Procrastination has returned

I was so productive last semester. I wrote over 100 pages for my manuscript. Then, I felt so good about doing it that I haven't written a thing since Thanksgiving. I have 29 days to write 40 more pages. Why isn't this pressure enough to get me going?

Instead of writing, I walked around the house today watering my chia herbs, cooking rice, and smiling whenever I found interesting things that Corey had done. Like leave a box of Cheerios in the cereal area as if there were another bowl's worth when really? There were about 5 o's inside.

And then I watched Clueless, which is far worse than I remember it seeming in high school. Why would Josh date a 16 year-old? Any college guy who does that seems kind of pervy to me now. Especially when the girl is his quasi-sister.

And now I have exhausted my list of places to peruse on the internet, so I face 2 hours of either stark boredom or productivity. Where is my muse today? Where are all my rugby stories and why won't they brim to the surface of my fingers?

Stapler

I should probably not write about my students as much as I do, but sometimes they just crack me up enormously. I just know one of them is going to somehow find this site and run in horror or have me shot. Especially my newest student, who has a problem with anxiety such that he talks faster than I do and seems to be more nervous than a man with a kilo of dynamite strapped to his chest.

He came running in the door, breathless, concerned that his essay had more than five paragraphs and that his thesis statement wasn't restated as the first sentence in his conclusion. He kept twiddling his enormous thumbs, hunched over the keyboard far too small for his enormous body, and moaning that he would never get an A on his essay.

I was so startled to recognize my own manias in another human being that I didn't even pause to help him. I just leaned in closer and got him to talk about his top five worries of the week with me. I love that I know someone else who has worries of the week!

We eventually talked about his paper for awhile, but not too long because it was basically fine. "Student," I said to him, "You are free. I free you from the five paragraph essay. And, at least once per page, I free you from worrying about ending sentence with prepositions." I think it worked from him. He seemed far less concerned with his formatting.

Then, he decided he would still be worried in the morning. He asked if I could come in and meet with him at 9am on Friday. I have yet to see a student actually make it in at 9am, so I was totally shocked when he bustled in at like 9:03. Talking like the Micro Machine guy, he told me in one breath: "I was up all night watching Troy. That's like my favorite movie ever. And don't you just love how when we turn our alarm clocks off our bodies wake us up on our own when we know we have to be somewhere? Does that happen for everyone? Cause not my roommate. Sometimes he doesn't even go to class. Can you believe it that someone would miss class? Think of all the easy class participation points he's missing out on. What should I worry about for my in-class essay? Should I do an outline or a concept map?"

I convinced him he would be ok on both the take home and the in class and he pressed print. He pulled a stapler out of his sweatpants pocket and was on his way.

After I was done laughing hysterically that he carries around his own office supplies, I started to wonder what would happen if Corey were anal like that, nervous like me. I think it's better that he doesn't care about anything at all. I could barely stand to spend an hour with that kiddo. I can't imagine how Corky puts up with my schusshy fits every second of the day.

Many Photographs

(wine making supplies!)

Corey's parents came to visit this weekend, so we took them to a roller derby bout, fed them cupcakes and showed them the house. Oh, and just because it was 20 degrees and snowing, we went to the zoo! I can't decide which activity was more fun. The roller derby bout was outstanding. Such spectacle! Such glitz! Such physical contact! I couldn't even bear to recruit those girls for rugby, so happy were they in their own niche, slamming each other to the ground and whizzing around the track. I can't decide what my roller derby name would be if I joined. I was thinking Kat Asstrophy, but that's too long for a shirt.

(Herb gazing upon the house)

(more house)

I keep having dreams about Elsa Slam and the other Wrecking Dolls. They were my favorite. I was really bummed to discover that only close personal friends of the Wrecking Dolls could get special shirts. The rest of us fans had some less exciting merchandise options. I want a Scary Schaivo shirt. Or an Anita Cocktail shirt. How fun would I be rocking that to work?

(terrible picture of the Wrecking Dolls and the phatty hairdo in my vision path)

Also, the zoo in the winter time is flipping equally outstanding. I think it's because of all the baby creatures. Yesterday, we watched baby tigers run around, baby monkeys cling to their mothers, and a baby orangutan nursing! Then the mother orangutan drank milk from her own boob, so that got weird. We looked at her funny and she scooped up the baby and hid under a part of the habitat where we couldn't see her.

