Today is our seventeenth wedding anniversary.
When we got married it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. I had no idea we were doing anything unusual. But we were the first same-sex couple to register at Macy's and the first to have our wedding announcement in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I'm not going to show you photos of that, because I've done it before (and even though, yes, I'm wearing a dress), I'm guessing you're bored of such things by now.
A couple of nights ago we helped our neighours, Vicki and Ron, celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary. (Vicki, you might recall, is the artist who made Petalville, the gigantic collage on our wall. Ron is the handiest person with a hammer and saw eva.) Vicki brought us flowers from her garden. We ate much fine food, drank champagne, and stayed up later than old married couples should.
I woke up the next morning stone in love: with Kelley, our home, our neighbourhood, and the life we've made. The weather mirrored my mood. The house was flooded with light.
Our front porch has a trellis with climbing roses. It threw interesting shadows on the wall:
The photo is by Jennifer Durham. Here's a close-up:
Here you can see Vicki's flowers on the table, and a slice of Petalville--made of her flowers and ours--on the right:
And here's the trellis--because, hey, this is a blog, not a novel, and I don't have to do that stern writer thing and leave it to your imagination. (It's a holiday weekend; no one should be doing more work than necessary.)
No AN photo post would be complete without the doughty perbs, which have suffered mightily the last month, being snipped and nipped and chopped for all those lovely dinners:
All in all, I'm feeling very smug. Absolutely delighted with life. I hope you, too, have plans for an utterly delicious weekend.