The Handicapped Stall

I really wish I could have been more patient yesterday.

The rest room used to be a place of retreat. Even in the mall. A restaurant. A store. The buffering echo of the stalls somehow insulated me from the mania outside. But not so much anymore.

I've mentioned briefly before about frustration when the handicapped stall is occupied by someone who bounces about. The first thing I look for under the door is anything with wheels (I'm a sucker for moms with strollers. It's the roller derby girls that get to me.) I even went so far as to ask one lady who pranced out of the stall to please, please leave these stalls for people who need them? She paused. Looked up. Then down at me. I'm quite short nowadays. It was one arc short of an eye-roll. With one eyebrow raised, she replied in a confrontational tone, "I got a bad ankle."

'You must have one large ankle.", I thought to myself.

So now, every time I roll up to a stall with the little man in a chair, it's like a crap-roll in Vegas. No pun intended. I never know what's going to pop out of there. Yesterday, I rolled up to one. It was locked. I could see no wheels, hear no baby. I waited. And waited. A slight flapping of the toilet paper role echoed beyond the door. My time was near. But by this time, I was brewed inside, like a day-old pot of coffee that lost its perk.

The toilet flushed to a tussling of pants and a zip. Then a shuffle. A long shuffle. As though she wore a rack of petticoats donned one by one. Then she began to emerge. Black orthopaedic shoes peeked through the bottom of the door as it creaked open, like blind dogs sniffing for a plate of food. Her face coiled around to mine. Betty White's body double.

Then it hit me. The handles. She needed the handles. The silver bars around the toilet to keep her steady. Wheels had nothing to do with it. The other three-hundred stalls did not have safety handles.

Man did I feel like, well, you know.

I left wondering how I began to think this way? Expecting the worst, rather than the best? No matter how difficult these past three years have been, the one thing I never want to lose is my faith in the goodness of others. But it's so hard when sprung back out into a world where my reality is not the norm. It's not realistic to expect others to understand how deeply it cuts when able-bodied people pop out of our stalls. There will always be women with bad ankles. But I have to remember that not every woman ahead of me, is one of them.

I went home, did some Googling and found an interesting post online: "

"Sorry to inform you that in California it is a finable offense to use a handicapped-designated restroom stall if you're able-bodied. The fine for the first offense is $271. I was riding my bicycle on the state beach at Huntington Beach and was arrested and given a ticket, which the court has upheld."

I Googled some more.

"...there is no law, just rude people."

This was getting serious.

My heart asks this of ye olde public. If you walk into a bathroom and there are any available able-bodied stalls, please do not use the disabled stall. Even if you don't see anyone disabled at the moment, we could rear our heads at any moment. If all of the able-bodied stalls are used, and the handicapped is open, just think about it for a moment, how you would feel if you opened the door and I was waiting for you. With drool running down my chin and head spinning with green vomit spewing from my ears. OK, I digress.

So, I don't believe it is illegal to use 'the stall', but is it worth it? If you really have "to go", I'd understand, but please, please, I beg of you, for the love and God and all that is holy and on sale at Marshall's, please leave the handicapped stall to those who need it. This also means for people who need the extra space because they need to change a colostomy bag. I'm learning so much as I journey through this challenge. It just goes to show that even those of us that need 'the stall', are learning, too. And I promise, the next time I start to brew, I'll remind myself we are all so often handicapped, simply by being human.

The Garden And The King

My husband wiped the evening's meal off of Donald Trump’s limo. My morning sickness was terible at night - Which somehow helped me blend in with the 2am bar patrons, unlike when our group entered Madison Square Garden for the KISS concert earlier in the evening. We did not blend in then, on a summer night in New York City, twenty years ago. Needless to say, we had a feeling this was going to be an interesting evening.

I was star struck as we drove through the city, but it wasn't The Donald that held my attention. Or his hair. It was the buildings. I was star struck by buildings. I couldn’t help it, I opened the sunroof of his limo and stood with the warm summer air patting at my cheeks. It was a brief escape for my square peg from the round hole of the New York elite It’s hard enough to feel like you belong anywhere when you are in your twenties, still trying desperately to discover who you really are and what you really want. The other wives were coiffed with  designer clothes. Their hair was Blonde. The men were silver. The driver was anxious.

