Hello, romantics. This one's for you.

IF YOU'VE BEEN FEELING SURLY LATELY...

HERE ARE SOME PHOTOS... 

FROM A WEDDING I PHOTOGRAPHED LAST MONTH...

ON CASEY KEY BEACH.

THESE FOUR ARE SISTERS.  

SUSANNE (2ND FROM RIGHT) GOT MARRIED AT PAULINE'S (FAR RIGHT) BEACH ESTATE...

NEXT DOOR TO HORROR NOVELIST STEPHEN KING'S HOUSE.

THERE WERE ONLY 25 PEOPLE THERE.

IT WAS SIMPLE & BEAUTIFUL & QUITE LITERALLY...

TOOK MY BREATH AWAY.

EVERYONE WAS SO CHARMING & PHOTOGENIC... 

I FELT LIKE I WAS IN A SCENE TORN FROM THE GREAT GATSBY.

I HAVEN'T PHOTOGRAPHED MANY WEDDINGS...

BUT IF I DO, I'M CERTAIN THIS ONE WILL BE MY FAVORITE.

EVERYONE WORE PAISLEY PRINTS AND BRIGHT COLORS.
IT WAS ALMOST A SHAME TO EDIT THEM INTO BLACK & WHITE.

THEY CALL THEIR HOUSE "THE TREE HOUSE..."

BECAUSE IT'S LITERALLY BUILT UP INTO THE TREES...

LIKE TOWN & COUNTRY'S VERSION OF THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON... 

TREE HOUSE.

I BARELY POSED ANYONE.

EVERYTHING FELT SO NATURAL...

TO ME. 

SUSANNE & PAUL ARE FROM MUNICH, GERMANY.

SO I ASKED SUSANNE'S FATHER (BELOW & ON THE LEFT) IF HE HAD HEARD OF THE TINY TOWN...

WHERE MY OMA IS FROM.

AND HE KEPT SAYING, "VHERE IS DEES PLACE?"AND I KEPT SAYING, "BAD SOODEN-ALLENDORF...IT'S A SPA TOWN SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE OF GERMANY."

A ROMANTIC POET NAMED WILHELM MULLER ONCE LIVED THERE.

IT'S A PLACE RIPE WITH MINERAL SPRINGS AND SHOEMAKERS' KIN... LIKE MY OMA'S SIBLINGS & THEIR CHILDREN & THEIR CHILDREN'S CHILDREN.

BUT SINCE I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN...I DIDN'T EXPLAIN THIS TO SUSANNE'S FATHER...WHO WAS WEARING THE MOST AMAZING SUIT COAT I'VE EVER SEEN.

INSTEAD I THOUGHT...

AS THE SUN SET ON THIS AFFAIR...I HOPE MY WEDDING IS AS AWESOME AS THIS ONE...

OR MORE SO.

While my Opa was sleeping

Joe's in Hampton, Va. for Phish's first reunion concerts.

Me and the pug? We're at my Oma and Opa's place, enjoying an alternate weekend in Nokomis, Fla.

(Oma and Opa = German for Grandma and Grandpa.)

They live about an hour from me in a wooded mobile home park called The Royal Coachman – the quaintest retirement community on the Gulf Coast. And in my journalistic opinion, the best retirement community on the Gulf Coast.

PK will join me tomorrow for sun tannin' by the Royal Coachman pool and home cooked German meals in Oma's lanai. Until then, it's just me and the pug sleeping on a pullout sofa, listening to the sound of clocks tick and motorcycles rev muffler-lessly into the night.

Oma told me a story tonight that I'll share with you briefly before I fall asleep under these downy blankets.

It started first with Opa pinching his gray hair, which hangs in a kind of sparse dutch boy when it's freshly cut.

"Gerhard," Oma said. "The barber tuk a lot off dis time."

"Ja. That is because I told him to," said Opa. "Every time I go to him he schnibbles only a little around mein ears, so I have to come back two, tree veeks later. I told him to take it all off at vonce. I pay to get mein hair cut, so cut it mensch!"

Smiling, Oma reached around Opa's head and touched the bristled ends of his hair. She asked if I remembered tiptoeing up to him as a little girl – my sisters and I – clipping plastic barrettes in his hair while he was sleeping.

I remembered it vaguely.

Opa, who has a hard time remembering most things, remembered it like it happened yesterday.

--

PS. Photo by R., a 23-year-old aspiring writer and "general bohemian gadabout" living in Sydney, Australia. For her flickr photostream click here.

Griffingate.

This story is based on actual events.

Here I sit, in bed on a Wednesday night while my Kathy Griffin-loving boyfriend sleeps heavily beside me. Dreaming of Griffin no doubt.

I outed Joe a Griffinite early in our relationship. His KG tendencies were glaring. For example: stalling on Bravo whenever My Life on the D-List was on, reciting two-bit KG jokes and insisting I dye my hair red, cut my bangs short and curl them under like a German puff pastry.

Well, those last two are a lie. But I'm sure the bangs crossed his mind.

Before you throw your hands in the air and call me a lying rat, understand that the first time I saw My Life On The D-List, it was at Joe's apartment. The second and third time - Joe's again.

"You're in love with Kathy Griffin," I cried.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are. You love her rolled bangs."

"What are you talking about?"

"You want Griffin."

And so it went on. And on. Whenever an opportunity presented itself to call Joe a card-carrying Griffinite, I would and still do.

"Yes, you're right," he'd sigh, humoring me like you would a child. "I'm in love with Kathy Griffin,"

This faux-admission was satisfaction enough. I was, and am, the most obnoxious girl on the swing set.

Up until last week Joe's Griffin fascination was limited to my unfettered whims. He had tuned in three times to Life on the D-List, confessed once that yes he thought the show was entertaining and like always my self-fulfilling delusions and knack for exaggeration had convinced me Joe was president of the Kathy Club. But alas, as evidence waned I tired of the game. If the KG glove don't fit, I must acquit. Eventually I forgot that my boyfriend was a closeted Griffinite.

Until two weeks ago ...

On our way home from Tampa after Father's Day dinner at his parents, I hit play on his car stero and Griffin's standup act For Your Consideration came on.

I made an indigested face as I went angry ape on the eject button.

"A-ha!" I screamed, holding the Griffin CD in the air like I'd ripped out a still-beating heart. "I knew it, Griffinite."

"It's not mine," he snapped.

"Whatever, crazy Griffinite."

(This is ridiculous, he said. You planted it. What? I shrieked. Am I that absurd? My brother borrowed the car, he explained. It's probably his.)

And thus I dropped the conversation. Was it because I finally believed I had contrived 75 percent of this infatuation? And even if that was the case, ain't no shame in a 25 percent crush on Kathy Griffin.

I dropped it was because I wanted to listen to the CD and see for myself if the ginger was worth her weight in bangs.

She is. Here's why.