pretend that everything's okay? Am I going to have to essentially cut ties with an entire side of my family? She's the only one I see more than once a year as is, and I can't imagine attending family functions with all of that tension on the table, even if everyone else is supportive (which is yet to be determined). How will this affect my immediate family? What would my mom think?
Unfortunately, Lindsey is bearing the brunt of this grieving period. The poor woman can't go a night without talking me down from a crying spell or an anxiety attack. She tells me I'm not crazy, she insists that it's okay to feel awful even though I have it so good, she lets me watch dumb TV because it makes me feel better, and she makes me laugh. God, does she make me laugh. So even though things feel so shaky right now, I'm grateful. I have a partner who makes the worst days bearable, and who loves me enough to sign up for a lifetime of my unique brand of crazy. That's a tie that's not going anywhere.
(So suck it, haters.)
This email was in response to my email announcing that Lindsey and I are getting married. This email was the latest installment in a year-long struggle after finally coming out to her, years after everyone else. This email flew in the face of the direction I thought we were heading in--progress. We had been talking about getting together for dinner, the three of us, so that she could meet Lindsey and we could begin rebuilding our relationship. I thought that 15 months would be enough for her to come around. I thought she would see Lindsey and I together and be forced to start reconsidering her beliefs. I thought she would attend the wedding, be uncomfortable, and put on a smile. I thought we had time.
But without even meeting Lindsey, without seeing me face-to-face in over a year, without any dialogue or discussion, she made her decision. We haven't even sent out Save the Dates yet, and she's already decided not to attend. It's clear that there's no hope there, and that she's already closed her mind and her heart to the possibility of participating in such a beautiful and important event.
And the shittiest part? I'm not even angry. Those who know me know how shocking that is. I don't have even one ember of rage in me to fan, to make the sadness less palpable. All I feel is hurt and anxiety. How could I possibly continue a relationship with her after this? How could I ever see her again and make small talk and pretend that everything's okay? Am I going to have to essentially cut ties with an entire side of my family? She's the only one I see more than once a year as is, and I can't imagine attending family functions with all of that tension on the table, even if everyone else is supportive (which is yet to be determined). How will this affect my immediate family? What would my mom think?
Unfortunately, Lindsey is bearing the brunt of this grieving period. The poor woman can't go a night without talking me down from a crying spell or an anxiety attack. She tells me I'm not crazy, she insists that it's okay to feel awful even though I have it so good, she lets me watch dumb TV because it makes me feel better, and she makes me laugh. God, does she make me laugh. So even though things feel so shaky right now, I'm grateful. I have a partner who makes the worst days bearable, and who loves me enough to sign up for a lifetime of my unique brand of crazy. That's a tie that's not going anywhere.
(So suck it, haters.)
Thursday, July 7, 2011
How My Mom Paid for Cobblestone
This story begins a few weeks ago, on the night my family celebrated Linds' birthday, when my dad brought my mail that had been sent to his house. I rolled my eyes and sighed, because this usually means I paid a parking ticket late and the City of Ann Arbor is writing to gouge me a little bit more. But this time was different--the envelope was from Israel Bonds Direct. What?
At home later that night I used google to decode all of the financial jargon, and realized several things:
1) My mom had purchased an Israel Bond for me, in both of our names, in 1996
2) It was reaching maturity on July 1st
3) Someone was going to mail me a check for $900
Clearly, this was exciting news. I'll spare you the details of the awkward, depressing, lengthy process of removing her name from the account (tip: avoid carrying your mom's death certificate around for a week. it's weird.) and just skip to...
a few days ago, at my weekly sit-down with Linds to go over our budget. We were discussing how to re-allocate money in order to pay off the balance on one of my credit cards, which holds only the rental fee for our reception venue (Cobblestone Farm). We decided to just use the bond redemption check, since it's almost the exact amount as the cost of renting the space.
