it's all about the disclaimer

Disclaimer: This post is again about poetry and the PhD process. This is not about the events of Sunday, November 7. Those deserve a post all their own.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I don’t like writing about myself. Maybe that’s why I chose poetry over creative non-fiction, although when I started writing, I didn’t know what creative non-fiction was. I was nine, maybe ten. I couldn’t tell you why I was writing, just that I was. After a (short) lifetime spent reading, it seemed like a natural next step. As for poetry. . . who knows how that happened.

First collection: "I'm Friends with the Birds. Imagine That!" Illustrated. Sometime in elementary school, fourth or fifth grade. Rather dreadful. Probably tucked away in a box for safe keeping and memory lane.

The day my fifth grade teacher told us we were going to write poems in "free verse," which meant they couldn't rhyme. I couldn't imagine writing a poem that didn't rhyme and I told my friends that she couldn't do that to my poetry.

Memorizing "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" and being pretty damn sure it was about stopping by woods on a snowy evening. (Fourth grade)

The first time I found Milosz's anthology A Book of Luminous Things. I sat in the stacks of the library and read Szymborska's "Four o'clock in the morning." And I wanted to write like that.

Those were my beginnings. And then poetry became habit. I sat in the back of classrooms, writing long free verse poems down notebook pages. There weren't that many of us writing in junior high, in high school, so it was something about me that made me different. I was introduced to my first (only-ish) boyfriend because we both wrote poetry. Mine was better.

I made it to college, still thinking that I was special and ususual because I wrote poetry. But I learned pretty quickly that what I was writing wasn't very good poetry. (Insert humiliation when a professor had me share a poem with the class. . .) I don't like being not very good at things, and I decided I would make a better editor. I joined Inscape, spent one semester on the poetry staff, and then became poetry editor for over two years.

I couldn't stay away from poetry. It started with a lit class in contemporary poetry. Kim Johnson came to speak to the class about her poetry. I was fascinated, memorized her poem "Persephone," and read Leviathan with a Hook so many times that I could have recited the order of the poems. I signed up for Kim's workshop. And it was hard, and I wasn't very good, and I met Kristen. Kristen made me realize that poetry/writing can't be done in isolation, as much as we all admire Emily Dickinson.

Kristen joined Inscape, and then Kristen and I joined in a conversation facilitated by Kjerstin Evans, who named the conversation "April." When Kjerstin left Provo to serve a mission, I inherited April (must use that line in a poem sometime). Suddenly there were six of us who loved writing and language and poetry and it was okay if we weren't always good--we were writing together. There is nothing on this earth that feels as good as participating in that friendship/conversation.

Even with Inscape and April, I still wasn't ready to embrace the idea of "me as writer/poet" when I applied to the MA in English at BYU. My nickname was editorgirl and for good reason. I started the American literature track, with a thesis on contemporary American poetry. I found out that I loved teaching writing as much as I loved writing. And I used my thesis topic as an excuse to still take poetry workshops.

It was Kim who woke me up again. She gave a reading at BYU. It was awesome, naturally, and afterward Aaron, one of my April friends, asked me to introduce him to Kim. I wasn't sure if Kim would even know who I was. But she did and she signed that copy of Leviathan that I had memorized and asked me if I was going to take her creative writing theory class.

That theory class is the point everything else radiates from. My confidence as a writer. My realization that I am more engaged, happier, talking about how a text works than what a text means (although I think those conversations should be happening together). My decision to apply to PhD programs in creative writing. I was finally ready to claim that as my place.

If you've been around this blog much, you know what happens next. I apply to three schools, get waitlisted by one, and don't get in. I don't finish my thesis on time, don't get the teaching position because my thesis wasn't done, and somehow everything I had just achieved seemed to collapse around me. But I finish my thesis (thanks to Kim and Lance Larsen), and apply to PhD programs again. This time I doubled the number of schools to double my chances. And I got waitlisted twice and didn't get in to either. In an effort to regroup I retreat to Bountiful and a job as receptionist at my dad's law firm. And Kim emails me a link to a new MFA at Northwestern. I apply in July, get accepted in August, and move to Chicago in September.