I was six months along. The top of my swollen belly pressed against the sunroof frame. Something about pregnancy makes you bold - brave enough anyway to allow Donald Trump to witness my swollen ankles like elephant feet cut off at the knees; the kind they make coffee tables out of.

We arrived at Madison Square Garden. As we entered the building, the audience began to stir like bees in a hive. Word travels fast in a sea of New Yorkers. They must have seen the hair. As we walked to our seats, the crowd grew louder, and louder.

Then he did it. The Donald raised his hand to the air - like Hitler with a toupee. The king of New York had addressed his subjects. (Remember, this was twenty years ago.)

The Garden rumbled. I turned to The Donald with a question mark. He shrugged his shoulders to the girl from the sunroof. He was used to all of this. The buzzing. The sunroof.  He was used to The Garden. The bees. I envied people who were used to such things. It meant they belonged to something larger than themselves.

Then the chanting began. Dah-nuld! Dah-nuld! Dah-nuld!
We followed him through The Garden like ducklings. It got louder. Dah-nuld! Dah-nuld! I had never seen anything like it in my life, Nonetheless been stared at by so many people at once. Of course, they weren’t looking at me, but still, the sense of visual invasion was so overwhelming I wanted to suck my head so deep into my neck that it would lodge in my ribcage. But Dah-nuld? He loved it.

Trump is Trump. Love to hate him or hate to love him. Either way, it spurs a response.

We finally made it to our seats. And I made it through the concert without throwing up. Until we went to dinner afterwards. And got back in his limo. It stirred deep inside, like bees in a hive. A piercing ash in the corners of my jaw bleed through my bones. Gentle waves of nausea lapped at the back of my throat. My skin clammed and faintness overtook my jovial mood. Pull over, we had to pull over. I couldn’t do this in his limo. Not Dah-nuld’s limo. My husband rang the alarm. She’s gonna blow! The limo came to a stop against the curb, I scuttled to the foo, my head just barely reaching moist wall of humid summer air. And it happened. I threw up all over Donald Trump’s limo.

I don’t think he ever knew I did that as he went home after dinner in another car. In twenty years I don’t think I have ever even mentioned it to his wife, so why not just blog about it, I said to myself. I mean how many people got to blog about the night they strolled into a garden amidst a sea of bees and christen the limo of a king? And so, I did.

Blue's Suede Shoes

Blue Belle ate my friend's shoes today. Ann Taylor Loft, tan and brown, size 6 foldable leather ballet flats. Last week it was a friend's white leather wedge sandal open toed shoe. Before that my mother's favorite black sparkled slip on heels with cushioned soles. And the list goes on.

I need Blue nowadays. For comic relief. As a poster-child for life's absurdity. But Blue Belle eats things. And then she's cute. She is always cute. A Brittany Spaniel straight from Nashville. A southern belle, with a cow pattern draping her fur, and an irresistible feathered boa-like accent under her tail. Her ears perk upward like ponytails. Her eyes are a butterscotch brown - so large and round - you'd swear she was a lost child finding shelter in a winter coat.

I love her no matter what she does. Brand new rug destroyed? No problem. Three gesticulated computer chargers in one week? She must be teething. Defecation on the entryway floor? She was just saying hello.

Her name is not just Blue Belle anymore. It's Blue Belle What Are You Eating!

We no longer have area rugs in our areas. I have just one pair of flip flops left for the summer. Our sofa that survived six seasons on the set of Big Love, even with teamster drool in its cracks, now has but one life left. A dog's life. Blue rolls onto her back between the cushions, and spreads her legs to the walls. Because she can. Her teeth peek through her upside-down lips that reach for the floor below. Her eyes follow the children around the room, luring them in. Like an awkward cow at rest.

Blue is the oversized puppy that never stops. Even at seven months old, she is a toddler in her mother's shoes. The only kind she doesn't eat.

