Wax Wings

Happy to say I have arisen like the phoenix from the ashes, although there’s still the possibility of taking a plunge like Icarus again (like all those mythological references?). I’m sparky and am singing to myself as always. My only fear is my driving, about which I’ve had some rather close scrapes. Almost backed into a teenager Sunday, who at least didn’t give me the finger but made that open-armed gesture like, “Just what the hell do you think you were doing, lady?” Well, what I was doing was trying to back up so that woman in the white Beemer wouldn’t hit me as I tried to turn left out of a driveway, only to discover one of those little center dividers ahead of me.

Sigh. But close calls are nothing compared to the crevasse, so I just try to take it easy on the road. And maintain my composure as the Big Day draws near. I just realized that three days before the wedding is Richard’s birthday. Oh, great; a birthday party to put on. Maybe he’ll just accept a noodle dinner at Pho Vietnam, our local Thai joint. I can stick a candle in one of those weird pudding things with the unidentifiable gelatinous balls in them. Maybe I can get them to come out and sing “Happy B-day” in Thai. Very memorable.

Meanwhile, the bride is nearing the breakdown stage. She is very hassled by details which I try to relieve her of; I bought her nylons at the Macy’s sale yesterday and left them under her windshield wiper.  But her real problem is finding a poem she really likes for the ceremony. Unfortunately, she likes Mary Oliver. Have you read her poetry? It’s all like, I’m running away to save myself, and the geese honking high and free; not really wedding stuff. I Googled “Mary Oliver love poem,” and only one came up, and it was pretty lame. Why can’t we just go with the program as originally fashioned (that means by her mother)?

And it’s important to have a program, as the church’s pianist confided. If we go without, we risk Ann, the church manager, continually trying out different possibilities, stretching the rehearsal out to three hours. Makes you want to cry with fatigue. So the pianist thought having a program was an excellent idea. As long as we can circumvent Mary Oliver, we’ll be set.

Oh. Oh yes, the book. Who is thinking about that now? But I guess I should mention it, as it is what this blog is supposed to be about. “Book,” OK? Just get me past Richard’s birthday, my two psych appointments, the meetings with the florist and the caterer again, the shoe dyer, the hair cutter and highlighter, the pickup up of bottles of water from Costco and people from airports, and on and on. Do I feel wax wings springing from my shoulders?


About Holly J. Pierce

You thought vacationing with small children was hard? Try traveling with your two daughters in their 20's, yet be glad that you have your peace-mongering husband along. Put it all together with your own laser vision of an epic journey and you have the basis for my book. Will I ever see it published? Will those self-published volumes ever move out of the garage? We'll see, won't we.
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