(baby orangutan and the mom)

I celebrated both fun activities by eating 1.5 cupcakes. I felt as though the Cosmo cranberry cupcake was slightly ungood, while the chocolate is as delicious as ever and the red velvet was a stunner. I propose selling cupcakes at Roller Derby events. I could eat the cake portion and sling icing at the skaters I want to lose. Man, I wish I were more punk rock so I would fit in better at roller derby. I find myself wondering which sport is more scary, more tough. Rugby has more collisions, for sure, but this league is just getting started. Maybe by this time next year, I wouldn't even consider getting into the rink with those ladies. Agh! my brain feels full.

My Week in List Form

1. The apartment people came and put a new valve on the radiator, as several commentors suggested, but this did nothing. There are still puddles every morning and loud clanking. Still living on board the USS Lev! I'll call them again tomorrow if I remember.

2. I bought shitty toilet paper! Can you imagine?? I bought Quilted Northern even though we are a Charmin family. The QN was on sale & I figured it would be fine. The package pictures a young girl rubbing her face on the toilet paper as if to say "This is what heaven is like!" and there are well-funded commercials for the product. Who knew it would scratch my lady parts? Stay away from that, no matter how on sale it may be. I would throw it all away and buy more Charmin, but the sale pack I bought had 48 rolls in it and I hate to waste paper in that fashion. I wouldn't even donate it to a shelter, because I don't want anyone's special area to get torn up from that sandpaper. We'll just suffer silently until it's gone and I can get more Charmin.

3. Corey and I had cupcakes for his birthday. There are 2 cupcake cafes in Pittsburgh now. Entire stores where they sell only cupcakes. We sampled Dozen cupcakes. I blame my friend Julie for showing me the store. I now think only about the silky creamy chocolaty cake portion and the sweet buttery frosting. They have so many flavors that I need to go every day to try them all. My big problem yesterday was that I bought the cupcakes at 3pm and had to not eat them until 10pm when Corey got home. That's 7 hours of will power. I am darned proud of myself for holding out! I very nearly bought an additional cupcake to eat in the store so the package would still look full and Corey would never know, but I abstained. This morning, we (meaning I) had a lemon cupcake for breakfast. Man, that's good.

4. We took the car to a mechanic shop less than 90 feet from our house. Not in Monroeville or even Robinson. Highland Park! Tony's Autobody is run by a gang of Fresh From Italy Italian men, who sit around and eat biscotti and yell at each other in Italian all day. The other night, we saw them walking down the street with 40s in brown paper bags. These are much more like our sort of people. So Tony, unlike the Nissan dealer, told us that the catalytic converter is ok. We drove the car 50 miles, he put a sticker on it, and I have an extra $1000 I thought would be gone forever. More cupcakes for everyone! Including Tony!

5. We think we found a house to buy. It is also owned by a recent Italian immigrant. The selling point for me was the wine-making room in the basement, where there were person-sized casks of wine and stomping tanks for grapes and racks upon racks of the red stuff. Another key feature was the pantry, brimming with jars of homemade marinara, pickled vegetables, and figs from the fig tree in the back yard. Italian people and their food items make me very happy indeed. I wonder if Italians invented the cupcake?

Geysers

We have had long battles with our radiators in this apartment. They sound like ship yards or steel mills or, more recently, like water treatment plants. Every morning, we wake up to a deep puddle on the floor and soaking wet things. Our landlord doesn't seem too concerned with this and isn't being very prompt sending a maintenance worker. We feel this can only help our case when we want to buy a house and get out of our lease early. This morning, Corey happened to be up early enough to shoot some video of our radiator. Forgive our lack of technical skill and tilt your head slightly to the left as you observe the industrial glory of our heating device.

I feel so grateful for our new digital camera because now there is proof that (this time) I am not an exaggerator. Behold! The great shipyards of Pittsburgh.

Hungry Again

My hungry student was back today for three hours. I worked with him for almost 15 hours this week, though he was in the writing center at least 5 more and spent another 6 or 7 hours with his math tutor. He works so hard, harder than anyone I've ever seen. This material, entry-level English and Math classes, is nearly insurmountable for him but he will not relent until he learns it, tackles it, finishes his work. He made the Dean's List his first semester. The first person in his extended family to ever go to college and he made the Dean's List.

He got a phone call while we were working this morning. It was his father, and he talked for a few moments before hanging up the phone, visibly shaken and upset. He told me his cousin just died, shot in a gang fight. A cousin who, if he had lived, faced 40 years in prison for shooting a police officer. Two of his best friends were killed in the same fight over Christmas break.