I know that last paragraph doesn't seem like it's about poetry, but it's just as much a part of this as writing poems in the back of the classroom or the sonnet-kick I went on my sophomore year of college. Because for once I didn't give up when it seemed like I wasn't good enough. I've given up on a lot of things in my life--piano, voice, driving, dating, math. That community, of April, and then FOB, of Kim and Lance and Muhlestein and professors and friends and family who believed in me when I wasn't giving them any reason to believe in me--this is turning into a Hallmark card. But they kept me in the conversation, kept me writing.

This will be the last time I apply to PhD programs. I've had an amazing two years at Northwestern, and I'm finishing a third that makes me so happy. After a rough start, our MFA poetry group is tight (although not named after a month) and I've added friends and professors to my community of writers. My poetry finally deserves those votes of confidence I've received over the years. I'm going to end my degree with a thesis that I'm proud of and with workshops with two of my favorite profs--Ed Roberson and Simone Muench. This is what I was looking for, and what I needed. I wasn't ready for a PhD three years ago. But I am now. I want to continue to build this community. I want to use my MA and my MFA to not just add to the conversation, but help direct the conversation. I love poetry and I want to talk about it.

I know that I might not get in. It's competitve and it's taken me a long time to get here. I still question myself. But I'm not sure you can be a good poet and not question yourself. If I don't get in, I still have my MFA. I can teach. I can write. I have my friends (maybe not after this long post) and I'll be okay.

But I still really really want in.

intense

The thought of it actually makes me kind of sick. Can I really go through another round of this?

Not grad school. Grad school I'm good with. But the application process. . .

Four applications. Due December 15, January 1, January 15, and February 1. You need a degree just to navigate the sites to figure out how to apply.

You need writing samples (check), GRE scores (check), letters of recommendation (checking), money (check-ish), transcripts (.5 check). And you need a letter/statement of intent/purpose. No check yet, but it has to be done by the weekend for those letters of recommendation to happen.

That letter/statement kills me every time. I don't like writing about myself. I am awkward and nervous and scared they won't like me. I come across desperate. Please don't make me join the human race! Please let me stay in school forever!

It's not about school. I love learning, I love classes, but after a decade of a college education. . . there is no good way to end that sentence. I have grown old taking class after class. And I will keep taking class after class. There's no stopping me. I've actually considered another masters if the PhD doesn't happen again. So why the PhD?

I have an MA in literature. In June I'll have an MFA in creative writing. Each of those degrees teaches you do one thing very very well. (Read/talk lit, write/talk poetry, just in case you were wondering.) In lit courses you talk about "what it's about." In creative writing classes you talk about how that same lit works. What only happens in very rare classes (Kim Johnson, John Bennion, Mary Kinzie) is that you talk both about what it's about and how it works and how the craft and the criticism need each other. Kim's creative writing theory class got me thinking about this (what form is appropriate for what argument), Bennion's English lit courses presented it from a different angle (creative writing assignments in a lit course), and Kinzie just insists on speaking both languages at once. I first discovered it in my own work when I realized that the only theory/criticism that would work for my MA thesis was Grossman's Summa Lyrcia, which is on the craft of writing a lyric. And at NU, I come at texts from a new perspective that lit profs aren't expecting because I'm considering what the text says about the craft, and how the craft makes the argument. I have this crazy toolbox to talk about and teach literature and writing, specifically poetry, and I want to use all of that toolbox. And a PhD seems the best way to do this.

be my thrill

Tonight I had to choose between this



and this


I should clarify. I wasn't going to fight club, I was going to the annual Halloween multi-stake dance as one of the Jane Austen Fight Club girls (or, alternatively, Relief Society Fight Club). And I wasn't going to be a Muppet. I was going to the Weepies concert.