I love her because she actually cares when she's done something wrong. I watch as she hunches her shoulders and makes the shameful march beneath the bed. It makes my heart ache because hers is so pure.

So I tell myself, she liked those shoes so much she had to have a taste. She marked the couch today so she would know it was her place. She chewed the toys because they were old. She swallowed the car charger because the phone gets in the way - Of loving her completely. She has had to learn patience, for mankind, because we are so hard to train.

Blue Belle is a blessing. Even if I am unable to see it through mangled wires and shoes that had to die. At least she knows to love without any strings attached. Except perhaps a shoelace on my size 8 1/2 blue suede shoes she ate because she knows I can't walk right now anyway. She was actually cleaning out my closet. Because she loves me too. And also just because she can.

Fried Nerves - The Other White Meat

Hoping this finds you well today. No worries if you are busy. It 's my job to take you out of your busy. And read a blog from someone who's lost her busy. But I did have a jarring moment this week when a bird smashed head-on into my bedroom window. It even left an imprint of him. Sideways. Like the Road Runner when he stops too fast into a boulder. Lord knows when we'll get our window cleaned. But then again, window cleaners are sometimes interesting. Until then, Little birdie feathers flip back and forth in the breeze as they stick in the silhouette of his wassa beak. Looks like he was right in the middle of an F-bomb. And got stuck.

Back on the spine front...

This week Dr. Graf removed the Electro Spine Stimulator Trial. He also cauterized the nerves of the facet joints around my C5-6 Fusion and C6-7 Disc Replacement. I don't like typing the word Cervical. That can get confusing. Always wondered why they named something in your neck the same thing as something oddly resembling an inflated doughnut.

It will take about two weeks feel the full effects of the nerve cauterizations. Oh! little heads-up - the muscles around the facets get burned too. Think of it as collateral damage if you were a cow standing next to a fence in a lightning storm. A skinny cow. I was one away from getting served at KFC. The other white meat. Tastes like chicken. I figure the nerves are about well-done enough now. Could use a good sauce though. I'll get right on that.

Doc said 8-10 days until the surgical pain goes away and will begin to feel the benefits. Me. Not him. Although he we are getting paid, just in different ways. I'll be set to go on a good scooter ride soon. After the Electro Spine Stimulator Implant Surgery. That will happen in the next couple of weeks after my insurance approves of my being happier. I've never needed such validation in my life - although after this surgery, I will be fully validated. And can parkin a handicapped spot and pray that people think I'm mis-using my placard - because I look too healthy.

In the meantime, Real Housewives of Orange County makes my reality look like a cakewalk. By the way, did you see what Tamara called Vicki this week?

Best thing of ALL is Don is home! He says he got more rest doing "Nashville" than me. You know what I mean. Dirty minded scoundrels - all of you. And I love you for it.

I shall lay in my bed this week and stare at my window. I'd stare out of it but keep getting distracted by a little beak. With little feathers that flip. To remind me, my day was still better than his.

Being Betty Crocker

Betty CrockerI am no Betty Crocker. I get out the brownie mix. Set it on the counter. Look at the directions. Three steps. I can do this. Water, eggs, and vegetable oil. But I need a bowl. I open the cabinet where I keep my mixing bowls. I have way too many bowls for somebody who rarely mixes anything but her metaphors. I do brownies, and cupcakes. I tried to bake a cake one time for my daughter’s birthday. It wasn’t a very pretty pony.

There will come a day when I will bake something that doesn't come in a box. I want to bake like my mom. Like Betty Crocker. Why is it that I have had four children and have very little ability to bake anything that doesn't come in a box? Who was Betty Crocker anyway, and why can’t I be more like her? So I Googled "Betty Crocker", to discover how to become more like her. I was flabbergasted. It turns out Betty Crocker never even existed. According to one website, "In the 1910's, The Washburn Crosby Company received thousands of requests for answers to baking questions. In 1921, managers decided that it would be more intimate to sign the responses personally; they combined the last name of a retired company executive, William Crocker, with the first name “Betty,” which was thought of as “warm and friendly.”

