The final entry in this year's blog challenge focuses on the prompt "my wedding disaster." Have I got a comedy of errors for you!
Anyone who's married can probably empathize with the hectic rushing about that happens as the wedding ceremony approaches. Mine was no different.
Mom hired a salon to fix my hair and that of my five bridesmaids. The stylist did the bridesmaids first. Of course, she ran late, which caused her to rush through my appointment and make me late.
Hastening to the church--all nicely perspiring on that 102 degree F day--I changed into my wedding gown, a frothy white taffeta confection complete with hoopskirt underneath. Nerves and sudden awareness of this momentous change in my life contributed to teary eyes and running mascara. The wedding Mass itself went off without a hitch. Afterward as we gathered the unity candle and other paraphernalia, my new husband dropped one of the crystal candle holders my mother loaned us for the ceremony. It shattered on the church's hard tile. Mom gave us the other one to remember that by.
We adjourned to a local park for photographs and then to the reception. The 3-tiered wedding cake was topped by a crystal figurine of doves. The hotel's air conditioning failed to cope with the day's sweltering heat. The cake collapsed. The doves shattered.
Off to the honeymoon. David and I saw that his brothers had decorated his black Ford Escort with white shoe polish. His nephew (who served as our ring bearer) couldn't reach very high, so he painted what he could reach: the trim and tires. No matter. We headed out. Upon arriving at the hotel where we'd spend our wedding night, we heard a hiss. Lucky for us, the dollar dance at the reception generated enough income to cover replacing a punctured tire.
The next day we checked into the cabin reserved for our honeymoon, thinking we had a week of romantic togetherness to enjoy. But a canoe excursion resulted in my fair-skinned husband burning to a crisp. He couldn't bear to be touched. I hopped on the bandwagon and endured a sunburn, too. Solidarity, you know. By the time our hides healed sufficiently to resume the romance, we were on our last day of the honeymoon.
That morning as we indulged in amorous behavior the locksmith--who'd been traveling from cabin to cabin replacing door handles and latches--walked right into our cabin. Yeah, that put a damper on things.
It's probably fortunate that neither my husband nor I am superstitious, because the running disaster of our wedding and honeymoon would otherwise have sent us running for the hills. As it is, we celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary in June 2018.
The couple who can laugh together and at themselves stay together.
It's Christmas Eve and my last "personal" blog post of the year. (The #MFRWAuthor 52-week blog challenge post will appear as scheduled on Friday.) I'm headed on vacation for much-needed down time. The computer will be turned off. I won't answer email messages. You'll be lucky if I answer the telephone.
Quite simply, I'm burned-out.
I took the weekend off (mostly) and read a few books, although didn't finish a couple of them. I detest when authors construct such poor stories that they utterly fail to suspend disbelief. One of those books was a Regency romance. The author threw everything but the proverbial kitchen sink into the plot and then wrapped it up with a disgustingly TSTL heroine. I am convinced that TSTL has two meanings: 1) too stupid to live and 2) too stubborn to live. Both apply to that heroine.
That book sparked my competitive spirit: I can do better than that. Surely, I have a better command of Regency conventions and British titles than that author. Surely, I can think of a better solution for a young woman to pull her family from destitution than that author. Surely, I can keep a plot on track, unlike that author. Surely, I can do better. So, I started a new manuscript. It may never go anywhere, but for now I've got yet one more project to occupy my tired brain.
In the wee hours this morning, another idea struck my fevered imagination. It's ... odd. I'm not sure how it will play out, but it will eventually make its way from my brain onto virtual paper.
Then there's the current work-in-progress. My imagination turns over scenario after scenario, conversation after conversation, trying to fit the pieces together like some sort of mental jigsaw puzzle. This one's tough.
And I've got a few other story ideas swimming in my subconscious, which may or may not be included in the western anthology I'm working on with fellow author Russ Towne. Who knows? I'm already three stories in. A couple more and my contribution to the collection will be ready to send to the editor. Russ, by the way, deserves kudos and a bottle of top shelf whiskey for his insightful comments in his review of those rough drafts.
Regardless, my mind feels overwhelmed with ideas and story options hitting it from all sides. That's where the reference to Fezzik comes in. If you've been fortunate enough to have read William Goldman's The Princess Bride, then you'll remember the description of the wrestler Fezzik, who fought competitively against groups of opponents. My brain is Fezzik, coping with hits from a barrage of ideas and story options.
(By the way, I read The Princess Bride long before Hollywood turned it into a movie. It remains a favorite.)
In the meantime, I'm signing off for the week. I'm unplugging, taking myself away from the computers as I head south to visit family, read books printed on paper (glorious!), and take leisurely walks in the sunshine.
Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!
"To life! and thou, peace; and thy house, peace; and all that thou hast -- peace!" (1 Samuel 25:6, Young's Literal Translation)
I'm sure my use of Andrew Marvell's words from his poem "To His Coy Mistress" makes the poor man spin in his grave, but I find them appropriate to this week's blog prompt: "my fantasy vacation." I initially considered spoofing the old TV series Fantasy Island, but reconsidered. I couldn't make "De plane! De plane!" work.
Enough of my warped humor.
Everyone dreams of an extended, exotic vacation, right? Strangely enough, I dislike traveling and still yearn to visit lands far, far away. History buff that I am, I want to sail to Europe.
My husband and I fully intend to take that trip when he retires. (He'll never retire, so that's a moot point.) We joke about taking a food tour of Italy, eating our way down one coast and up the other, not leaving until we've each gained 50 lbs. Since my father's family emigrated from Calabria, I'd like to spend a little extra time there to soak up the ambiance and history of the region.
My mother's family is Bohemian and German, so I'd like to spent time in the Czech Republic and Germany, too. I have no problems doing the "tourist thing" and touring Mad Ludvig's fantastic castles and sampling beer. The fairy tale landscapes of northern and central Europe call to me in a way that the sun-drenched landscape of Italy doesn't. It's as though Italy's almost too perfect; the green forests and misty dells of the northern countries hint at mystery and danger.
I'd also like to splurge on an extended visit to the United Kingdom and Ireland. An equestrian friend and I speak of a shared dream to take an "equitour" of Ireland, riding horses across the country. Of course, we wouldn't leave our husbands at home. They'd go ahead of us and enjoy gossiping about their crazy, unreasonable wives and bureaucratic idiocy of their former jobs while enjoying a few pints at our day's destination.
Because I'm the kind of person who prefers to plan her spontaneity, I fantasize about the luxury of traveling when and where whimsy takes me, a freedom in which detours and tangents don't matter. Until that happens though, I content myself with watching Rick Steves, Rudy Maxa, and Joseph Rosendo and traveling in spirit with them.
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