It's probably not really a surprise that the Weepies concert won. I had bought my ticket in August, the venue is a five-minute walk from my apartment, and it was the Weepies.

They were awesome. Better than awesome. Best concert ever. Ever. I had paid for a reserved seat at a table in this tiny venue, so I was thisclose. My friend Dani came with because she's awesome. (Awesome being the appropriate adjective for such a night.) They sound just as good or maybe a little better live. And they're the cutest couple. That's right. I, cranky-pants McGee, just declared someone the cutest couple. Ever. And if you ever call me cranky-pants McGee, I'll hurt you.

There were two things I really loved tonight, other than the music. One was that there was just the right mix of performing songs and talking to the audience. Poets and other writers could learn a lesson from musicians, or at least these musicians. If the audience wanted to hear your poems, they could read them out loud. Of course there's the added benefit of hearing the poem the way the poet hears the poem, but really the audience wants a little more than they can get from just reading the book. They want to feel as if they know the poet, know the poem, a little more from the reading. And by "them," I mean "me." So listen up, poets of the world. Give me what I want.

The second thing I loved tonight was an example of the first thing. The Weepies are Deb Talan and Steve Tannen, and they're married. (This is important for the next part.) Steve shared the story behind the title track of their newest album, "Be My Thrill." They had a fight, and he was mad, and he wrote a song. He took it to Deb, and said, "This is an angry song," and played it for her. She listened, and then said, "That's not an angry song, it's a love song." She took his angry song and made it a love song. "And that's marriage, guys," said Steve.

I love this story. And I'm a little embarrased that I love it. If you're reading this blog, you probably know that I have a little minor obsession with marriage and weddings. (The stack of wedding magazines at the foot of my bed might dispute just how little that obsession is.) I've never felt that I had the right to think about relationships and marriage and love as much as I do--as much as I want those things, I'm not sure that I'm the type of person who has those in their life. But tonight's concert was about love and respect as much as it was about music (and making money from the second round of people crammed into that room). It was beautiful and fascinating and I have a new favorite song.

good morning

sometimes I come home from work and I'm tired and I just want to not think. I watch an episode or two or three of a show that entertains and nothing else. I eat dinner, which is the most thinking I do for a few hours. I sequester myself in silence and artificial life. and then I slowly emerge from the break I've given myself. I want to do things, I want to talk to people, I want to be brilliant again. the only problem is that this usually happens close to the world's bedtime. I'm not going to pick up the phone. I lurk online--gmail, facebook--hoping someone will say hi. I never say hi first. because you might be just about to sign off.

.

I just realized that my iTunes, which has been shuffling for hours, has played "Elephant Love Medley" more than twice tonight. This can't be a good sign.

I didn't fall in a ditch

My friend Lindsy taught GD this Sunday. She mentioned a "grateful" journal she kept on her mission, and that "I'm grateful I didn't fall in a ditch" was a frequent entry.

So.

I didn't fall in a ditch today. I did wait for the bus this morning for close to 40 minutes in crazy wind. I spent my morning prepping for a meeting that was cancelled. I was stranded hosting a going-away party for a man who didn't want a party. But there are things to be grateful for. When the bus came, it was close to empty which means I got to sit on the 10-minute ride to campus. The wind made everyone look a little disheveled today, so no one noticed that I didn't really get ready this morning. Prepping for the meeting led me to the solution to a problem that has been haunting me since July. And there was cake. Chocolate cake.

And I didn't fall in a ditch.

honestly

I may have said that sometimes it's hard to go to church. While I was at church. Standing at the "pulpit".

"Pulpit" is in quotations because our branch has moved to an elementary school, so the pulpit is more a lectern-type stand in the auditorium. I find it oddly refreshing, although the missionaries seem a little weirded out by not being in a traditional building.