I am horrified and liberated at the same time. Betty Crocker wasn't real. I am free from the guilt of trying to be someone, that never lived.

The oven is preheating, the air filling with the aroma of a remnant from last week’s cupcakes stuck to the bottom of the oven. I like to refer to this as re-baking. It will go away in a minute.

The 8x8 square pan sits on my counter, the pack of instant brownie powder resting limp over its lip like a slumbering sack of possibility. The eggs are still in the refrigerator. The vegetable oil in the cabinet. But it’s a start. I will bake. But until then I will sit with this moment at my computer with an unexpected peace that I no longer need worry that I'm not like Betty. Now I focus on how to bake more like my mom.

Burger Shake And Fries

McDonalds French Fries take the meanness out of me. They bring me back to a simpler time. When McDonalds didn’t have a drive thru. My car approaches the little black speaker and I develop an acute case of performance anxiety. I completely forget what I wanted to order. The little man in the black speaker with a voice accented with static tells me they are offering something that day that is special and would I like to order it. As I forget my order. Now I need to reassess what I really wanted in the first place. Was it good enough? Was is special? So I cut them off with a no, no, no, I just want to order what I originally wanted that I forgot as I approached the speaker. I would like a Southwest Chicken Salad with a regular iced tea. I remember this. And I order. I am proud. Then it happens. “OK, so you’d like a small iced tea?” No, I’d like a regular, which is a medium. But if I say medium, then I’ll get a large. They ask me if I would like the chicken grilled. My taste buds races with possibility. Crispy or grilled. Crispy sounds so good. Crispy really means fried. But I do it. I order the crispy. Because life is short. And evidently I plan on making it shorter. As I struggle over ordering crispy. I feel bad for the little man in that box all day. Listening to moms like me who suffer from performance anxiety. Who become frustrated at the little black speaker man because they remind us of how difficult life has become, since we were kids.

I was raised at McDonalds. Before there was an internet that make me feel guilty. I had the Hamburger, Fries and Vanilla Milkshake. Especially if we just left the doctor’s office in the building next to it. Then I'd just get a Vanilla Shake. It’s always a special moment when you just order a Vanilla Shake.

My childhood McDonalds had walk-up windows. I was never tall enough for the windows. So my parents did the ordering. We would sit outside in a shaded alcove on a stone carved table with stone carved benches. It was the Stone Age. With little brown Finches battling for scraps and tossed seeds from the buns. It was peaceful. The french fries gaggled in their little white bag. I'd search with my fingers for the softest ones and savor them. It was so simple.

The menu today has so many healthier options. The interiors adjusted to the times. My experience nowadays is more stressful. Trying so hard to have everyone's order written down before I get to the window. But then it happens to my children just as it happens to me. We get to the little box and suddenly something else sounds better. Crispier. When all we really need to be happy is a burger, Fries, and Vanilla Shake. To sit outside and search for the softest fry, tossing bun seeds to needy birds.

Sometimes I drive thru alone. I know exactly what I want. A Hamburger. No pickle. Poor pickle. Nobody likes the pickle. They must have a graveyard for pickles. I request a Vanilla Shake, and large French Fries. Because there is so much possibility in a large McDonalds Fry.

The lady with the funny hat and a smile hands me my order. I pull into an empty space for ten minutes of food and silence. Wondering if I am missing out on a moment by not sitting at the table outside. A chance to remove my shoes and toss bun seeds to little beaks. I open the bags. It’s a Hamburger, Vanilla Shake, and Fruit and Walnut Salad. No Fry. I stop. I breathe. And feel the meanness building inside, the urge to cry for my fry that would take the meanness out of me if I only had it in my hands so I could search for the softest one. It would have tasted so good. But to exchange for my fry I would need to approach the little black speaker man.  And I’m tired. Tired of the drive thru, and wishing things were different. Wondering why they can’t just get it all over with, and just serve Fries. And Vanilla Shakes. And Bun Seeds. With a side of nagging Finch beaks to peck at the simplicity of it all. Next time, I'll just order the Shake. And then it will be special.

