"The bride, lovely herself, and lovely by her side a bevy of bright nymphs, with sober grace came glittering like a star, and took her place." *

It’s all Lazy Cow’s fault that I am dying to write a blog post in the style of Raffaella Barker’s Hens Dancing. Which is only just, as the wedding I attended yesterday would fit right into one of Barker’s delightful and rustic novels. (But you'll have to bear with my rather more prosaic prose.)

H and I should not be allowed to attend weddings together; we are a bad bad influence on each other, and spend much of the ceremony stifling giggles and shaking with silent laughter. We can’t even look at each other. We’re like a couple of VERY immature teenagers. The first thing that set us off was H’s colleague’s wife who wore big black sunglasses in the church, throughout the whole ceremony. Next came the minister, with a ridiculously Dickensian name and references to his “clan” of thirteen brothers and sisters. We wondered if his brothers and sisters were named for months of the year as he was. The soloist – a very black man with very white teeth that matched his even whiter suit, shirt, and tie – embarked on a soulful rendition of "This Little Light of Mine," fabulously incongruent in this Wonderbread enclave of Protestantism, and I nearly peed my pants. When the recessional turned out to be a booming version of the Hallelujah Chorus (the bride is 45), H and I totally lost it, but fortunately at the point the ceremony was mercifully concluded and no one noticed our childish behavior. I am not proud of our juvenile and politically incorrect behavior, but gosh, it was fun.

I had wound up wearing a little black wrap dress I bought at Target two years ago, and found in the back of my closet, tags still on. It looked far better as a maternity dress than as a regular dress, and paired with a dangly black and silver necklace and black slingback pumps, served remarkably well.

I wasn’t sure if I would be woefully overdressed for the reception at the bride’s brother’s house, out in the middle of nowhere; we had no idea what to expect. The trailer homes we passed on the way there did not fill me with especially high expectations.

Turns out I was appropriately attired, with the exception that every other woman there experienced –except for the old ladies in their orthopedic shoes and the teenagers in their flipflops: heels sinking into the grass every time we took a step. By the salad course, I think everyone had kicked off their shoes and we were all fine.

The backyard was actually several acres of perfect, green, rolling grass, causing the cavorting flower girls and ringbearers to resemble nothing so much as a Ralph Lauren ad. The white tent was strung with Christmas lights, and the tables were clustered with candles and flowers, and the food was delicious.

The Port-a-Potties concerned me, but by a certain time I had to pee so badly I didn’t care what I had to brave. However, they were the nicest Port-a-Potties I have EVER seen, and were cleaner than my bathroom at home.

By ten we had eaten the cake (white almond with buttercream frosting) and H had handily put away several large whiskeys, and so we hurtled home on Rte 30 listening to a Penguins victory, and then to bed.

Lovely day. The bride was radiant, the groom was gracefully tipsy, and other than the fact that the caterer ran out of coffee, everything else was pretty much perfect.


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* John Dryden

I couldn't pick just one. Do yourself a favor and go read them all. I laughed so hard I was crying.

So ok, there you have it.
I emailed my resignation letter this morning.

The relief I feel at knowing I only have one more Saturday to work is immense.

The panic I feel that all of my freelance work will now dry up is also immense.

In better, more comforting news:

Everyone’s ears are back to normal-ish. Primo went off to Picture Day with two normal ears and wearing the usual white shirt of his school uniform, because that’s what he wanted to wear and I didn’t have the energy or really even the desire to argue.

I saw my OB yesterday. At 21 weeks, I am still nauseated and have gained no weight, but I have stopped losing weight, and the baby appears healthy. I even look sorta fetching, in a pregnant-person sort of way.

I bought the last Maisie Dobbs I haven’t read, Messenger of Truth. And The Air We Breathe is wonderful.

I am supposed to be running the Scholastic Book Fair at Primo’s school the week of Thanksgiving. I have no clue what I am doing, so I am frantically lining up parent volunteers and setting up meetings.

We have a wedding to attend tomorrow afternoon. As I told H, who works with the couple, I nominate the groom as “Least Likely Person I Have Ever Met to Be Married Once, Let Alone Twice.” And yet here he is, on his second wife. The ways of love are exceedingly strange.

I am off to collect Seg from preschool, along with his little friend C, and haul them and The Baby to the zoo. Because Seg asked, and he never really asks for anything. I HATE the zoo. But I suppose I can stand it for a couple hours. Of course, it’s October 5 and freakishly warm, which makes me very grumpy. You can control many things, but not the weather (or the panic which is threatening again).
Gulp.

I think I will go clean my bathroom.
Life can't be too bad if you have clean bathrooms.

"...For whatever the tortures of hell, I think the boredom of heaven would be even worse." *

Poison ivy. In his ear.
Ask me how.
How, you say?
*I*? Have no fucking clue.
Neither does he, or H.
Best we can figure, he was at the playground with some friends after hockey practice, and they were running around in the bushes.
So he’s on prednisone, which is EXACTLY what you want an impossible six-year-old-who-is-already-acting-like-a-two-year-old to be taking for the next week.
But his ear looks better, and he went to school today. (I have been assured he is NOT contagious.)
Which is good, because if he didn’t go to school, I may have been forced to put him in the dog crate for the day.
(I am KIDDING. Do NOT call CYS. (Maybe the SPCA but not CYS.) But he has been impossible.)

