Photo recap below. All images courtesy of uber-talented photographer, Hino B. [Psst: For more of our wedding, be sure to check out Hino's photo blog]

Before the wedding, we did bridal portraits Houston’s gorgeous Hotel Icon. Although it’s a modern concept, my (totally sassy) pouf veil looks vintage in this shot.

There were so many DIY elements in my wedding. From the invitations and programs, to the flag bunting, water bottle favors, paper hand fans, ring bearer flag, flowers, bike wreaths, tissue paper pom poms, cake flags, cake stands, and even our photo booth(!)—my wedding was a handmade affair. True story: every Sunday for three months before the Big Day, I hosted Wedding Craft Sweatshop in my loft. I think my brideslaves are still recovering from glue gun burns.

Check out the bridal party! The boys bought their own suits and wore mismatched coordinating yellow ties. The girls wore yellow ruffle etsy dresses and cowboy boots. Boutineers and custom burlap clutches were made by my crafty Auntie Barb.

My father flew nearly 3,000 miles to walk me down the aisle.

My doll-faced nephew came from California. A pillow alternative, our rings were tied with trailing white and yellow ribbon attached to the base of a DIY ring bearer flag.

For one of our first dates, Andrew (a nature lover) took me to the arboretum. It was a magical moment, getting married there three years later.

After the ceremony, we went downtown for our reception. Our brilliant photographer took the liberty of snapping a few shots on the street before we made our grand entrance at Treebeards.

Because a traditional guest book just wouldn’t do, I DIY’d “wishing wreaths”. Our wreaths, made from grapevine-wrapped bike rims, were an homage to the bike shop where we met. Guests were instructed to fill out custom stamped tags (made by Mom) and pin them to the spokes with clothespins.

Although I chose not to carry a bouquet, I did DIY about 30 floral arrangements for the reception. Vases were upcycled mason jars scored on Craigslist.

Our first dance was to the Beach Boy’s classic, “God Only Knows”, because God only knows what I’d be without Andrew. He makes my heart beat fast.

Our Mother-Son, Father-Daughter dance was to Johnny Cash’s version of “You Are My Sunshine.”

By far, the most popular entertainment at our reception was the DIY photo booth! Guests waited in lines all night to take home printed strips. After the wedding, I put the digital copies in an online album.

Our adorable ruffle cake and the three smaller cakes were all differently flavored and frosted. The mini cake bunting on the ruffle cake was made to mimic the flag garland from our wedding ceremony.

At the end of the night, we made our grand exit under a shower of ecofetti. Conscientious brides: if you’re wondering if it works, it does!

Wedding vendors:
Ceremony: Houston Arboretum / Reception: Treebeards Market Square / Photographer: Hino B. / Bridal Hair and Makeup: Tara Ward /Dress: Elizabeth Fillmore “Diva” via Preowned Wedding Dresses / Shoes: sequined heart shoe clips via ban.do / Veil: Tulle Pouf Bridal Veil via Modern Romance (Etsy) / Groom’s Suit: Alfani via Macys / Bridesmaid dresses: Ananya (Etsy) / Groom + Groomsmen + ringbearer ties: Tux & Tulle (Etsy) / Bridesmaid clutches + groomsmen boutineers: Hänni’s Auntie Barb / Flowers: DIY’d by bride, blooms from H.E.B. / Cake: Joie Cakes / DJ: Daulong’s Mobile Music / Photobooth: DIY’d by the bride, software by David Cline / Paper fans: ceremony favors via Japanese Style / Confetti: Ecofetti

Post from: Hannihaus

and just like that … “pouf” it’s all over! My Big Fat DIY Rustic-Chic and Vintage Whimsy Wedding Photo Recap

“You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4 not with a parade of guns, tanks and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism.” – Erma Bombeck

Today I’m celebrating America’s independence with s’mores pops and paper pinwheels.

To my fellow patriots of huddled around the dessert table today, I say, LET FREEDOM RING! (and also bon appetit).

Credits:

S’mores pops: recipe via Whimsical Creations
Pinwheel printables: Paper and Pigtails cupcake topper printable via Bella Grace Party Designs
Paper pinwheel instructions: DIY PDF via paper source
Free July 4th word art (framed): 16″ X 20″ printable word art via Crafting Chicks

Post from: Hannihaus

Wherein my wedding craft obsession becomes everyday craft obsession, post-wedding. In other words: Happy 4th of July, friends!