Mr. Pickles' Solo

Today's blog has little to do with photography. It is about a bird. It's about friendship and loss, but most of all, it’s about hope.

It was an unlikely friendship that began 9 years ago when my dad adopted my ornery Cockatiel who went by the name Mr. Pickles, because he was a sour one, the epitome of the angry bird. With two children and a baby on the way the last thing I needed was sniper spitting seeds at the back of my head. Dad, having recently retired as an airline captain, figured it might not be a bad idea to have someone else around the house wear the wings for a while.

Dad flew his Mooney down to Los Angeles and carried Mr. Pickles home in a box.  Upon their arrival, it was clear that Mr. Pickles was going to be a project in patience. He squawked incessantly when ignored, and he should have been named Pig Pen. He wasn't a Cockatiel, he was a Tazmanian Devil. My dad resorted to opening the cage door to see if he would calm down outside of the cage. He did. He flew, and flew, and flew. He dove in circles around the living room, through the bedrooms, down the hall, avoiding mirrors and expertly navigating to one particular bookshelf. It was there where he stopped, chirped, and found what was to be his favorite spot in the house.  

Dad always whistled when we were kids. As a gracefully silver gentleman, it is now reserved for grandchildren, and for Mr. Pickles.  The Woody Wood Pecker theme song became their duet, and when dad walked by, Mr. Pickles would offer a stretched-neck ovation complete with tune reserved for buxom blondes outside construction sites. But his favorite was Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits. That one got Mr. Pickles every time. Dad would begine the song, and Mr. Pickles ended it every time with perfect pitch.

On any random evening, you'd find Mr. Pickles slip-sliding his way to the rim of Dad's Gin, his wings grasping for balance, his nose flaring as he inhaled the vapors rising to his beak. Each morning, Dad would wake to the tip-toe wobbles of his feathered friend bobbing on his chest, warbling like a rooster in a headlock. 

Every time Dad was on the phone, you would hear the echoed chirp of Mr. Pickles, announcing his presence like a jealous mistress coughing in the background of a boyfriend's phone call.

Then one day Dad called me. The background was silent. Dad's voice was short to the point. He was once again the pilot on the PA knowing there was a major problem, but refusing to cause alarm. Mr. Pickles was gone. It was his fault. He was on his shoulder. He walked outside. He bent over. There was a big wind. He struggled to fly back to Dad. Mr. Pickles was gone.

My dad rarely cries.

Life's tables turned, and it was me trying to convince him all would be ok. Mr. Pickles will come back, I'm sure he's found a Robin Red Breast by now and shacked up with eggs on the way. Nothing could make it better.

Nightfall came. Dad answered his phone the following day, wind muffling the speaker as he walked the neighborhoods with hundreds of flyers flapping in the wind. It was March with freezing temperatures mixed with high winds and unpredictable weather. He knocked on every door, slipped flyers in mailboxes and posted them on telephone poles. No one had seen Mr. Pickles. Each inquiry was met with a curiosity of the devotion this man shared with his missing friend.  Every hour that passed, the possibility of recovering Mr. Pickles got smaller and smaller. Then Dad knocked on the final door of the day. A woman answered. She had not seen Mr. Pickles but would keep on eye out for him. She then offered Dad one shredded thread of hope. She suggested he visit the animal control center.

The pilot had one last place to search for his friend, and that place was in fact, behind the airport. He called the center. They had two cockatiels. The odds were a million to one. The center was 10 miles away.

Dad walked into the shelter, and there he was, Mr. Pickles, sitting in the corner of a steel cage. Dad whistled, Mr. Pickles whistled. Mr. Pickles began to manically pace the cage like a drunken sailor, his head bobbing and weaving. His friend had found him. His solo was over.

The phone rang. It was Dad. Mr. Pickles chirped in the background, morphing with my father’s voice. Mr. Pickles was home.