This is not what this post is about. And my last post, about being stuck, wasn't actually meant to be about work. It was meant to be about writing. This post too. I just get so distracted by everything--work, church, social situations--that writing becomes more and more difficult to concentrate on.

Right now I should be writing a poem. About red and names and maybe God, man's relationship to.

I just read the title of this post and remembered what I logged on to write about. Honesty. And about sometimes being too honest. Where do you draw the line? How much do you tell someone? In this case, there is a specific Someone who I told many things to and who repeatedly complimented me on my honesty, saying it was appreciated. But did that Someone deserve my honesty? And was I dishonest when I didn't tell this Someone Everything? (The caps are getting to be a bit Salinger-esque. Not really.)

I'm not saying that I would have lied to this person. Or to any person. I just don't seem to have that filter that stops me from oversharing--that's what I mean by too honest. How much of my personal experience do I need to share with people for them to feel that I'm being open and honest? Is honest even the right word to describe what I'm talking about? I'm not sure.

After I told this Someone somethings about myself, I realized that I had left something out--maybe subconsciously, but maybe a little on purpose. And I know I'm being vague here. Because right now I'm embarrassed about opening up that much to Someone who isn't a close friend or a therapist. But it's made me thing about what I choose to share and what I keep to myself.

You know what? I think I have a poem to write now. See you later.

Honestly.

is so completely stuck

My life has been reduced to a series of Facebook status updates.

• Editorgirl is having an "I hate numbers" kind of day.
• New personal rule: no talking to engineers in elevators.
• GRE word of the day: Help.
• deciding just how nice I'm going to be today.

With the exception of the GRE, they're all about work. I've been overwhelmed lately, and nothing seems to work. I even tried to run away to Utah for a weekend--which was lovely--but I seem to be stuck in a land of numbers and policy and things that in my head really don't matter. Even though I know they do.

I keep trying to figure out what I'm doing, why I'm doing this job. I thought I was going to be writing or editing or teaching or something having to do with degrees in writing, editing, and reading. Instead I'm going line by line through expense reports, pounding the hell out of my 10-keypad.

I tell myself it's temporary. Actually, I tell everyone it's temporary. Nine months and I'll have masters degree number two, and maybe a spot at a PhD program. If that PhD doesn't happen this year, I'm going to start looking internally for a position that fits me better.

Does this sound like I'm not grateful? I am. I know how lucky I am to have a job, one with benefits, one that lets me eat while I study poetry. I like the people I work with, I like that I still get to work for the university, and it's really not all that bad. I'm just stuck right now. Not so much with work, but with everything else, and work is the easiest thing to point my finger at and say "See. I'm not crazy."

I am crazy. But you knew that was coming.

I'm not paying attention

I've been trying to blog for the past week. I keep opening windows and closing windows, and writing sentences and deleting sentences. Sometimes just fragments.

"Fragments" is precisely what I'm experiencing right now. All of these pieces of my life, and I have this nagging feeling that they all fit together, they're all what my life really is right now, but I can't pull them together. I can't bring them into focus at the same time.

Exhibit A. Puzzle piece A. The graduate students are coming back to NU. I know that I'm a grad student, but really I'm not. I'm a staff member who is getting a graduate degree. My life is 9 to 5 work, and then, every once in a while, 7 to 9:30 pm poetry. And I'm happiest then, I'm who I am then, and yet--I'm good at my job. Good enough that I forget that I write poetry and I get pulled into the numbers. One of the new grad students in the branch asked me if I was bored during the summer break before classes started. I couldn't even process that--I work full time. Who has time to be bored?

I am so bored. I am impatient. I have one year left. One year to write my thesis and apply to PhD programs and graduate and go to another school. Be a real live grad student again. And in the meantime, until classes start and I can get that rush of writing and talking about writing and even a little bit of teaching, I am bored and distracted and not sure what to do with myself.

I met a very nice young man at church on Sunday. He's coming to NU for grad school. I told him that I'm a grad student, MFA poetry. He said, and I quote, "Good for you."