Then last night, when I glanced at my mom's picture hanging in our "living room", I was hit over the head with a sense of faith in the universe, and her memory, and her spirit. I didn't know this bond existed until three weeks ago, which was almost exactly a month after we booked Cobblestone. The bond just happens to be for nearly the exact amount as the rental fee. The bond that my mom bought, in both of our names.
Sorry, but even this humanist only-marginally-spiritual lady can't write that off. I am overwhelmed with a feeling of connectedness with her. We've been thinking about ways to include her and honor her in the wedding, and I'm sure those will be beautiful and meaningful. But this surprise? Amazing.
At home later that night I used google to decode all of the financial jargon, and realized several things:
1) My mom had purchased an Israel Bond for me, in both of our names, in 1996
2) It was reaching maturity on July 1st
3) Someone was going to mail me a check for $900
Clearly, this was exciting news. I'll spare you the details of the awkward, depressing, lengthy process of removing her name from the account (tip: avoid carrying your mom's death certificate around for a week. it's weird.) and just skip to...
a few days ago, at my weekly sit-down with Linds to go over our budget. We were discussing how to re-allocate money in order to pay off the balance on one of my credit cards, which holds only the rental fee for our reception venue (Cobblestone Farm). We decided to just use the bond redemption check, since it's almost the exact amount as the cost of renting the space.
Then last night, when I glanced at my mom's picture hanging in our "living room", I was hit over the head with a sense of faith in the universe, and her memory, and her spirit. I didn't know this bond existed until three weeks ago, which was almost exactly a month after we booked Cobblestone. The bond just happens to be for nearly the exact amount as the rental fee. The bond that my mom bought, in both of our names.
Sorry, but even this humanist only-marginally-spiritual lady can't write that off. I am overwhelmed with a feeling of connectedness with her. We've been thinking about ways to include her and honor her in the wedding, and I'm sure those will be beautiful and meaningful. But this surprise? Amazing.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Visibility and The Dress
When Linds and I started to talk about getting married, I had a really hard time visualizing myself in a white dress. In fact, by the time we got engaged, I was adamantly opposed to wearing one. I never wear white. I've never been particularly comfortable in white. I'm most definitely not a "virgin" (maybe someday I'll write a post about my disdain for that word), and I am very turned off by the historical context of the White Wedding Dress. Furthermore, I effing love purple and wear it most days. Eggplant, my favorite shade of purple, would also look amazing against our fall theme with lots of orange and yellow accents. I haven't really started dress shopping yet, but whenever someone asks "What are you going to wear?", I've been answering "PURPLE! No wedding dress for me. Gross."
Well. Something very surprising happened last night while Linds and I were at a U of M School of Social Work reunion. The party had moved to Babs, a swanky (relatively speaking) bar downtown. We were sitting right next to the entrance, which is down a long flight of stairs from the street. Around midnight (I know, I was out until midnight. Crazy.), a woman in our group announced that some people who were trying to join us were stuck outside and had been told that no one else would be admitted until a bridal party with a reservation arrived. This definitely piqued my interest, and I spent the next ten minutes glancing at the door every few seconds in anticipation of seeing the group and what they were wearing. They finally began streaming in and I saw that the bridesmaids were dressed in EGGPLANT. I was thrilled, and unabashedly stared them down in an attempt to make out the details. After a two minute lull in the procession, a fellow bar patron opened the door to leave for the night and shrieked "Ohmygod, THERE'S A BRIDE!!!!". Everyone in our section of the bar turned to look, and when the bride walked through the doors (looking quite uncomfortable, I might add) the entire bar started clapping and cheering for her. I watched her move through the room as women (yes, 100% true in this case) at table after table turned to see her and pointed her out to their friends. And then I was tearing up. And frantically trying to stop. "Am I drunk? What the hell is going on?". I began to social work myself (clinical training = blessing and curse). "Diana, what feeling words are associated with your tears? Where are you feeling the sadness in your body? Can you pull out a cognition for me?" And eventually, there it was: "I want that too."