My groom is full of beans, (literally!). His groom’s cake is not–it just looks that way.

Feast your eyes: a burrito cake for a burrito aficionado. Under the covers, Andrew’s fondant-wrapped burrito features yellow cake with chocolate buttercream frosting. The guacamole and Diet Dr Pepper are rice crispies in disguise. The chips, napkin, plate, beans, and greens are simply fondant, fondant, and more fondant.

If this cake doesn’t make you wanna shout, Aye Carumba!, then nothing will. (And also? You just might be a soulless cyborg–freaky!)

Vendor shout out: Many thanks to Houston-based baker, Joie Cakes. Your cake made my groom a happy, happy dude.

Post from: Hannihaus

Because If you are what you eat, he is burritos: a groom’s cake for hotpants.

(Psst: Want to see more? check out Hino’s photo blog. There’s an entire smorgasbord of Hänni + Andrew e-pics over there. Yesssss!)

Post from: Hannihaus

I said “Yes” and then we said, “Cheese”. Here are our engagement photos.

Cause really, is it too much to ask the man who voluntarily gathers, washes, and folds our laundry to make sure the face cloths are rolled just so in order to resemble either a bunny or dessert cake? I don’t think so.

In any event, I think bro bro’s “demanding woman” was his special way of saying I was bitchy and/or bossy.

Naturally, I took this as a compliment.

Erin Cooks is also a beyotch cut from the same cloth. Another Demanding Woman, in the wake of last week’s engagement announcement, she had this to say in comments:

Well ask and ye shall receive.

But first, a little bit about the ring:

My ring is green
If there is one thing I heard over-and-over growing up, it is that the diamond cartel—like pleat-front pants—is evil. Because my step dad ingrained that into my brain and because I am a hippie, I made sure my diamond was a conflict free. My diamond, which I think came from a Canadian mine, is both glamorous AND socially responsible … just like fabulous little me.

My ring is custom
After researching the forums on PriceScope, a consumer advocate Web site touted as “The Internets #1 diamond and jewelry resource”, Andrew and I decided to check out Brian Gavin Diamonds. Brian Gavin is a fifth generation diamond broker and also? He is awesome. Brian is a Houston-based e-tailer, selling eco diamonds and custom jewelry online. Folks who want to avoid the markups at brick and mortar stores while getting exquisite craftsmanship should definitely consider shopping online for their rings. And if you care about being socially responsible, e-tailers like Brian Gavin Diamonds, WhiteFlash and Blue Nile are no brainers. All their diamonds are conflict free as a matter of course.

My ring has its own glamour shots
Upon completion of my ring—which was custom designed and took about three weeks from start to finish—Brian Gavin Diamonds e-mailed pictures of the finished product. Truly, the ring is as unique and lovely as shown. For those who are curious about it’s vintage look and octagonal shape, the cut is called an “Asscher” and it’s been around since 1902.

And now that we have that out of the way, here you go Erin Cooks. And everybody else, feast your eyes:

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I’m ENRAGED! No, that’s not the right word…. Ring deets!

(Now, posting pics wherein my I appear to be naked—but really am not! I swear! I just have huge hair and tiny tank top straps!—we never get sick of that. Am I right?)

HÄndrew–getting engaged since 2010….This deserves an Ow ow!

Post from: Hannihaus

I guess he liked it (cuz he went and put a ring on it)

There’s always someone panhandling on the corner of Westheimer and Hillcroft—the snowy-haired dude with the limp and robotic, Salvation-Army-Santa hand gestures; the Mexican guy propped up in a wheelchair; the sun-bleached woman with eyes a little too wide and skin so leathery, it looks reptilian—but this one, I hadn’t see him before.

Because I’m stopped at a red light, I’ve got time to examine the man. He is thin, tall, and nerdy looking. Thick-framed black glasses—the kind that prettier people wear to be ironic—slide down his nose. Underneath his non-descript mesh cap, I spy a kempt brown fringe, sensibly cut. Plastered to dude’s chest is a white sign with hand-drawn black lettering that says: “Lost job. Will work. Do not drink. God bless.” The job thing strikes a nerve. He’s a geek—reminds me of every engineer I’ve worked with. I dig through my purse, find my wallet, wrench it open. And: no cash. My pocketbook’s empty, save for a sticky note, some lint and two rogue postage stamps. I sigh and think, if this was a cartoon, feathery moths would’ve flown from the folds.