What the hell?

I'm annoyed with him, but I'm also annoyed with me. Because even after his condescension, I kept chatting and trying to be slightly charming. Because he was another grad student, because he was a real grad student. Because they are few and far between in the great Chicagoland. Because I knew once he met the other girls/women in the branch, I would just be "that other person in the branch at NU." Because I've come to expect invisibility from myself. Because I expect you not to see me. Because I'm convinced if you do, you won't like what you see.

I am giving it all up. This year is just a year. I'm going to write my thesis, I'm going to apply to grad school, I'm going to tough it out one more year. My great girl friends out here will continue to be great girl friends, but I'm all set. By this time next year, I'll be blogging from Denver or Ohio or Utah or. . . well, Chicago, if I decide on UIC. But this phase will be over and out.

Yeah, I don't believe me either.

2night

I was this close to writing a very long post with TMPI: too much personal information.

Part of me still wants to write that post.

The rest of me just thinks you should listen to this song, on repeat:



Guess which part of me is winning?

It ain't over til

It's over. And by "it," I of course mean the Proust class from. Not hell. Just Proust.

And by "over," I mean that I read every page (skimmed every page), wrote my 12-page paper, stayed awake through the last two-point-five hours of lecture, received my grade (it was shiny and A), and let my boss read the final product.

Let me repeat that last bit: My boss, or rather, my boss's boss, wanted to read my Proust paper. And she didn't stop asking. I kept trying to distract her with shiny objects and minor policy benders, but no luck. She wanted to read my paper. So I let her. And now, somehow, it all feels over.

Other thoughts in the "Feelings" category:

1. I took the pain killers tonight. The ones that work. Also the ones that keep me awake. I always forget about that part. And then I start blogging.

2. Using "the" unnecessarily makes me happy.

3. I'm missing my family more and more lately. I want nothing more than a night in Bountiful, eating Chuck Deli sandwiches, watching Sam scoot around the table, and Abby explain why she only has to eat three bites. And then I want to come back to Chicago.

4. This isn't a feeling, but a poem of mine won a contest. First prize. First prize was an espresso machine.

5. First prize is still wrapped in its box.

Maybe that's all for tonight, but you know what happens next. Once I start blogging, I can't stop myself. Or maybe I just won't stop myself.


PS. The Proust paper made the argument that Proust's narrator states that to experience and create art, the artist must be alone, separate from society--and yet, he refutes that argument with a six-volume novel populated by hundreds of characters, in which the artist only truly achieves something when he has come in contact with other people.

there are more important things than this post

Is everyone else tired of my whining? Because I really don't mean to whine. I don't. Really.

Last night was kind of awesome. A group of poetry-peoples from my MFA program meet up every couple of weeks to workshop, and last night one of our profs (Simone Muench) and Hadara Bar-Nadav came with. (This is not the whining part.) It was awesome. It's always awesome, but hanging out with Hadara and Simone was awesome times four. Maybe five. I'm not very good with the math.

I made it home kind of late, and was giddy to boot, so I let myself sleep in a little this morning. I had mentioned I might come in late to my boss, who was cool with it. I got into work around 10:00, and by 10:20 (here comes the whining part) found out that my boss is leaving our office to work elsewhere in NU.

I do not handle change well at all. This particular change is going to be dreadful and painful and explained a whole lot of high emotions running around the office lately. My boss will no longer be my boss as of next Friday. Which is sad. On the other hand, by Saturday we'll probably be Facebook friends.

In addition to change, I don't handle bad news very well. I clam up and get serious. "Stoic," according to my boss later in the day when I finally broke down the wall a little to ask if we at least get cake some time next week.

The only truly good part about all of this is that I no longer feel guilty for applying to PhD programs this fall. I realized that a lot of my loyalty was to my boss, and not as much to the office. That, and I'm not sure I'll be as happy working for someone else. We got along really well--she understood where I was coming from, and we spoke the same language in terms of work. Not so much with the rest of the office.

