A Song in our Hearts . . .

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.

Something BrokenJanie 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?

_______________________

*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.

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If You Invite a Watson to a Wedding: A Guest Post

Watson wrote me a guest post, because her explanation of what she was doing was too good not to share.   It also might be a bribe to sit her dog while she’s away this weekend . . .

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I gift-wrapped a plunger yesterday morning.

This is not the first, nor even the third, time I’ve done that. And I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last.

And no, it’s not a joke or OCD.

The daughter of my good friend Denise, whom I met at the race track years ago and adopted into my extended motorcycle family, is getting married this weekend.  So Celie will be receiving the customary Watson Wedding Gift this weekend.

You see, the Wesson family has a long-standing tradition of giving the essentials—the non-glamorous gifts that receive a WTF look when first opened,* but two years later get a heart-felt “that was the BEST PRESENT EVER!”

At baby showers, we give shop rags and carpet cleaner.  You know, those fabulously unfabulous essentials.

Bucket ListSetting up a household is expensive. And buying all the crap to keep a household running and clean is REALLY expensive. So I like to give cleaning brushes for the bathroom and kitchen, mops and brooms, sponges and reusable rubber gloves and disposable rubber gloves, all kinds of cleaning agents for kitchen and bath, toilet bowl cleaners and yes, a plunger—because lemme tell ya, when you don’t have one and you need one, wow.

There’s band aids and hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin in there too. And a roll of duct tape and a black sharpie.

This ain’t my first rodeo.

All of this fits nicely in a 5 gallon bucket, which every household also needs (see note about not having one and needing one).**

Bucket List 4And of course, because I am a Wesson, I have to be both practical AND obnoxious, so I individually gift wrapped EVERY PIECE.

In addition to the plunger, I gift wrapped the scrub brush. And a whisk broom set. And a bottle of Windex. And the sharpie. And yes, I’m going to buy two large lovely bows to top the plunger and the toilet bowl brush.

They’re just lucky I didn’t do what I did to my brother and wrap his gifts in duct tape (talk about your long-standing, really hard to explain family traditions).

And (big sigh) this present is going to be my introduction to the groom and his parents.

Welcome to the motorcycle racing family, y’all.

I had a ball running through Target, grabbing all the stuff. In that Classic Midwestern strike-up-a-conversation-with-a-stranger way, I even had a couple of little old ladies happily chipping in their two cents.

Bucket List 5

What else would you have included?

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*Sarah’s note: My mother had her own tradition of buying underwear for potential sons-in-law.  I assume it was a test of some sort, or perhaps a warning.  My husband passed with remarkable aplomb; he didn’t even run, when I admitted that I had no idea how she knew his size.

**Sarah’s note:  This is so true—when I was first married, I didn’t know you had to buy buckets.  Buckets—like Pepto Bismol in the medicine cabinet—just happened. Except they really, really didn’t.

Random Thursday: three tees, teed off, and toothsome news

Earlier this week, Lyra (of Lyrical Meanderings, in case there’s anyone here who doesn’t already follow her there) posted a great essay that had me thinking about tee shirts, once I was done thinking about how badass unicorns really were. 

 That’s not all I took from the essay, in case you were wondering, but once I had absorbed Lyra’s always thoughtful insights, commented, and followed the link to the badass unicorn tee, my instincts led me further down the retail path, as they are wont to do.

 I also realized that most of my tee shirts, which live lives of their own in the depths of my top bureau drawer like blind squat lobsters in the Mariana Trench,* predate my marriage.  This was a bit of a shock.  In high school and college, tee shirts happen—they’re the natural by-product of academia, or even walking across campus.  Hell, marching band along nets you three or four per semester, without including the ones that violate Bill Watterson’s copyrights.

 But after graduation, you apparently have to make an effort, especially if you want tees that fit, both physically and personal-statement-wise.**

 So I did, over at TopatoCo:

  

  

 

There were others, so, so many others, but with three you get free shipping, so I didn’t push it.

 oooooOOOOOooooo

 Janie would like me to post that after a year-long dry spell, she has two loose teeth.

 “Anything else?”

“Nope.  That’s it.”

oooooOOOOOooooo

Whiny Greedy Consumer Rant o’ the Week

I ordered a new netbook from Newegg this last weekend in a fit of pique because Best Buy ticked me off —or rather, their idea of customer service did. 

Huge sales on, tons of people, and all the clerks were clumped together in an aisle talking about how busy they were,  which was odd because they were completely ignoring the customers.   So, I walked up and said, “Could someone help me find the netbooks, please?”

It was like I’d flipped a switch.  Everyone glanced at me and faded away in different directions, but no one answered my question. 

So I left.  And I’m not going back.  And I mean it  this time.

Newegg offered me three-day delivery and six months of deferred payments, which is good, ‘cause I’m saving most of my ready resources for next week—parking in St. Louis is extortion and wireless service in the hotel is worse.**

But this netbook is a necessary expense because I wanted something I can carry around with me so I don’t have to worry about theft and I don’t want to schlep my laptop case everywhere and yes I could simply use paper and a pen but this is the 21st Century, darn it, and I wanted one.

So I’ve spent the past few days tracking my order and watching it circle New Jersey before heading west.  It arrived in town around 5:45 am this morning, and at 4:15pm this afternoon, the status finally said, “Delivered to a man.” 

I called my husband to make sure he was the man in question before doing the New Stuff Happy Dance. 

He was, and all is good.

oooooOOOOOooooo

And finally, my First Reader and dear friend is marrying her best friend and the love of her life this weekend. 

She shared one of the songs that they’ll be playing—knowing Lisa, the rest of the music will be just as incredible:

Please drop in at her place and wish her a Happy Wedding Week! 

 

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*Or like creased sardines, except I don’t think sardines, ironed or otherwise, live in the Mariana Trench.  Any ichthyologists in the house?

**I’m no longer a medium nor someone who picks up the beat and flutes it all about.  I’m not heartbroken about either.

**If any Bouchercon attendees happen to land on this post,  I will gladly split or even divide the daily wireless charge, if possible.  E-mail me.