My Father and The Porcelain God

Black and white photographs dangled on a string, handcuffed by clothespins over the toilet. This was our darkroom.
 I was 10. Dad loved photography, and the most logical place to conduct the transformation of images to paper was, of course, on a collapsible photo lab above the toilet in our bathroom. It was pretty ingenious actually…developing possibilities above the Porcelain God. The perfect day was a collision in photographic banter huddled in the echoed walls of tangerine formica and tile. I watched him worship imagery, dipping and drenching the 8 x 10 sheets of magic paper into solutions, witnessing images cross the middle realm to the harsh reality of our 1970’s-orange painted bathroom. Ma had painted the bathroom orange to match the box of Tide. Why it was orange still perplexes me. The box of Tide never entered the bathroom.
My father and I had one very important thing in common: the pursuit of the perfect photograph, and my father was the master hunter. He’d arm for the capture with Minolta in hand and a crackling brown leather bag, its buckle bursting with filters and lenses for any possible scenario. Rolls of film marinated in every ASA, color, black and white, slide film.

One of the scariest things I've ever heard him say was, "Real photographers shoot in slides. National Geographic only accepts slides.” Dad was a master at the technical aspect of photography. The actual science of the capture crouched in wait on my father’s tongue, anticipating the moment I might ask a question so he could leap loads of information into my psyche and implant its infinite knowledge within my frontal lobe. This game of proverbial darts never quite hit the bulls-eye. I spent my childhood fascinated by the act of taking pictures and developing images, but running from the attempt to actually understand the process. It somehow seemed if I knew what I was doing, the magic would dissolve into the abyss of that Porcelain God.
Someday I would understand his technical gibberish of aperture and shutter speed, bracketing and focal length…but not yet…I wasn’t ready. I was having too much fun...watching his negatives evolve into prints of Kodak couture. His dewdrops on the flower, the angelic flares in his sunsets, the nature wrangled by his lens.
There is no longer a darkroom. My bathroom is beige. The brown crackled bag sits in my closet, baring fossils of our hunt. I await that perfect day, when he and I sit together again, when the miles contract and the world forgives our temporary retreat into our divided realities. The days of Tide are long behind us, but the memories will linger, dangling gently in my mind, by clothespins.

Not Your Mother’s Maternity Shoot

There is little that prepares one for parenthood.

Perhaps the greatest tool is laughter.

This mom-to-be is a goddess/yoga instructor, approaching her pregnancy with

twisted torsos and a sensational sense of humor,

all of which kept us rolling on the floor during our session.

Welcome to the wonderful world of Tiffany & Micah...
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Are you ready to POP?

Are you about to POP the question? Let me be of service! (And I don't mean as just your photographer ;0)

I'm here to save you from yourself...ah you are cute and all, even with that hole in your knee from bending and the tendinitis from practicing the art of opening that precious ring box you've kept hidden in your underwear drawer (because that is the one place you know us gals will never dare venture...). You've watched the Robins Brothers ads with her sitting next to you, ached with excitement that you knew something she did not..finally...

You are counting down the days, your palms sweat at the thought that this, this one moment that is all yours, is about to become a reality. The bride dreams of the wedding day, the groom dreams of the day he's paid off the ring, OH and holds his sweetheart in his arms...forever.