We've now reached the part of the post where I've rambled myself out. I should have just written about Simone and Hadara and workshopping. Because that was happy.

adolescent me

The thing is, I check your blogs every night. Some of them during the day. I'm waiting for pictures and for stories and I keep wondering why you're not posting more. And then I remember that I'm not posting more.

In the ongoing battle of EG v. the AC, I won last night, but I think that was more sheer exhaustion than anything else. I also suddenly feel justified in my struggle, as everyone else seems to be fighting the same battle. It's validating. Or something like that.

Yesterday I was so tired, I fell asleep at lunch. While reading Proust and eating a hot dog. I wish I were exaggerating. After work, I headed to the library to do some more reading, and fell asleep again. At least this time I wasn't risking a mustard stain. But I had class from 7:00 to 9:30, the prof lectures like he's running out of time from the word "Go," and I needed to take notes for a friend who wasn't there. Solution: Rockstar. Pounded. Class was this odd hallucination of Proust and memory and time and friends and this sensation that I should be falling asleep, but I wasn't. Luckily that feeling wore off around 1:00 a.m. and I was able to crash.

This is why I live alone.

I'm actually really loving my Proust class. The prof lectures like a mad man, but a mad man who has Very Interesting Things to Say. And the reading is a lot (like too much a lot, and that's saying a lot coming from me), but beautiful in places and ways that you don't expect. Most of the themes are things I'm interested in reading and writing about--art, time, memory. But I realized yesterday that what it's really about, at least the books we've read so far, is adolescence. That age of obsession and confusion and pages and pages of nothing much that will somehow inform our adulthood. What's interesting about this, is that adolescence wasn't really a solid concept when this was written. People went from child to young (wo)man, not from child to teen to young adult. (To single and alone in an apartment full of cats.)

Sitting in class, talking about how we remember things, how we perceive time, how we manipulate our memories, and how real "truth" comes in the unbidden, unmanipulated memory--well, it drags me back to adolescence. To high school, to the first time I realized I had friends in high school. To the boys I watched in high school. (Proust is also all about the relationships--or the wanting of relationships.) High school wasn't easy, but I think part of the point is that adolescence isn't easy. That this time of obsession with ourselves, with others, is necessary to reach some stage of stability in our lives.

Wow. That got kind of serious. I promise I won't do that again.

Also: I won a $20 gift card to Borders in the McC staff raffle today. I'm thinking I'll get something frivolous. Thoughts?

Ding!

Of course it's one in the morning. Why wouldn't it be? And of course I'm awake. Sleeping is for people who, well, sleep.

That was profound. I'm profound a lot these days. Must be all the late nights. That or the cheese. And the Pop-Tarts.

Here's the thing: it's hot. It's hot, so I turn on the AC unit securely fastened in my window. And that huffs and puffs and blows cold air all night. Yay for cold air. But then--and here's the tricky part--the huffing and puffing keeps me awake. So I turn off the AC. And I fall asleep for a little while. But an hour or so later, and I wake up hot and icky and uncomfortable.

I feel guilty for complaining about this. I'm grateful for my apartment, grateful that I get to live [just north of] Chicago, grateful for that AC unit. But I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a week. I'm starting to look like one of the more disturbing Addams family members. Maybe the fat little boy in the striped shirt. Or the hand. No body, just a hand. He was my favorite.

Here's to round two of EG v. the AC. I'll tell you in the morning who won.

let's write something happy

I am sitting on my bed. This would not be worrisome, except I am singing. Les Mis. "On My Own," "A Little Fall of Rain." Stop me when I get to "Stars."

I have not been productive this weekend. I have sat on my bed and sang my entire repetoire. I also did my laundry, but that was a sweaty mess. Not my laundry, but me.