When the light turns green, I speed through the intersection, leaving the man behind. I navigate a few streets until I find my destination. Once parked, I slip my hands into my pockets and search for hard plastic. I am like the panhandler, except I have this magic card. Nervous, I bring it into the bank and whisper to the clerk, “I’m not sure how this works … I lost my job and the unemployment office sent this to me. They say it’s a debit card and that you can give me money. Is that true?”

The clerk—all blotchy skin and bad suit—regards me with apathy.

As I take the cash, a bloom of fuchsia colors my cheeks. I am embarrassed, defensive. I think, who am I to be pitied? I’m not the stiff in an ill-fitting outfit with the lame-ass bank job. Still, something uncomfortable washes over me. It feels like sadness. It wreaks of shame.
—-

~May~

“I’m having a hard time keeping track of the days,” I tell Mary Helen, my sister in uncertainty. It’s been two months since I lost my job—six weeks since she lost hers, and we are seated on woven wicker barstools in our hosts’, Carolyn and Sam’s cozy kitchen.

“The only reason I know today’s date,” I confide, “is because of the holiday.” I shrug as I speak, smooth a wrinkle from the white linen pants I paired specially with a blue-striped tank and red beaded necklace. Mary Helen—dressed not-so-festively in pair of plaid-patterned board shorts and a white t-shirt with an oversized fedora and the words KING OF POP splashed across the front—nods; she understands all too well. Above our heads, a delectable bouquet of fresh-grilled Cajun sausage and slow-cooked brisket haloes. We salivate, and in my thoughts I muse, there is such thing as a free lunch. You just need to lose your job first.
—-

~June~

Ten weeks I’ve been unemployed and inside me there’s a tectonic shift; the terrain of fear I’d been laboring under, so desperate to keep my job in a lousy economy, is shattered. In fear’s place, (most days) lies an acceptance of what is—that I don’t have a job and that I am still OK—and a curiosity about the future. Where will I work next? How long will it take to find something? Will I be a contract worker or full-time employee? Will I still write for a living? If I don’t write, what will I do? Will I find work in Houston? Should I return to the northwest? These are the questions that bubble in my brain as I lounge by the pool, a golden, sweat-glossed goddess, luxuriating in the fact that I have nothing better to do.

…

Before the calendar flips to July, I’m shaking hands with strangers in a new office. My new office. First day of work and a sensible tab-sleeve blouse and black lattice-top wedges replace the swimsuit and flip flops that were the uniform of my unemployment. As I arrange my desk—carefully placing a framed photo of Andrew and I in the space next the metal caddy brimming with highlighters, pens and company-branded post its—I stop and smile. I realize that losing my job … well, it wasn’t much of a loss.

Post from: Hannihaus

Job Losses. Spiritual Gains.

“You’ve got the hair of an unemployed writer,” Mom told me. I surveyed myself in her bedroom vanity and—noting the uninspired styling, abundant black roots, and the lackluster matte slicked to my skull—I agreed.

As Popeye says, I yam what I yam, but … I can do better. Through goodly employment and none, with God (and Mom) as my witness, I will never have bad hair again … until the next time it happens, of course.

So, no job yet, but I’ve got a new ‘do.

Where the old hair said: Unemployed Writer, the new hair says: Unemployed Writer Whose Been Watching Too Much Daytime TV, Most Specifically, The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

The new hair is Jersey-big! It’s Jersey-bold! It’s craving a projutto sangwich! And damn it, if you piss it off at dinner, it just might call out, “Prostitution whore!” before flipping a table and sending a cascade of linen and glassware tumbling down your front side.

In short: it’s fab … as is my random use of cat-as-prop. Don’t you agree?

Post from: Hannihaus

Hair Today, Job Tomorrow?

Yep, I am now one in a multi-million unemployed, seeking work in a rotten economy.

And to answer the question everyone’s been asking: no, I did not see it coming.

I did not expect that I would be laid off that Monday morning when I traipsed into the office as usual, high heels clacking, black cardigan whipped over a smart, vintage-style pink cotton top. I did not expect—as I sat at my desk and booted up my IBM laptop—that when I saw my coworker, Cecil lumbering down the hall cradling a cardboard box, a mixture of shock and sorrow playing out on his features, I would be next. I did not foresee the white hot tears, the trembling hands, the wash of embarrassment that enveloped me when my forlorn boss, eyes glued to the carpet, pushed a manila packet of severance papers into my sweaty palms. I did not know—could not have known—that when I left the office that morning, shamefaced and sad, there would be a huge car accident just two streets from the office, blocking my route home; the blistering sirens and staccato flicker of red and white lights echoing the panic that I wore heavy on my chest like a dentist’s x-ray bib.