He went on and on, pouring out a story of horrors I cannot imagine. Football players are targets in his town because they are on their way out of there, away to college, away from the poverty. My student has been shot at on his way home, hiding behind his duffel bag.

I told him we had to stop, that he should go talk to his dad, process this horrible news. He looked at me, put his hand on mine, and said

"We have to finish this. It's my only way out of there."

This kid knows he isn't going into the NFL. He knows he is, academically, leagues behind most students at this university. And he knows his athletic gift has given him an opportunity to get a college degree. And so I had to wipe away my tears and concentrate on his assignment.

He poured himself into the paper, trying desperately to summarize the quotes he picked, to explicate film theory, insert examples. He pounded his fist on the table and told me

"I am never gonna be as smart you. Am I?"

What to say to this young man? I told him of course he was as smart as me, that he is in fact much smarter than me at certain things. I told him reading was like football practice, that you have to put in many hours before you are good. How do I make him see that he has had to navigate challenges I will never face? That my insignificant ability to talk about literature isn't any kind of smart that really matters?

I can't get his eyes out of my head, the look on his face when he finished his essay and emailed it to his professor, two days early. I want to be like him, to have his courage and hunger to succeed. I have never respected a person so much. I want nothing more in this world than for him to graduate from college and succeed. I hope I can be there to watch it happen.

Going Pro

My hungry student was in again last night, only this time he had some Burger King "food" so he was in a better mood. As always, I was eating dinner while I work. Because there isn't enough time between students to pee let alone eat some food. This time, he looked at my dinner and said:

"Miss Katy, you're always eating."

He kept staring.

"You're like an all-state eater or something."

To be fair to myself, I always work 5 to 6 hour shifts, which means that no matter what I am always at work during a meal time. Working 3 to 9 means I have to eat dinner at work. 2 is too early and 930 when I get home is too late and close to bed time. On top of this, I like to eat a snack every 2 hours (an apple, some yogurt...) to keep fuel in my tank and encourage a healthy metabolism.

So it probably does appear to my student that I am always eating. I guess I sort of am. But I'm an athlete! I need to use the right gas or my engine will putter out and die.

And as an athlete, I feel kind of miffed at my student's suggestion of All-State status. He could at least promote me to All American.

More Student Eating Habits

Last night there was a basketball game, which meant that the entire food court was closed and students had to enter the academic support center through the security entrance in the back. This irritates them a lot because it involves a bag search and no Burger King for at least 6 hours.

My favorite student was on the books for last night. I always love him, even though he makes me work really flipping hard, because he wants so badly to learn things and be a good writer.

So in he flounced, cologne, big earrings, grillz and all. But this day he was angry. "Man, I'm HUNgry!" He repeated this a bunch of times and then looked over at me eating my dinner, a delicious pot roast with mashed potatoes that I had made Monday night. I started to feel badly, but he could have packed, too, if he remembered the game. So I kept eating. He got a little more angry and then asked me in his smoothest Southern charm "Miss Katy, don't you have a drink or something?"

I said "Well, I have my water bottle," and showed him my brown fuzzy Nalgiene.

"No, man, ain't you got, like, some extra Gatorade I can have?"

I can't decide which is funnier: that he really thought I would carry around enough spare Gatorade to share with everyone or his enormous disappointment that his only option was the water fountain.

Extreme Annoya

For the past two days I have been really irritated with Corey. I can't figure it out. I feel like I'm in a good mood inside. Then he walks in the door and says something and I want to hurl raw meat in his face. Everything bothers me. He asks if I made dinner and I whip my head around and either hiss that I am not his slave or sassily ask whether a day has gone by in the past 6 years where I have not made him dinner. I'm pretty used to repeating answers to things, but lately when he asks what I did all day I scream at him that "I TOLD YOU YESTERDAY I WORKED TODAY!!!!" or whatever I did.

I think I secretly hate him. This is terrible.

I tried very hard to unearth the root of my upsetness and this is the best I can figure out. The other day, he set his alarm clock for 5 in the morning and then pressed snooze about 34 times until I punched him in the face. I don't know if he really intended to get up at 5am or whether he was drunk and effed up when he was setting the alarm. All I know is his waking habits leave much to be desired.