Then, panic. "Holy shit, Diana. You are a disgrace to all gay women and all liberals and all feminists. How could you want to wear a white dress? How could you be so shallow? You need to be ON. You need to send a MESSAGE...with EGGPLANT." You need, you should, you need. Etc, etc, etc.
Then I looked up and saw Linds, and I landed back in reality. I forgave myself, and smiled, and texted Laura: "I just had a breakthrough at Babs...I want to wear white."
Now let's be clear, before I go any further. Do I want an entire bar of strangers cheering for me? Absolutely not. But do I want people to look at me and know I'm a bride? Yes. Yes I do.
As a gay woman on the femme side of the spectrum, I struggle constantly with visibility. It really bothers me that people assume that I'm straight when they look at me. That may be difficult to understand, but it's difficult to explain--particularly in a blog post. Visibility is important to me, and I realized last night that our wedding will be no exception. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I do want to be recognized as a bride. I'm not even sure why, other than the obvious and shallow. But what I am trying to repeat to myself is that I deserve whatever experience I want on that day. I don't need to saddle myself with the pressure of The Big Gay Counterculture Non-White Wedding (and by the way, I've seen pictures of close to a hundred gay lady weddings--and the vast majority involve a white dress).
So. I'll be wearing a white dress, with lots of eggplant accessories. Please don't judge me.
Well. Something very surprising happened last night while Linds and I were at a U of M School of Social Work reunion. The party had moved to Babs, a swanky (relatively speaking) bar downtown. We were sitting right next to the entrance, which is down a long flight of stairs from the street. Around midnight (I know, I was out until midnight. Crazy.), a woman in our group announced that some people who were trying to join us were stuck outside and had been told that no one else would be admitted until a bridal party with a reservation arrived. This definitely piqued my interest, and I spent the next ten minutes glancing at the door every few seconds in anticipation of seeing the group and what they were wearing. They finally began streaming in and I saw that the bridesmaids were dressed in EGGPLANT. I was thrilled, and unabashedly stared them down in an attempt to make out the details. After a two minute lull in the procession, a fellow bar patron opened the door to leave for the night and shrieked "Ohmygod, THERE'S A BRIDE!!!!". Everyone in our section of the bar turned to look, and when the bride walked through the doors (looking quite uncomfortable, I might add) the entire bar started clapping and cheering for her. I watched her move through the room as women (yes, 100% true in this case) at table after table turned to see her and pointed her out to their friends. And then I was tearing up. And frantically trying to stop. "Am I drunk? What the hell is going on?". I began to social work myself (clinical training = blessing and curse). "Diana, what feeling words are associated with your tears? Where are you feeling the sadness in your body? Can you pull out a cognition for me?" And eventually, there it was: "I want that too."
Then, panic. "Holy shit, Diana. You are a disgrace to all gay women and all liberals and all feminists. How could you want to wear a white dress? How could you be so shallow? You need to be ON. You need to send a MESSAGE...with EGGPLANT." You need, you should, you need. Etc, etc, etc.
Then I looked up and saw Linds, and I landed back in reality. I forgave myself, and smiled, and texted Laura: "I just had a breakthrough at Babs...I want to wear white."
Now let's be clear, before I go any further. Do I want an entire bar of strangers cheering for me? Absolutely not. But do I want people to look at me and know I'm a bride? Yes. Yes I do.
As a gay woman on the femme side of the spectrum, I struggle constantly with visibility. It really bothers me that people assume that I'm straight when they look at me. That may be difficult to understand, but it's difficult to explain--particularly in a blog post. Visibility is important to me, and I realized last night that our wedding will be no exception. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I do want to be recognized as a bride. I'm not even sure why, other than the obvious and shallow. But what I am trying to repeat to myself is that I deserve whatever experience I want on that day. I don't need to saddle myself with the pressure of The Big Gay Counterculture Non-White Wedding (and by the way, I've seen pictures of close to a hundred gay lady weddings--and the vast majority involve a white dress).
