My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I performed a wedding today and it was beautiful and the bride was radiant in her poofy dress and red roses and her wee veil over her face.

I met her mother and father and sister and friends. I stood in front of the room and said some things about marriage and I read poems about marriage and they repeat after me said their vows and cried. It's cheesy in the best way that public vows are, intense and revealing. And I stood between them and watched. Like Glinda, the good witch.

Her mother, from the Southwest, gave me a giant baggie of ground hot pepper, air dried. I'm sure a wee bit would render me insensible. It's the English mother I had and boiled dinner.

So now I await the Comcast guy who will tell me my internet is FINE even though it's been hinky for two weeks but working now (natch).

And I found out that I have 10 minutes to read poetry at the reading, egad. 10 minutes is a long time to read. Brief, wow them, and then step down. Sigh. But 10 minutes. I hope they don't glaze over. They'll be mostly friends, fellow writers so they understand. And they understand poetry, how to listen and make the connections. I think I'll read the Terrible Babies poem. It's my anthem for babies everywhere who are troublesome. As I'm sure I once was.

Tomorrow I have a day off. Thank thee lawd in heaven and the BVM and her teeny baby who grew up to be troublesome. I'll prep for my reading ie: shuffle through piles of poems, get distracted frequently, do a few rewrites, doodle in the margins, behave as I usually do with poetry. And then I'll whittle down the selection and with a timer, read aloud while marching about the living room in my slippers, dog at my heel. The evening of the reading, I'll be a wreck, trying to decide what to wear that doesn't look pretentious and thinking that what I've chosen is all wrong. A beret maybe?

When I stand before a mic, I fill into the space, make eye contact and read. my. own. words. Terrible Babies and all. I think it ironic that Beth the midwife has a Terrible Baby poem. But I do. And it's a good poem. I just hope someone laughs because it's funny. Poetry is funny so dear audience, you dan't have to sit there furrowing your brow and being all serious. Really.

Like meditation. Also a funny activity. Dancing, I smile and laugh. And today, my dear Clark was there and we danced together because we were happy to see each other and because we can get married. He can marry Andy and I can marry Deb. As I live and breathe. While smoking pot. With Obama in the White House. (white house?)

Where is the Comcast guy? I gotta go get flowers, a card and replacement chocolate covered currents for Deb because I ate all hers. And she deserves an apology from me because I behaved abominably yesterday. That's another story about being bitchy and incomprehensible and goading her until she gets angry. Sheesh. I act like such a jerk sometimes. Babbling now.

Peace out.