Marigold Match Making Choosing Sam Elliott Over Brad Pitt

Who has 350 close family, friends, and acquaintances? It always makes me laugh and wonder. Weddings, big money, big time arguments, big business for me. I’m known as the wedding planner. Guess I was too busy doing the deed for others that time escaped the window and here I am. Always the planner, never the bride. This nuptial, my current client, extravaganza will be New York Times worthy. Generational money comes together with this, I do, and I’m doing the event. I’m orgasmic that the stunning bride has given me the green light and it’s full steam ahead.

Where’s my file? I pull the pink folder out of my briefcase to confirm the details. It’s always in the details. You are only as good as what you did last. Venue, check. Caterer, check. Music, check. Flowers are all mine to design and adore. The bride loves marigolds. Not a problem though this particular bloom, often referred to as the flower of the dead, has a wried connotation. Sure, I can work with it. Other attributes, it spurs the growth of  broccoli, cabbage, eggplant and a parade of other veggies. It deters beetles and keeps mosquitoes at bay with its signature scent. How perfect for this million dollar happening. Thank you Wikipedia.

I head my Porsche out of town and take a sharp right toward a flower farm that specializes in marigolds.  I’m not a botanist, more of an anthophile. Just a flower lover. Most brides go for the red roses. They’re all about true love, deep emotions and desires. Red salvia is forever mine. Valerian stands for readiness. Sweet pea, all about pleasure. Those would have been easy. Marigolds, great for Hindu weddings, symbolizing brightness and positive energy. This couple is upscale Manhattan natives, marrying in South Beach. Marigolds grow in Mexico and Central America. I’m the provider. My job is to make the bride happy. That’s why I’m heading to a nursery in the Everglades somewhere with bugs and alligators. Makes sense to me, right?

Reality sets in when my cell phone rings and fills the car’s interior. “Hello, Connie, what’s up?

“Just another wedding request,” her voice booms out through the car speakers, “Got time for Senator Smithson’s daughter?”

“Absolutely, and even more time if her sister gets engaged right now too. See if Wednesday works. Capital Grill, usual table and favorite waiter at 12:30. Thanks, Connie.”

“Of course. Can I come and take notes? Get my hair done and a mani-pedi?”

“Connie, what do you think? How about a chocolate shake at Dairy Queen. Plus, gel nails at the Asian place that opened next door. It’s on me.”

“Sounds good,” she laughs.

“Hold down the fort,” ending the call. I pull off the Turnpike. Easing the Boxster over to the side of the road I park and lower the window. I’m exhausted. Think I’ll just close my eyes for a quick nap. Long hours, temperamental clients, continuous to do lists. I’m just plain pooped. My thoughts before sleep are dancing marigolds in fiery yellow, orange, and red hues. My breathing is deep and pleasurable. It’s dream-like and peaceful. 

I can see myself. Running through a field of marigolds, the wind blows my hair and the warm sun’s rays kiss my cheeks. Sam, Sam Elliott I call out in a throaty sexy voice. He’s just a short distance ahead of me. I’m gaining on him. I can almost reach out and touch him. Maybe tackle him and roll in the field of marigolds, smiling into each other’s upturned faces, throwing our heads back and laughing at having found each other. I pick up my pace. Sam, Sam wait up I’m coming. Sam, I choose you over Brad Pitt. Free as a bird I leap over a crystal clear stream and land in the mud. Wake up my mind teases me. It’s just a dream. A strange dream, so real.

It’s that damn movie I saw on Netflix. He looked so good. So very, very delicious that Sam Elliot. “I’ll See You in My Dreams,” sweet, charming little cinema treat. And that Sam Elliott just shined. He’s no kid and neither am I and he sure took on a leading man role in my book. That mane of white hair and that manly man mustache GQ all the way. Just imagine now he’s 76, and has dreamy good looks. Baby booming ladies swoon in the aisles when he struts his stuff I bet. Cool as a cucumber, suave, debonair, a perfect combination of manhood on the big screen. He’s the man.

Okay, since I can’t have Sam, I guess I can have marigolds as a consolation prize. My best bet is hoping Sam has a twin. Unrealistic? Katherine Ross is one lucky lady. Think they have been together for forty years. That’s what I’d call a permanent relationship. I could star in a movie with him? I could write a screenplay and sign him to be the lead. Maybe make an arrangement of marigolds and deliver them to his door for his love, Katherine. This is silly. Just playing with my creative imagination. Sam is just not available to me or anyone else. Fine, I’ll move on and hire a matchmaker. Yeah, that’s the answer.

It’s no joke, Google knows all. Select the matchmaking agency of your choice. Here’s one, join up with Just Dinner Meet Your Match. Fill out the form, and get ready for exciting new people in your life. I’m all in for that. I start the engine and pull back onto the road. The dream was great. I’m going to find my man and my marigolds sooner, rather than later. I’ll plan the wedding in Yankee Stadium for 50,000 of my closest friends. Thanks Sam.