Now, the dog, which is what I know you all really care about, has an ear infection. Also on steroids and anti-inflammatories, and we must swab his ears with this gunk every other day till it clears up. Fuck me. But at least the new baby has not arrived yet.
‘cause remember when the cat got hit by a car right after Terzo was born?
That is exactly where I would be with the dog and his ear infection.
But no one cared about the cat. Why is that?
I received zip, zero, NO emails about the plan to just let the cat die.
Do rabid cat lovers not read blogs?
Inquiring minds want to know.
I want to know.

I also want to get my hair cut.
And lie around eating cannoli from the Italian deli, and reading novels.

Oh well.
People in hell want ice water, as my mother used to compassionately point out.
Speaking of...
(Hell? My mother? Both? Who knows?)
It’s been nine years.
Seems like yesterday in some respects, and eons ago in others.



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*
"I don't believe in an afterlife, so I don't have to spend my whole life fearing hell, or fearing heaven even more..." Isaac Asimov

“Martyrs, my friend, have to choose between being forgotten, mocked or used. As for being understood -- never.” *

I was ready to ditch Mirabillis but when I started thinking of buying it, to get through the rest of the story and learn the fates of its complex characters, I realized I should just renew it. Some books are worth the work; this might be one of them.

Citizen Vince was an enjoyable read, and I will definitely read other Jess Walter books, but it didn’t knock my socks off. Nonetheless, it was a fun, well-written, and smart quick read.

My copy of Death Warmed Over: Funeral Food, Rituals, and Customs from Around the World arrived in the mail yesterday; I was spurred to buy this book after reading, and then discussing with Jess, the funeral food chapter in Michael Lee West’s wonderful cookbook/memoir Consuming Passions. I am looking forward to perusing the recipes. Although I can say with certainty I will never attempt the Etruscan grape bread. Yuck.

I have started Andrea Barrett’s newest novel, The Air We Breathe. Barrett’s novels are slow, enveloping, lovely books; reading one is like having a warm bath and then a cup of tea tucked up in bed – her prose is gorgeous and deliberate, the scientific research is impeccable yet fascinating, and her pacing is perfect. You can’t rush through a Barrett novel, any more than you should rush through the bath and the tea. Comfort reading for the intelligent and curious.

Richard Russo’s latest tome – the book is a good two and a half inches thick – is sitting on my nightstand. Russo is also not an author to rush through; this book may well sit there for several months while I await the perfect few days to read it in peace. It may even wait till February when the new baby comes; the two days I spent in the hospital after Terzo’s birth were the closest I have come to a real vacation in seven years. And everyone knows you need a decent book to read on vacation.

Today I must take Primo to the pediatrician, for some sort of weird bug bite which has caused his left ear to swell up to half again its normal size and turn beet-red; take the dog to the vet to see what’s up with his stinky ears; stop at the grocery store for, at the very least, dog food, bread, and diapers; edit a short paper I promised a client by Friday; find the meatloaf I froze last month, that is somewhere in the freezer, to thaw for dinner tonight; buy a rake (so I can clean the leaves up so we don’t have hidden dog poop in the yard anymore). In addition, I am seriously contemplating quitting my job; H is supportive but not pressuring. There is no doubt it would make life easier in many ways. But quitting a job is always a stressful thing, especially since, even though I don’t wish to burn any bridges and would quit professionally (written two weeks’ notice, etc.), the bridges at this place will self-immolate because that’s the kind of place it is. Self-immolation is pretty much the name of the game there. Martyrdom rules. Not so sure I want to be a martyr.




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*Albert Camus

"O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head." *

So tired.
So very very tired.
Aren’t you supposed to be full of energy in your second trimester?
I am at twenty-one weeks and all I want to do – still – is sleep.

H returned from his trip Friday evening, safe and sound.
It’s good to have him back.
Someone else to yell at, er, care for the children.

I called off work Saturday – something I have not done in the almost three years I have worked there. I have taken vacation days, yes, but not just called and said, “Um, not coming in today.” Which is sort of a big deal as they have no back-up plan for if the Saturday librarian calls off. Panic ensues. I was so tired, I just didn’t care.

Then the in-law infestation yesterday. Which would have been perfectly fine except: 1) the entire event was timed around the Steelers game, about which I personally could not care less; and 2) do people not know when the hell to LEAVE? Hint: if your host has three small children and it’s already an hour past their usual bedtime (of which you are well aware), take your drunken self HOME. Pronto.

I know, I am an ungrateful wretch.
An exhausted, drooping, grumpy, ungrateful wretch.

Who had NO time at all to finish a book, or even read much at all, this past month. How did that happen?


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*Thomas Hood, Miss Kilmansegg - Her Dream