So. I'll be wearing a white dress, with lots of eggplant accessories. Please don't judge me.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
At a (Potential) Vendor Meeting
Vendor: So what's your fiancee's name?
Diana: Lindsey.
Vendor: What's his last name?
Diana: Her last name is _______.
Vendor: Oh! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed.
YES. That is exactly it.
Not "Oh...." (awkward silence while she stares at the form trying to figure out what to do)
Not "Oh! OMG that's so awesome!!! I have a gay cousin. I bet you know him."
Just a simple apology, and then we moved on. THANK YOU Katherine's Catering.
Diana: Lindsey.
Vendor: What's his last name?
Diana: Her last name is _______.
Vendor: Oh! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed.
YES. That is exactly it.
Not "Oh...." (awkward silence while she stares at the form trying to figure out what to do)
Not "Oh! OMG that's so awesome!!! I have a gay cousin. I bet you know him."
Just a simple apology, and then we moved on. THANK YOU Katherine's Catering.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
We Choose for Ourselves
Linds and I are so lucky to have a large community of supportive people who are thrilled for us. We will always be grateful for that. We also remain mindful that even in the more hurtful moments, we are far luckier than many others who can't even come out safely--let alone have a big gay wedding.
We know this. And still. Some of the questions people have asked about our wedding really surprised me. A sample:
"So you're not technically getting married, right?"
"Isn't that actually called a Commitment Ceremony?"
"Why are you having a ceremony if it isn't legal? Why not just have a party?"
What it comes down to, I think, is that many people--even people who are very supportive--seem to have what I've been calling a "lack of imagination" about the different forms a marriage can take.
This is the form ours is taking:
We are getting married here, in Michigan, where there will be no legal recognition of our relationship--as a marriage or a civil union. We are not going out-of-state to acquire a marriage license, because Michigan's constitution has been amended to block any and all recognition of same-sex marriage licenses issued in other states. We are having a marriage ceremony and reception, which we are calling a wedding. It will look very much like other weddings you've been to, except better. (Just kidding. Mostly.) It will be a little bit Jewish, entirely secular, and yes--very much gay.
And here's why we're doing it this way:
"Commitment Ceremony" feels dry and flat to me. It sounds like accepting a job, or signing a contract--but with cake. It feels like we're being thrown a bone. It feels like being picked last.
Linds and I are getting married. Those words, on their own, carry weight. They carry meaning and history. They tie us to our parents, who committed their lives to each other and created families out of that love. They speak to the hugeness (that's right) of the step we are taking together, to intertwine our lives and move through the world together, for always. A marriage ceremony gives us the opportunity to speak to that commitment, out loud, in front of our community. We think that ritual is important, and that marking our marriage with a ceremony is an important part of the accountability our vows will demand. And perhaps most importantly, we think that the power of that ceremony lies in our hearts and in the hearts of everyone there to support us--not in a piece of paper. That certainly doesn't mean that marriage is the only way, or the right way, to signify a committed relationship. But it's what's right for us.
There are two sides (many, actually) to everything, and this is no exception. I've read about couples who are intentionally staying away from language that includes "wedding" and "marriage" because they don't want people to lose sight of the fact that they have been denied the right to legally marry. I completely understand that, and to be honest, I'm a bit surprised that I'm not jumping on that wagon myself. I'm kind of the poster child for the-personal-is-political.
What I've realized while answering these questions is that our choices are political as well. We are smacking our relationship down on the table, right next to the Obama's and the Clinton's and the [insert fleeting celebrity marriage]. We're saying "We're married too." We're making that choice for ourselves, when it's right for us--not when ignorant fools decide to stop comparing it to bestiality, not when the wedding industry decides to give us some visibility, and certainly not when the government decides to recognize it. We will take our lack of tax benefits and lack of protection just like we have taken everything else--together. And when things finally change, which they will, we'll stand in line to get that piece of paper--and it will be a very necessary and long overdue component of our marriage.