He sets that thing on a bone-piercing buzzer that intensifies the longer it shrieks. Imagine waking up to that at 5am. You would secretly hate him, too, if you had to listen to that sound every 9 minutes until the sun rose two hours later. That has to be what it is. And I subconsciously have not forgiven him yet. I'm hoping to be over it by this evening.

Umbrellas

I drove in to campus this morning to hopefully row a bit and print the "light reading" my professor assigned us for our day off. I parked the car in a lovely end spot with 45 minutes on the meter. Life was great, despite the rain that would be snow if we hadn't destroyed the environment. I got out my Totes pocket umbrella and opened it up, only to be smacked in the face seconds later when it blew inside out in the wake of the 61C zooming past.

That thing blows inside out if you look at sternly. I got so angry. I stole that umbrella from the lost and found for its portability and how does it repay me? By being a piece of garbage. I bet it was abandoned in the Cathedral of Learning on purpose. As it is, the thing only gives me six inches diameter of rain coverage.

When I was at Penn State, it used to rain all the time. I had a beautiful red umbrella with, I think, gerbera daisies all over it. Nance bought it for me from Avon. I had to abandon that umbrella in a youth hostel in Munich, and when I got back a new wave of umbrellas had taken over campus. Double decker golf umbrellas with enormous Nittany Lion heads were poking me in the eye up and down Pollock. I had to have one.

I went to the book store and spent thirty dollars on a maroon and navy striped golf umbrella, complete with screw-in hole for attachment to lawn chairs or golf carts or tripods. I took up far beyond my share of sidewalk space and used to knock blossoms off trees with my umbrella, which is bigger than my backpacking 2-man tent.

That umbrella is so sturdy and large. It is not a 2-story, but it covers my entire body, even when I have my monstrous LL Bean backpack sticking out behind me like a dorsal fin. I love it. I used to hog the streets of New York City with it, open it at the top of the subway entrances. Sometimes I didn't even fit under construction scaffolding and had to walk in the streets. People hated me. I was dry. I was authoritative with that umbrella.

Why did I steal that pocket size pathetic excuse for a rain shield? I'd be better off ripping the nylon off and wearing it as a rain bonnet like my Nana used to have. I'm going to leave that dinky waste of space where I found it, abandon it for the next sucker, and only use my American Bigger and Better, Large and In Charge, Rain Repelling Machine from now on.

Slip da Jab

Today I learned to slip the jab. We worked on defense for a long time in my boxing lesson and then did a bunch of upper cuts. Apparently, I grunt a lot when I punch. And that just makes it feel more awesome. I was shocked to discover that I don't close my eyes when I get punched. This is good, because if my eyes are open I can see to throw a left hook after I slip the jab.

Look at me go with my boxing lingo. How much of that is from lessons and how much of that is from Rocky, I wonder?

After my lesson, I ate lunch in the food court with Paul, my sparring partner/classmate. As it would happen, every single one of my students was eating lunch outside the fitness center. Even the sausage kid. They all started filing past my table one at a time, giving me hugs and high fives and then staring at Paul before going back to their food.

I know they all think Paul is Corey. This threw me into an obsessive compulsive mental battle. First of all, Corey is super hot. Obviously I am not in love with Paul and don't think he is as hot as Corey. So I feel concerned that my students don't understand that I have a hot fella.

Then I was freaking out that I was concerned with my students' impressions of my hot partner. Why should I care about their opinion of my Cookie Pie? They know I am engaged because they ask and I told them, but is it TMI for them to know anything else? Am I crossing a mental line with my concern of their opinions?

Then, finally, I was a little sad that I didn't want anyone to confuse Paul for Corey. Because he is so nice and wonderful, but, again, not Corey. Am I a bad friend to Paul because I didn't want my kiddos to think he was Corey?

I wished we could have run into everyone before boxing, so I could have punched out my obsessive thoughts about this. Now they are going to bounce around in there all weekend, jabbing me in the head until I go to work on Tuesday.

Housekeeping

We have a mirror right inside our door with lovely hooks beneath it. The idea behind the mirror is that Corey can hang things from it and contain his door-entry stripping of things to the "foyer" of the apartment. Ordinarily, he enters the door and removes things as he walks, leaving piles and trails like snake skin throughout the house. Tires, sneakers, pants, helmets, keys, wallets, tiny scraps of paper with little notes on them like "don't put things on the mantel or Katy will yell."