The rest of the day was an emotional goulash. Shame, shock and sorrow mingled with relief, hope, and curiosity. Numbness and fear made their introductions around 5PM and by 10PM I was feeling slightly neurotic and entirely exhausted. Before I went to sleep, Andrew gathered me up into his great big arms and told me everything was going to be fine. That night I slept fitfully, entirely spent.

To answer another popular question: yes, I am OK.

Because I had the time (and frequent flyer miles), I took a quick trip to Alaska just days after the layoff. I didn’t tell my parents I was coming, I simply showed up on their doorstep, a springtime sluice of melting snow and globby mud caked on my feet. The look of surprise and excitement on Mom and Dad’s faces softened my job-loss sting and made my heart soar like the regal snowcapped peaks that press against my mother’s kitchen window.

I relished the time spent with family—I’ve had seven new members added the last three years and all of them live away from me on the west coast. An afternoon spent cuddling a trio of my insanely adorable flaxen-haired, cherub-cheeked nieces inspired me to tweet this:

Indeed, I am taking the good with the bad these days. What will I do next? I’m looking to network with recruiters and land contract work. In the interim, I’m going to use my time to read books (I’ve already finished 4 novels!), workout daily (can you feel the burn?) and improve my education—What Not To Wear reruns on TLC at 11AM M-F and so far I’ve learned (amongst many things) it’s a horrible idea to do home highlights with an aerosol spray can, and also to wear lingerie in public. Who knew? Not this working girl.

Post from: Hannihaus

One In A (Multi) Million, Or Hey! I Just Lost My Job

“My greatest fear,” I say, uttering aloud the thing that no one else knows, “is also my greatest aspiration. And that is to write a book.” I explain that I want to publish. Red-faced, I confess that fear of failure has kept me from even starting.

My houseguest cocks his head, clasps his hands together. He points his intertwined index fingers toward me and very earnestly speaks.

“Hänni,” says the man sitting adjacent, “if you are scared of something, then that’s exactly why you need tackle it head-on.” His liquid dark eyes flash as he admonishes my trepidation. He tells me if I’m scared of something, I need to run up to it full speed and smash it’s metaphorical teeth out. “For all the night’s it’s kept you awake,” he explains. “For all the nights it’s stolen your sleep.”

I nod my head, yes, the truth of his words stirring in my stomach. The man touches his hand to the back of his neck, exposes a riot of black ink scrawled on caramel-colored flesh. He switches gears, tells me he’s enjoying his speakings in the south, and thanks me for letting him crash on my sofa. He is grateful, he says for the opportunity to tour and promote his second self-published book, a work of non-fiction called A Life Deliberate. I tell him it’s no problem, and I’m grateful as well, to have the ear of an author, if just for the evening.

As I lay myself to sleep that night, my duo of cats purring a lullaby and cuddling in the crook of my arm, I think to myself, if the man on my couch can publish, maybe I can too.

Something warm flutters in my guts. It feels like butterflies. It feels like hope.

—-
For three years I had houseguest and author, Chris Gutierrez’ words bubbling in my brain. But it wasn’t until New Years 2010 that I finally resolved to Write! Write! Write!—to step into uncertainty and experiment with longer-form literary pieces; the kind of stuff you don’t post on a blog, but that you see in magazines and journals and as parts of a larger book-length work. To this end, I enrolled in an Inprint! writer’s workshop. This experience, it turns out, would further ignite my writing passions, and soon I would wake at 5AM on workdays so I could bang out some prose on my MacBook before heading to the office. Days I slept in, I missed my writing ritual, felt it’s loss like a phantom limb.

I’ve decided I want to publish. I’ve decided to smash fear straight in the face and give writing a serious shot. I don’t know what will happen if I do, but I’m fairly certain of what happens if I don’t, and that’s not the kind of regret I want to live with.

Next steps? The Taos Summer Writers’ Conference—It’s not inexpensive, but it is, I think, an opportunity I can’t miss. Here’s hoping that out there—in the desert place that nourished artists like Gertrude Stein, D.H. Lawrence, and Georgia O’ Keeffe—there’s some New Mexican magic for me as well.

Post from: Hannihaus

The Write Time