This Valentine's Day I'd like to be the cricket on your shoulder, and give you a little heads up, some tools to work with for once you have announced to the world you will be husband and wife. And that at least for a little while, you actually knew something that she didn't know...

~~~~~~~~~~~

What the heck does a photographer know about planning a wedding? I mean, all we do is show up and shoot, right?
In actuality, it is the photographer who is essentially the mole of every wedding. It is the photographer who is there from beginning to end, has seen what works, and what doesn’t, and we notice when things run smoothly, or not, and why!

First of all, if you do nothing else first in planning your wedding, re-frame your mind, your thinking, your entire DNA and reboot...you are now a Bride and a Groom.

The first thing to do is plan for TWO budgets. Create a low-budget wedding, which will get you into Heaven with a fast pass. Then plan a higher-end gluttony budget, which will result in a temporary stay in Purgatory. Why two budgets? Because this will allow you to really clarify what means the most to you, and what you can do without! Think about it! When you have to sit and think about what is MOST essential to your day, your priorities are set and you have that referral base to refer to when you start to get out of hand and the local psyche ward needs to be summoned with their ceremonial bridal straight-jacket.

1.    Once you have determined what is most important to you, get those vendors set in stone EARLY. Did you know most photographers book about six months in advance?

2.    Saturday is not always the best day to get married...Consider a Friday night or on a Sunday! The most popular day to book is Saturday, so the demand is there and vendors are sometimes overbooked on those dates and locations are at their peak. Also, really think about an off-season wedding! You’d be surprised at the extra-delightful tone you would receive on the other end of the line by vendors if you approach them with a January, February or early March wedding. This is slow time for the industry and everyone has come off of the holidays. This is a great time to look for deals even from the most elite vendors ;0)

3.    Don’t be afraid to look at vendors your other vendors recommend. First of all, if they recommend someone, there’s usually a reason. The vendors I recommend, I’ve seen in action, I love not only their work, but their personalities!!!! Remember, as I said, vendors are people too, and the personalities of your vendors will help to dictate the personality and vibe of your entire day! You may have found a florist with gorgeous flowers, but what if they don’t work well with others, what if there are certain restrictions with the church or with the reception area and they get super cranky and upset the planner/coordinator and then the florist doesn’t care as much as they used to so your flowers show up an hour late and the photographer is off schedule and the portraits are late, so the mother of the bride is cranky which results in an argument which is heard by the priest…..well….you get the idea…

4.    On items that mean a lot to you both, make sure both bride and groom meet with each and every essential vendor together. I was pleasantly surprised when my manly hubby-to-be actually cared which flowers we used! You end up learning a lot about each other and realize that the decision-making you are enduring and sharing together in planning a wedding is a wonderful blueprint opportunity for how you will be making other decisions in the future. This is a time, which will be the barometer for future negotiations. Don’t be afraid of this experience, embrace it and realize that this event is a gift to yourselves as a couple embracing the rest of your lives.

5.    Remember that a big wedding is not always going to be the most memorable. Well, to rephrase….you may remember the debt….but please, from the bottom of my digitally archived heart, know that your guests really don’t mind if they don’t go home with a silver plated shot glass from Tiffany’s. (well, ok, I’ve secretly longed for such a treasure, but we’ll keep this to ourselves…)

6.    Your friends love you, THAT’s why they are there! OK, you may have some social climbers and dysfunctional family members as well, but in the end this is a party for you and your loved ones. Period end of story. Don’t forget this when planning your wedding. Select flowers which make you FEEL beautiful, which will brighten the hearts of those you love. Don’t go picking bouquets to impress. If you choose elements for your day because they feel right to you, it will all fall into place. This may seem whimsical, but I’ve seen it over and over again.

7.    Don’t be afraid to hire a wedding coordinator for Day-Of services! Many coordinators offer this service at a minimal expense in the larger scheme of things!!! It is a GIFT to yourself and your family, your mothers especially, to have that one contact person for all of the vendors, who ensures that your day will go smoothly. They do it all that day…and are your best friend so that your maid of honor and best man can do their jobs of tending only to you, not running around trying to contact the linen guy because the tables aren’t set yet!

8.    If you are getting married outside, if there is even a 10% chance of rain, MAKE SURE YOU HAVE BACK-UP TENT PROVISIONS!!!!! Make sure the site, or your planner has this locked in. I shot one of the most beautiful weddings in Malibu where it got completely rained out and the entire table settings were drenched,favors were ruined, and the entire reception had to be reset during the ceremony...

9.   Think of your wedding as your baby which is growing and festering inside. It is your belly, nobody else's, and you have the right to tell anyone not to touch it. Your wedding is your personal space, to be respected. Yes, if your parents are paying for part or all of it, it is the loving thing to do to inquire as to their suggestions, but in the end it is up to you as to how you will remember your day.

10.  Most of all, remember NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS, LIFE IS ABOUT STORIES! Not every wedding is going to be perfect, there will probably be little things here and there which can go wrong, but at the end of the day there are only three people who need to show up: You two, the minister, and well…..let’s make it four (your photographer…;0)