A little catch-up time needed, and I actually have some news about my book. My friend the bridge player, published writer and Phi Beta Kappa finished reading the book and pronounced it good, that I should pursue publishing it. When she heard it would be close to 400 pages (I was embarrassed, so my white lie: more, once I add the photos), she said it needed cutting. But she loved my grandmother’s voice, those of my feisty daughters–and mine, I’m supposing. So once the wedding is over, I have a new project to fill my time.
And speaking of weddings: I never guessed how much time little details would consume, how many times I’ve taken the car out to get the stupidest little thing that we forgot to get earlier. What kinds of things, you might ask? How about those little net bags to hold birdseed from that 40-lb. box from Costco for the guests to toss gaily as the happy couple descends the church steps to begin a new life together (or should I say celebrate the city hall marriage they had last fall)? The little box of straight pins with multicolored frosted heads for the Money Dance? (Don’t ask–please.) The Unity Candle to be lit by yet two more dripless candles? Where do you get those?
And now that we’re down to the nibs and pibs, there are those squeamish decisions that seem to stick to one like cat hair. The generic poem Katie wants to have read whose meter is so bad it could make you cry. I had to rewrite it. And the cake topper. You know that the wedding colors are red and yellow, right? (Not nice; I can hear you gasping from here.) Nevertheless, the cake is going to be so pretty and delicate, lemon yellow with white fondant swirly patterns applied, plus a few flowers here and there, and pearls separating the layers (no plastic pillars, thanks). Well, the bride insists that since the color scheme is yellow and red, she wants the cake topper to be all red flowers. Nice. It’s going to look as if someone put a brick on it. There goes that delicate effect.
Both Richard and I agree this color thing is going to be gross. But when he gets on the phone, he tells her, “Your mother says the top shouldn’t be red.” So there it is: Mom once again is the Bad Cop, while Dad is the Good, Beloved Cop. Such a piss-off. At least he has finally agreed to take care of getting the beverages to the caterer. Filling a hundred tiny net bags with three tablespoons each of birdseed is too tough for a manly man who is all thumbs.
Eight days and counting.