This past weekend, Adam and I left the little cream puff over at Nana and Grandpa's and flew out to LA for the wedding of the century.
This was the wedding of my dear friend Myra Lindstrom, now Myra Merrill, and it was beyond beautiful--honestly, if you walked from the streets into her beautiful, California suburban backyard that night you would've thought you had just stepped into a party from the Great Gatsby.
See, Myra's an old-fashioned girl--she's got classic beauty that everyone wishes they could somehow nibble and dresses like my ever-vogue grandmother in the 1940's--which makes her a beyond coveted beauty that just so happened to swat away every gent's hand before falling madly in love with her dear Kenneth. Oh, Kenneth, you're one lucky man--your children will be so vintagely-well dressed.
I'm getting goose bumps.
So, there was the wedding. There was also lots of food--LOTS OF FOOD--meeting up with old friends (Hi, Brad and Krystal and little Kai!), hanging out at the beach, and enjoying the sunshine that, I'll admit, was quite overwhelming for a couple of hours upon our arrival. Stupid Oregon.
p.s. I'm flying into Rexburg today. Jude, my love, please don't poop too much.