When we hung the mirror, I could at least get the shirt, coat, and hat to not be on the floor or the sofa. Life was good.

About four days ago, maybe five, we were sitting around and I heard a booming, crashing, thudding sound. Neither of us was very excited to investigate. It was either the neighbors fighting again or the pots crashing to the floor from the mountain in the sink or something worse. So I forgot about it until we were on our way out for dinner.

The mirror had come crashing to the ground, frame ripped to bits and mirror interior sliding down to the floor. Luckily it didn't shatter, because this is what was dangling from our little mirror:
One Penn State Orange Bowl hat from 2006
One Corey windbreaker
One little tiny Katy sweater
One puffy gray fleece
And one enormously heavy winter jacket of Corey's with full pockets and many layers of heaviness

The mirror had a soft nest of down to cushion its fall.

Upon discovery of the pile, I felt really indifferent. I didn't care to clean it up and was sure Corey would take care of it. But he didn't! It's still sitting in exactly the same place and we've been climbing over the wreckage for four days. Last night I asked him why he didn't clean it up yet and he said
"That one's not mine to clean up. Why would it be mine?"
I lifted my eyebrows as high as they would go. "Why would it be MINE???"
He lifted his eyebrows as high as they would go, totally shocked that I could be so stupid, and said "Because you found it. Smelt it, dealt it, Katy."

Back in the Shell

I start rowing this week. I'm very excited. I realized I say that about everything I do. I guess I'm just easily excitable. I think, though, there is a new level of anticipation when it's something sports related. In the recent cases of boxing and rowing, I feel excited for strange reasons. First, these new sports are really challenging and fun. They make me realize that when people are not "roped in" year-round to a sport like rugby, they have time to try new activities like this every season and are constantly stepping outside their comfort zones. Hopefully people take advantage of this, because it's fun.

Second, for completely vain and narcissistic reasons, I am excited that these new activities will chisel my arm muscles into highly defined wonders of the universe. I could be geeky and pretend to get excited by the strength behind the new muscle machines, but in real life I want to look like a Soloflex model in my wedding dress. Some brides diet. I row boats and punch bags.

I'm also pretty excited about the cardiovascular and speed benefits my new cross training loves will provide. This fall I was all over the rugby field after my rowing session and hopefully I can start out the spring season with the same new burst. I already have Raleigh on my mind, and in order to beat them we are going to have to out-pace teams like Albany again this year to even get a shot. When Brian decides to murder us with fitness workouts at practice, maybe I won't die as quickly this year. Here's to the 6 seat!

Dream Realized

This weekend I learned how to box. This is not entirely a product of my Rocky obsession. I have wanted to box ever since I read Jen Starkey's profile in Rugby magazine and learned about how she boxes for cross-training in the off season. I also have an unfulfilled yearning to punch someone in the face and be punched in the face before I die.

So, yesterday I went to the sporting goods store and bought myself these:
Bright pink, Everlast 12oz boxing gloves for which 5% of the proceeds went to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

My writer friend Paul bought me hand wraps as a gift and spent 2 hours teaching me footwork, basic punches, defense, and sparring stuff yesterday. It was so invigorating! Every time I wailed a jab/cross combination into the punching bag, I felt like a million dollars. As I started to get better at it, I was using my hips and my whole core and really punching from deep within my guts. Never, ever has anything felt so satisfying.

Not even breaking off the scrum and smacking a slow scrum half before she can pass the ball out. Not even driving 4 people off a defensive ruck on your own. If hitting the bag was so intense, I can't wait to see what happens when I progress to punching in the face.

Today my arms are terribly sore. My fingers are kind of shaky and the space between my shoulders aches a lot. But I know that in a few months I am going to have Madonna arms and have released a lot of pre-wedding, pre-manuscript deadline anxiety in a very healthy way. Maybe someday I'll go into the ring and actually fight somebody! (After the honeymoon, it could even be Corey)

Appositives

I'm really angry right now about my wedding invitations. When I went to the shoppe to order them, I learned that "they" don't punctuate wedding invitations because they are supposed to be formal. Which is a total bizarro world from what they teach you in school: in formal settings you need to be ever more conscious of the rules of grammar and mechanics. No, on wedding invitations, appositives do not get surrounded by commas.