We know this. And still. Some of the questions people have asked about our wedding really surprised me. A sample:
"So you're not technically getting married, right?"
"Isn't that actually called a Commitment Ceremony?"
"Why are you having a ceremony if it isn't legal? Why not just have a party?"
What it comes down to, I think, is that many people--even people who are very supportive--seem to have what I've been calling a "lack of imagination" about the different forms a marriage can take.
This is the form ours is taking:
We are getting married here, in Michigan, where there will be no legal recognition of our relationship--as a marriage or a civil union. We are not going out-of-state to acquire a marriage license, because Michigan's constitution has been amended to block any and all recognition of same-sex marriage licenses issued in other states. We are having a marriage ceremony and reception, which we are calling a wedding. It will look very much like other weddings you've been to, except better. (Just kidding. Mostly.) It will be a little bit Jewish, entirely secular, and yes--very much gay.
And here's why we're doing it this way:
"Commitment Ceremony" feels dry and flat to me. It sounds like accepting a job, or signing a contract--but with cake. It feels like we're being thrown a bone. It feels like being picked last.
Linds and I are getting married. Those words, on their own, carry weight. They carry meaning and history. They tie us to our parents, who committed their lives to each other and created families out of that love. They speak to the hugeness (that's right) of the step we are taking together, to intertwine our lives and move through the world together, for always. A marriage ceremony gives us the opportunity to speak to that commitment, out loud, in front of our community. We think that ritual is important, and that marking our marriage with a ceremony is an important part of the accountability our vows will demand. And perhaps most importantly, we think that the power of that ceremony lies in our hearts and in the hearts of everyone there to support us--not in a piece of paper. That certainly doesn't mean that marriage is the only way, or the right way, to signify a committed relationship. But it's what's right for us.
There are two sides (many, actually) to everything, and this is no exception. I've read about couples who are intentionally staying away from language that includes "wedding" and "marriage" because they don't want people to lose sight of the fact that they have been denied the right to legally marry. I completely understand that, and to be honest, I'm a bit surprised that I'm not jumping on that wagon myself. I'm kind of the poster child for the-personal-is-political.
What I've realized while answering these questions is that our choices are political as well. We are smacking our relationship down on the table, right next to the Obama's and the Clinton's and the [insert fleeting celebrity marriage]. We're saying "We're married too." We're making that choice for ourselves, when it's right for us--not when ignorant fools decide to stop comparing it to bestiality, not when the wedding industry decides to give us some visibility, and certainly not when the government decides to recognize it. We will take our lack of tax benefits and lack of protection just like we have taken everything else--together. And when things finally change, which they will, we'll stand in line to get that piece of paper--and it will be a very necessary and long overdue component of our marriage.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Bullshit: Part One
Linds and I have been talking about last names, and trying to decide if we want to make any changes to our last names once we're married.
On a whim, I just googled "name change michigan" and found out that if either of us want to change our names, we need to pay $150 to file a petition to Washtenaw County's probate court. We then need to go get fingerprinted, await police clearance, and then schedule a hearing in which we explain our reason for the name change. The process apparently takes at least two months--and then, assuming our petition is accepted, we have the usual month-long stream of paperwork for things like driver's licenses, social security cards, etc.
For Linds and I to both change our names in Washtenaw County, we'll have to pay $300. A marriage license in Washtenaw County costs $20--name change included.
On a whim, I just googled "name change michigan" and found out that if either of us want to change our names, we need to pay $150 to file a petition to Washtenaw County's probate court. We then need to go get fingerprinted, await police clearance, and then schedule a hearing in which we explain our reason for the name change. The process apparently takes at least two months--and then, assuming our petition is accepted, we have the usual month-long stream of paperwork for things like driver's licenses, social security cards, etc.
For Linds and I to both change our names in Washtenaw County, we'll have to pay $300. A marriage license in Washtenaw County costs $20--name change included.
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