2006-09-25 || 10:09 p.m.

|| cold feet, burning ears ||

i'm getting married in forty days and do not feel how i would have expected to feel on such an occasion. how are you supposed to feel on such an occasion? i am excited about the wedding in the way you would be excited about a trip to disneyland, but i haven't a veil or jewels or shoes or an idea of how the music will be executed. it's like a culmination of those forty dreams i've had over the years of being in a rowboat in which my father is propelling me to my nuptial destination, but i'm wearing overalls and haven't met the groom. it's foggy out so i can't see what the ceremony site looks like or who's in attendance or if my sister was successful in her maid of honor dress endeavor. i just have to fold my hands in my lap and hope for the best of all outcomes. i do know the groom, and i love him. i trust my sister's sewing abilities.

i'm getting married in forty days. tonight i paid for all the groceries, my persnickety face soap and his tool set, my canned cat food and his WD-40. mine is his. his is mine. we place our things side by side on cabinet shelves. i eat his peanut butter. he folds my underwear. not much will change the day after the day; we are a we already, but i realized on the arrival of our first wedding present (baking sheets.) that i hadn't given it proper thought. i had a panic attack at the reception desk of my office. weddings are set up that way: you throw all this money and energy and fighting and alterations at one day and lose sight of the end result. marriage. i will use these baking sheets when i am married. i will use these baking sheets in twenty-three years when i am married. he will still do a terrible job washing out the sink and i will still demurely defer to him to make dinner every night while i call out the answers to jeopardy. we will still be sharing a kitchen and fighting over the twee factor of my decorating (plastic horses where dishes should go.) we, forever. i hyperventilated a little. the baking sheets are in a box on the floor of the kitchen.

tonight i was promised a tear-drop trailer in the backyard of our future house. it will be my writing cocoon and i ask for a hot plate to boil water for tea and the green record player. and a closeable door so that the cats can sit on my lap, as that is a key factor in my superstitious successful writing regimen. next to the trailer will be a workshop/studio trying to contain the sounds of AM radio with closed windows. there will be a tin can phone line joining to the two spaces, and we'll call each other to meet in the kitchen for sandwiches. we'll call each other to see how we're doing.

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