Coming to Terms.

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My sister is getting married in June! JUNE! EEE!!! I am SO excited. She has picked out GORGEOUS dresses for us to wear, BEAUTIFUL flowers to adorn the space, and, most importantly, has set about ensuring that the cocktail hour is a feast not to be missed.

But here’s the thing: The gown I had to order? WAS A SIZE ~TEN~.

10. one-zero TEN.

I think my wedding dress was a sample ten, and they had to cut that thing apart and make me a whole new dress from the refuse. And now, this thing that’s a size ten, this enormous tent of a sheath, it is STRAIGHT-UP FITTING ME. FOR REAL.

Part of me wanted to apologize to the salesperson, to explain how I used to be a size zero, how I used to buy clothes in the CHILDREN’S department at Target. But the larger part of me – the better part, pulled it the hell together, smiled, and agreed that the ten fits much better than the eight. I spent the ensuing months resigning myself to being the Fat Bridesmaid. You know, the bridesmaid who isn’t the CUTEST but has “spunk” and can drink most of the groomsmen under the table. That’s me.

I went for my first fitting the other Sunday fearing the worst, and you know, the thing doesn’t look half bad. My mom is not the greatest iPhoneographer, so I’m not sharing those images, but let’s just say I looked somewhat… regal. And with the hair and the flowers, I’ll bet nobody will even THINK to ask if I’m pregnant. And if they do? I’ll challenge them to a tequila-shot competition.


Happy belated birthday – I’m looking at you, Pusser.

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I’ve been reminded, lately, of this story from my wedding. It always comes up when brides ask how we move about during the ceremony, but somehow the mid-meeting telling seems oversharey and inappropriate. So from now on, I can direct them to this blog post instead.

So it’s March 2007. I’m in the white dress and Katsumi, miraculously, has trimmed his beard. We’re kneeling on the altar of the Catholic church I’ve attended since childhood, and I’m struggling to understand the West African priest who is presiding over the ceremony. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spy something large and spidery clambering across the floor with a videocamera in its hand. It’s Pusser, who you might remember from my many misadventures in North Dakota. By the time we parted ways he’d have been my boss for nearly ten years, although I didn’t know it at the time, and I had specifically NOT asked him to shoot my wedding. But shoot it he would, apparently, because there he was, crawling one-handed across the altar, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“PUSSER!!” I hissed, gesturing furiously in the direction of the baptismal font. “MOVE!!” I didn’t dare to glance back at my mother.

The priest looked down and stared bemusedly at Pusser,who shrugged and slunk away.

Some minutes later, there was a bang and a LOUD crash, which would later be reported to me as the landing of the same unabashed would-be videographer after he tripped mightily over several pews trying to get a canted angle of my bridesmaids. “He was like, literally AIRBORNE,” I’d hear later, during cocktail hour. “Unreal!”

I stopped working with him rather abruptly in 2009, The Year of Trouble, just three months before my marriage officially dissolved. But I still love this story, and so many other things about my wedding day! And despite all the cringeworthy moments, I’m so glad to have it on video. Well – most of it, anyway.


If we all did our jobs this well, we’d still be beating our dinner with clubs (part II)

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So B! and I went out to meet some new clients tonight at this cafe on the lower side of Newbury St. For those of you who don’t know, Newbury St. is the Park Avenue of Boston, and the side that I call “lower” is actually “upper” in terms of money spent per square inch – so much so that I actually felt a little squidgy going in. If I’d thought better, I would have brought my Gucci bag. Turns out, I needn’t have worried.

First of all, we walk in, and it’s like, ninety-five degrees and humid. Almost uncomfortably loud. Although the place was half-empty, every available table was covered with dirty dishes, and a single bench provided the only available seating which means we would have had to sit, all four of us, in a row, backs to the wall. Meanwhile, there were three kids behind the counter snapping gum and texting.