So when I ordered the invitations I had a small panic attack. Could I work as an editor and writer for a living and send invitations with no commas surrounding the appositive? Could I spend 20 hours a week telling football and basketball players that appositives need commas and then partake in purchasing something without them? I decided I couldn't. I wrote in the commas on the order form and the shoppe lady had to circle them and emphasize them and I had to sign my name in blood that I did indeed want my invitations punctuated in this manner. She wrote a special note, too.

Needless to say, Nance picked up the invitations tonight and this is how they are punctuated:

Together with our parents, we, Katy and Corey request the honor of your presence.

Look at it. It's begging for pause. There are elements of information needing to be separated in that phrase. Where is the comma??? Why is this happening to me? What do I do here?

The whole rationale behind ordering the seal-n-send invitations was to save money and precious environmental resources, avoiding wasted tissue liners and spare envelopes and pointless pieces of paper in the packets. Can I live with myself if I send back the invitations to be corrected? Can I deal with it if I have to get a green pen and write in 175 commas? Am I an unreasonable customer? What if they had spelled my name wrong? To me, this is almost worse. Why ask me to circle the comma and write special in the margins if "they" aren't going to honor my wishes anyway? Don't get my hopes up, shoppe!

I am frustrated and don't know what to do. My wedding invitations have typos. I can't decide if that is worse than all the yearbooks I have full of "your a great friend." I guess I won't be framing the invitation to hang on the wall in my house. Instead, I should take them into work and have my students play find the errors. Maybe they'll rub sausage grease and banana stains all over them and I will just cancel the whole shebang out of shock.

Miracles Never Cease!

I can grow things! I am a grower of plants. I got a chia herb garden from my mommy for Christmas and I am now growing herbs on my windowsill. Every morning for the past week, I have been watering that stuff, filled with doubt that anything would ever happen. I made little sandwich bag greenhouses as indicated. I placed the plants above the radiator in direct sunlight. I followed the directions! Today, when I got home from work, there were sprouts! I have nurtured a living thing and made it grow.



I can hardly wait to make sauce and fill it with delicious basil and marjoram and chives and then make salsa and fill it with delicious cilantro. Although, I'm not certain whether the obvious mold growing on the cilantro seeds is problematic...



According to the chia people, I'm not supposed to dig little holes for the seeds and they will burrow on their own. This has clearly happened with the other herbs. Maybe the cilantro is just stubborn?

What They Left Behind

Before the student athletes came storming back to the writing center today, I spent a lot of time cleaning the place up. I cannot believe what they left lying around before break and am trying to decide what would be immoral to take home with me. I found:

1 Hokies sweatshirt (not sure why my students even had this to start with)
2 black umbrellas
7 million USB drives, each with 1G of storage space
1 pink cell phone
3 backpacks full of school supplies like books and folders
3 sets of dorm keys
AND my very favorite thing, and I have a slight guess which student might have left this, is a cardboard box containing one slice of chocolate cake and a small fuzz of mold

Who leaves behind cake? I can understand your USB drive, not caring about your cell phone, and hating your dorm room so much you disregard the keys. But cake? Wasting chocolate cake? It took all that I had not to reach in there and scrape off the mold and eat that cake, 2 weeks old though it may be. These kiddos are made of different stuff than I, that's for darn sure.

The New Jewish Wedding

I spent New Year's Eve reading The New Jewish Wedding by Anita Diamant. Because I'm a nerd. (We did go to a party eventually...) But I learned several really interesting things that I liked a lot. For starters, I learned that it is traditional for both of the groom's parents to walk him to the chuppah and then for both of the bride's parents to walk her to the chuppah. This signifies that a wedding is a blending of families, not just individuals. Isn't that a nice idea? I love it.

Corey thinks it's a nice idea but doesn't want to walk down the aisle because he doesn't want people to look at him. As if people aren't going to look at him all damn day. I feel like sitting in his office and staring at him just to get him used to it. Perhaps he can preview the wedding wine on the big day and will feel better about blending our families in front of a crowd.

I also learned that the Jews were some of the first people to give women some rights. The Ketubah (marriage contract) was a document that gave a woman the security and proof of her rights to her husband's protection and money. It made divorce difficult for fickle men who changed their minds. Granted, it also made the woman out to be like chattel traded for a gold band. Which is why I'm very glad to know this in advance and I can make sure ours contains nice language about love and equality.

It's getting really close and making me have disturbing dreams. Last night I had another wedding band dream, only in this one Corey's ring was entirely too big and he couldn't wear it on our honeymoon. 144 days of bad dreams....I'll just have to plan better and stop being nervous.