What a strange experience it was to flip through the paper at breakfast today and happen upon our own faces starting back at us.
Thanks to Adrienne for appealing to the more progressive minds at the Chicago Tribune (weird to hear, isn’t it?) and getting them to accept the scandalous shot of the two of us in bed. The accompanying story is nice and to the point, though it’s missing all the juicy high-society stuff that you find in the New York Times Sunday Styles section, like what each of the four parents do for a living, what philantropic boards they belong to, and in what cringe-inducingly charming way the couple met. As much as our own story rocks, I’m really more interested in the future Mr. and Mrs. Ooms-Oosterhouse. My guess: he was drunk-dialing other Oosterhouses in the phone book and went one line too far.
Meanwhile, we shot and submitted a new photo for the curmudgeons at the Evanston Review. Nice and inoffensive.
If it looks like we’re strangely giddy for such a staid photo, it’s because we’re not wearing pants.