Picture notquite Perfect

Hoooo Boy.

I asked for snow. And I GOT IT.

Too bad I also asked The Funasaurus to drive waaaay west, when we live waaaaay east, to meet with a wedding photographer after work last night. I love the snow. The Funasaurus does not love it, so much. At all. But, quite the trooper, he met me at the photographer's house, after battling I-70, getting lost, sliding his car across some ice at a very slow speed, and trudging through about 3 inches of accumulated powder in the driveway in his pretty work shoes and new suit pants.

"Hi baby, what took you so long?"

(I am NOT nice, and should NOT have been surprised that he snarled [snarled!] at me.)

We were off to a great start.

Meanwhile, the photographer had been showing me some of his older pictures, (of his mother in the 60s with some bitchin' cat eye glasses, of one of the Ramon-but-not-really-a-Ramon band members with whom he supposedly went to high school, of himself as a taxi driver and a mullet.... did he really think that would impress me?, etc.) and drilling me with questions that made me uncomfortable. For example, "Why do you love my work?"

Well, first of all, who said I LOVED your work? (even if I did.)

Second, me = a) not a photographer and b) not really sappy. So I could neither answer, "I love composition with the flowers and the way you handle lighting in a dark room with tall walls," nor "Just the way you've captured the love pouring out of that bride, you can almost see the tears before they've actually appeared. I want to marry her. Oh look, I'm crying, it touched me so deeply." Which were really the answers he was looking for.

Eh.

So I floundered, and was like, "Um, they're nice?"

Which is a horrid answer, but it was a horrid question, so we sat in stalemate until a damp and surly Funasaurus arrived.

Then the photographer decided we should chat, before we got on with the presentation. We talked T.V. shows. (The Amazing Race. Neither The Funasaurus nor I had ever watched an episode. The Real World. The Photographer had never heard of it. [that should be a red flag right there. Who hasn't seen The Real World?!]) We talked movies. (They talked about sports movies. I sat there mute.) We met his wife. (Very nice, very chatty, very big on giving me advice as a bride. Also: she wore braces. They were kind of cute on her, actually. Never thought I'd say that about a 45 year old woman, but she really carried off the brace face look quite well.)

Finally, as I sat watching the snow pile up in the dark street, I said, "Well, we'll have to get going eventually, should we look at the pictures?" And the photographer made one of those jokes-that's-not-quite-a-joke about leaving so soon?

So we saw some very nice pictures. And then some sales pressure was applied by the photographer. And then I decided right there we would not be working with this guy. And The Funasaurus agreed, and fortunately he handled the whole situation much more diplomatically than I would have, "very nice, we have lots to think about, pleasure to meet you, don't mind her, she mutters all the time, it means she likes you, etc. etc." and we went home. Where we proceeded to pop a large bag of extra-buttery popcorn and curl up under a blanket with our little hell minions, in front of The Colbert Report.

(We've already discussed my bizarre crush on Mr. Stephen, no? But I like his wife, Evelyn [who goes by Evie but doesn't work so well for my name-merge so I used the formal "Evelyn"], too much, so I won't go there. Rock on, Stephelyn. I got yo' back.)

And thus ended the night on a lovely, cozy note, despite wet socks and sale-hungry photographer.