Check one off the list

I found my blue shoes! (thanks to the ever reliable Zappos)

Now I just need a well-behaved dog to serve as Ring Dog, and all of my wedding wishes will come true.

A Very Good Place to Start

Hi there. It's been a long time. I'm a bad blogger, I realize.

But now I have a topic that is consuming me and I need to get it off my chest - wedding planning. I think way too much about it and read a ton of blogs, so why not write about it, too?

To begin at the very beginning, I am engaged!

Picture it - February 6, arriving at my parent's house after a long car trip. My boyfriend is already there, drinking a beer with my Dad (nothing strange so far). He seems a little squirrley, but, whatever, he gets like that sometimes. I tell him I'm going to do laundry, does he have any I can throw in with mine? He goes out to the car and returns with a laundry bag. At some point (this will be important later) he either hands me this bag, or I already have my bag in my hand.

We both come back in the house after retrieving said dirty laundry and he stops me in the dining room and starts talking. Once I realize where this talk is heading the ONLY thing I can think is that he is proposing to me while I have a sack of dirty laundry in my hand. I blurt out something inappropriate along the lines of "I'm holding a sack of dirty laundry!" In one fell swoop (it probably wasn't, but this is how it plays out in my memory of it now), he rips the bag of laundry from my hand, tosses onto a nearby couch, and gets down on one knee. I think he pulled out the ring after he popped the actual question, because I remember thinking for a *very* brief and shallow moment, wait, there is a ring involved, right?

Once he pulled out the ring and put it on my finger, I started laughing (I laugh when I get nervous/excited/overly happy) and couldn't stop. Then - even better than the ring, in a way - he pulled out two letters from his back pocket. They were from his kids, inviting me to join the family. I don't think I've ever been so overwhelmed with emotion and love in my life.

Straight from the horse's mouth...

My absolute favorite quote from class last night (and there were many gems to pick from, trust me):

"Oh forget about the dramatic arc! You don't need to worry about the dramatic arc!"

Cut to half the class looking absolutely crushed, confused or a mixture of both.

This one's for you...

Think about how often people think about love. How to find it, where to find it, how to keep it. Arguably, a great deal of the time, people are thinking about love.

Let me tell you what love is. Love is a kick in the ass when you need it most. Love is rubbing someone's back while they throw up. Love is making grits, because the person you love is crabby and well, they need buttery, salty grits. With extra salt.

Love isn't a big ring, or a nice house, or a fast car. Maybe, sometimes, Love is behind those things, but all of those things, eventually, fade away. Love is forever.

Love tells you how great you are and gives you a reality check when you need it. Love helps you do things you are scared of. Love reminds you who you are and what your place in the world is - and what it could be.

Kermit the Frog, Journalist Extraordinaire...

THIS is what made me, at the tender age of 3 1/2, want to be a journalist...

Tiny Geniuses

Faith: There aren't 24 hours in a day.

Me: Really?

Faith: Yeah. There are, like, thousands.

Me: Really? How do you know?

Faith: Because when you are waiting for something or when I get bored, the clock goes really slow. Like - tick [dramatic pause] tock. tick. tock. And its so slow and thats why there are thousands!

Me: Wow. Genius.

*****************

Faith: [with hoody on head, laughing] I'm a dementor! I'm here to take away all your happiness!

Your Craft

As you walk in the door, which you find at the end of a very long and very dusty hallway, you catch glimpses of them through the glass panes in the door. They are old and young, male and female. You see them as they present themselves in the very first moments: the older man with three novels under his belt, the woman in the boots concerned about "process" with her finished novel sitting in the bright orange folder in front of her. The obnoxious hip indie chick and the other hip indie chick (not as obnoxious) - this is Los Angeles, you knew they would be here. The shy girls in the corner and the slightly arrogant man sitting next to them who knows all about points of view and narrators. Here they are. This is what you signed up for. You are terrified.

You write. You listen. The instructor doesn't remember your name, even joking about how he won't remember your name until the ninth week, when class is almost over. His eye wanders and you aren't sure where to look. You don't talk much, because you don't like talking. That is why you are a writer. You are protective and not sure of talking about "it" - process, craft, your characters. Buzzword after buzzword. But there are no rules. You aren't ready to expose Nellie to them yet.

You write furiously for two minutes and then realize you will have to read what you wrote. This is it. This is what you signed up for. You read your passage, confidently, surprised at what came out of you. You think you heard appreciative murmurs. Maybe you were hearing things.

You love this.