I was working the public desk last week when one of my co-workers came out from the back:
“Sarah?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Why do you have a stack of wedding books on your desk?”
“Research.”
” . . . For a new book?”*
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Good. Have you seen the street name folder?”
“I just gave it to [patron] about ten minutes ago. Wait—were you worried I divorced and got engaged without telling anyone, was planning to commit bigamy, was marrying off my children waaay too early, or that a Real Person was actually letting me plan their wedding?”
” . . . Mostly that last one. Is the book about a wedding, or something else?”
“Hrmph. I’m not going to tell you.”
But I did end up sending her a brief description and invited her to worry all she wanted about the characters for whom—or against whom—I was planning this shingdig.
A little later, she sent me an e-mail headed, “Don’t forget the music!” and a link:
Librarians. They’re awesome.
But you already knew that.
As a postscript, I was thinking about this post this morning as I drove the kids to school, and asked them what song they thought would be the worst to play at a wedding.
Janie didn’t even pause:
“Great green gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts!
Mutilated monkey meat, little dirty, birdie feet!”
I’m so saving that one for her engagement party . . . Or the rehearsal . . .
What’s YOUR Nominee for Worst Wedding Song?
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*Not all my co-workers know I write fiction, but this one does, because she caught me trying to tape my ankles to my office chair a few years and a book ago, listened to my explanation, and then helped me.
Earful of Cider 