Luckily, SEAT seats opened up while I (inexplicably) ordered a hot coffee. “I’ll make you a fresh pot,” said one of the counter kids, just as our clients arrived. I was a bit flustered, having been almost late and kind of sweating in the tropical climate, so, after clearing the trash to a nearby table, I tried to act normal and got right down to business. About twenty minutes later, some other young lad strolls out of the back and decides it’s time to (finally) bus the tables.

“Excuse me – ” says my bride, flagging him down, “She ordered a coffee awhile ago – is that coming?”

“Oh um, I don’t know,” replies the kid, who i now recognize as the one who took my order. An uncomfortable pause ensues, as though he thinks, perhaps, that *I* know where my coffee has gone to. “Did you order it from me? I probably just forgot.”

“Right,” I say. What I think is: “Oh, OK, kid who works in the high-rent district of Back Bay but can’t be bothered to do his job. That’s cool. I mean, not like I paid for it or anything – not like I even WANT it. I’d rather have a Diet Coke, or even a cold glass of ice water. Have you noticed how warm it is in here?” I’m starting to seriously worry about my deodorant.

A beat. “I guess I’ll bring it over then. Hold on.” And he disappears.

“Um, that was weird,” I tell our clients, who are as mystified as I. And we continue talking about their wedding.

Five minutes later dude comes back over with this HOT HOT HOT cup of coffee. “My coworker must have forgotten it,” he says, totally blame-shifting but who am I to say, and pretty much walks away without another word. I mean, the coffee must have been sitting on top of the cappuccino machine, or in front of a heating vent or something. The saucer was SUPER warm.

I look down at my atomic coffee, which, though I smile and compliment, tastes like rustic battery acid and cigarettes.

Ten minutes later, they started blasting hardcore rap. We collectively decided it was time to leave. Another successful mission, by EcA Productions.

PS: For those of you who are interested, “If we all did our jobs this well, we’d still be beating our dinner with clubs (part I)” can be found here


To Market To Market

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So I’ve been thinking a lot about marketing lately. As most of you likely know, I’ve got this little video production company on the side, but what most of you might NOT know is that I also take pictures! Great pictures! Lots of them! While you ponder that, let me ask you this:

If you were in the market for boudoir photography, how would you go about finding it?

It’s a market I want to get into, and I have some really amazing work samples, but I can’t see it being anything but shady just tossing this stuff up online. Like, I just went to upload some so I could link off that last sentence, but I got worried and chickened out at the last minute. I know there’s people out there that read, and I know that at least SOME of you are ladies, so! Ladies! Riddle me this! How would YOU want to be presented with boudoir photography?


Fighting the Good Fight

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Today, B! and I went to visit David Long of DL Video Productions. He’s in the wedding film business as well, and I’ve been a fan of his work since I started my little company back last April. I was really looking forward to the meeting, and it had taken quite some time to set up, but by approximately 10:30am the process of getting dressed had already reduced me to tears. Shirt after shirt, pants after pants, and even the new boots I’d bought as a guilt-ridden salve to my wardrobe woes failed to muster in their owner enough confidence to even feel OK about leaving the house.

I could say I’m sick, I thought. I could just cancel.

I kind of blew my lid as I left the apartment, and got to Wilbraham 45 minutes early. 80mph will do that, I guess. It was so reminiscent of the old days, when I’d rage-drive in silence listening as my thoughts spiraled downwards in a whispering scream. I didn’t like it at all. But I couldn’t stop it.

Now, you’d think, me being in such a state, that the meeting would be a trainwreck. I’d spent the last hour and a half in an internal monologue of FAIL, and try though I might, I couldn’t turn my mind over to pondering the matter at hand. But! quite the contrary! As is often the case, a short game of Pretending You’re Fine was just what the doctor ordered. I’m pretty good at Pretending You’re Fine, as evidenced by my many years of being very much Not Fine and coming off as Generally Alright. I mean, I’m not saying I’m not still feeling all those wobbly, fragile feelings that I hate, but Pretending did the trick. At least for awhile.


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