Why is this happy? Because someday I'll get to tell these stories with half a smile on my face. Probably in a RS lesson, but any telling is good.

cold, cold iron*

Thursday night something happened. The stars aligned, Hulu offered up some inspiration (it happens), and I suddenly knew that I was brilliant and ready to write. But by the time I reached this conclusion, it was almost 2 in the morning and I needed to sleep so that I could go to work the next day. I considered calling in sick, but since Monday had been a holiday, I wanted to put in a solid day of work.

And of course I was too distracted to really work. But I did an excellent job of pretending. (I actually was quite productive while still thinking about the poems I was going to write after work.)

But after work came, and since it was Friday, there was Nevins. I love Nevins. Most of the time. But I was still aching to write. I was zoned out and in my own world most of the time I was with my friends. I couldn't explain to Powers why I wasn't all the way there, but this was it: I wanted to be working, writing.

After Nevins I ran to B&N for a new notebook. I took the bus home. And by the time I got home,

it was gone. Not the desire to write, but whatever fire had been burning in my head--it was gone.

I keep trying to re-create Thursday night, to put that fire back into my head, to put together the pieces. Instead, I'm bouncing back and forth between almost-inspired and definite depresssion. I'm not going to let myself crash, but I'm so close. So close.

I want to write, dammit. Where did it go?




*Thoreau said that writing after the inspiration is gone is like ironing with a cold iron. Just in case you were wondering.

shake it off

You probably won't believe--I'm not sure I believe me--but somehow writing that last post got all those awkward needy feelings out of my system. I'm good to go, at least until the next hormonal up-surge.

In the meantime, I'm finding myself desperate to write and create and art. Art is a verb, people. At least, it is now. I'm at work, looking at numbers, and I just want to be curled up in front of a painting at the Art Institute. Or the Tate Modern. Let's go to London, friends.

I sent some of the poems I've been working on to one of the poetry profs in my program. (This post brought to you by the letter P.) She was enthusiastic about the work I've been doing this past quarter--and so am I. It's something new and very very--well, me. It's the kind of poetry I want to write, at least right now, not some pale imitation of someone else's work. It's all mine. It's a good feeling.

So this is detox. I want to write. I want to talk with people about writing and art and excitement.

Won't you be my people?

per the wedding dress

It's back. My wedding obsession. And, by vicious relation, relationship obsession. This is not healthy. I'll be the first to admit. Guilty as crazy. But right now I'm also listening to music and thinking about how brilliant the soundtrack of my pre-wedding party will be and how I'll know how to stop the DIY projects before my wedding looks like a craft fair instead of, well, a wedding.

This has got to stop.

Song: "Addicted to Love" covered by Florence + the Machine

Maryn sent me a video of five EFY guys singing "God Save the Queen." They're reportedly British. I kind of hope they're from Idaho. Just because.

I think I miss those days, when guys were possibilities and adorable. I know that's nice and vague of me to say "I think," but I don't really remember those days (that's right, I'm very very old). I hope Maryn makes the best of them.

noun, noun, noun

I kind of want a tattoo.

Don't worry, Mom, because I also want to build cakes and buy a wedding dress.

Damn you, TLC.

Funny story: I just typed "weeding dress." Freud would be so proud.

Dear Mom, if I ever get a wedding dress, I promise to weed in it. The front hill, just for you. (No I won't. But I'll clean the house to avoid the weeding. Just like old times.)

I've been wondering about growing up. When exactly is this supposed to happen?

Happy 2nd of July!

Sure the 4th of July is the birthday of America, but the 2nd of July is the birthday of two of the most important people in my life: Stephen and Lauren (aka, Stephanie and Larry. . . those names are sticking).

Lauren is the most amazing mother.

And Stephen. . . if the doctor thing doesn't work out, there's always modeling for toothpaste ads.

I love you both. Happy birthday!

i dream of books

 

I had to post this, just so that I won't misplace it. Ever. It's that cool.

Now someone just tell me who this "J. Crew" is, and it will all be good.