Facebook is doing this thing now that I love. It’s reminding you what you were doing (posting) on this day, 5/6/7/8 years ago. It’s a smart little system of making the internet function not just as an anxiety machine of paranoia and comparison and envy and need, but one of nostalgia and of honoring what has come before. Like, actual useful human stuff! Family! History! Yesterday, up popped this picture from Thanksgiving 2007, one of the last we spent with my Grandma Roberta, who died in 2009. I wish she was still around to see me get hitched to a good man with red in his beard like her hair. And so I will just blow this wish off into the internet, let it float there and circle back to me in eight years. And by It I of course mean that fashion vest.
Last night I took my euphoria TO THE MAX EXTREME and DECORATED MY CHRISTMAS TREE WITH MY FIANCE BUT IT WASN’T MY CHRISTMAS TREE, IT WAS OURS.
BUT MOSTLY THE CAT’S.
HI I’M ENGAGED, DID YOU WANT THE STORY? OKAY FINE HERE IT IS!
For real, though: I could never really imagine getting engaged. It’s a moment that is meant to be deeply romantic and magical and epic yet unscripted, there should be flash mobs and doves and a secret photographers, and I couldn’t see how I could ever be a version of myself inside of that moment. But then, of course, if it is the person for you, that person crafts a moment that is perfect and perfectly unique to your love. And Morrison, my perfect love, killed it. He surprised me over breakfast, my hair in a towel as I whined about overdraft protection fees. He nudged a simple and profound question into one of our most standard moments. And I want to make sure that I get down all of the beautiful little nuances and specifics of the moment. I keep going over it in my head to make sure I remember it, because it was simultaneously huge and magnificent and surreal and at the same time wonderfully normal. I will set the scene, transcribe, so that I make sure I really never forget, and also that you know, when people ask how it happened, I can just send them a link to this. THE FUTURE!
The scene: I woke up kind of mad because I dreamt that He went to China without telling me. My first words were:
Me: You went to China without telling me. You didn’t even say bye.
Me: Well, I thought you did. But then it turns out you hadn’t left yet. I just thought that you had.
Me: But if you’re going to go to China, just tell me first and say bye.
Mo: Right. Of course.
I then went to yoga, woke up, remembered it was Thanksgiving Day and HOLY EVERYTHING I JUST LOVE THANKSGIVING SO MUCH, and returned sweaty and bouncing around like an idiot because it was, you know. Thanksgiving Day. Mo was making breakfast, playing some familiar tunes, which he reminded me was my playlist that he made for me months back when we first started courting. I suspected nothing, as you know, it’s a solid playlist, especially a morning one. I hopped in the shower, got dressed, marched into the kitchen to check in and make sure a giant denim onesie was an appropriate family Thanksgiving ensemble, received an affirmation. Mo plated our scrambled eggs, and we sat down. I shoveled eggs into my face and checked my account balances, as Mo started to say some simple beautiful things that I don’t want to put here because I kind of just want to keep them in my heart place. I sort of just nodded and uh-huhed, as it is not strange for him to say sweet things.
AND THEN SUDDENLY, THERE WAS A RING BOX COMING OUT OF HIS PAJAMA PANTS.
AND THEN SUDDENLY IT WAS IN FRONT OF ME, And there was this most beautiful and special item:
A ring that has been in his family for four generations. This beauty is 133 YEARS OLD, exactly 100 years older than me. It was passed down to his sister, Katherine. A few months back, she suggested that Morrison give it to me, and then his Dad secretly delivered it when he was here a few months back AND THEN I DROWNED IN MY OWN TEARS.
After bouncing up an down like more of an idiot a few more times, and shouting IS THIS REAL? a few times, I remembered that I was supposed to say, you know, Yes, so I said it 900 times. We then bounced around TOGETHER like idiots, because that’s a thing we like to do, hence the marriage. After a beautiful roll out of the good news to close family and friends, and the happiest Thanksgiving Day ever complete with new baby Luke and fam and THREE KINDS OF STUFFING, we went wide with the news:
AND GOT A THOUSAND LIKES (?!) BUT YOU KNOW WHOSE COUNTING WHO CARES WE DON’T. Feeling so lucky and joyful I want to Sound of Music spin on a hill. Can’t wait to get hitched. My favorite part is how normal it feels. Normal, joyful, and just right, as if it aways was, and always will be.
Yesterday was quite incredible and full of life events that I won’t even insult with rushed or frivolous words as I type this out in the bathroom as my FIANCÉ WAITS WITH MY WINE. Mo met his new nephew, Luke, and got engaged. To me. Hi. THANKSGIVING INDEED. A more thorough description of my surprise and feelings and happiness to come when my FIANCÉ is not waiting WHAT A WORD.
Equally thankful for actual burritos, babies, and for all of YOU.
I would just like to go on record and say that I would like to always be the day before Thanskgiving, a surprise day off work, and I would like to spend this only always day toasting pecans and only ever smell toasted pecans and basically just surround myself with them, use them as currency, get paid in them to toast them. I would like to reek of them and get chased around by grandmas and squirrels and THEN AND ONLY THEN WILL I BE TRULY HAPPY.
Last night while writing, I realized a HORRIBLE THING I DO WHILE WRITING LIKE SO BAD AND IT’S NOT EVEN HEROIN. I oftentimes keep a google window open and, sort of subconsciously, I am constantly looking up facts / quotes / etc to support what I’m writing. This is is seemingly harmless — and yes the internet gives us access to all of the information and therefore the “truth” – but INSTEAD OF DIGGING INTO MY OWN BRAIN AND THINKING MY OWN THOUGHTS, I AM REGURGITATING THOUGHTS FROM THE INTERNET. The scenes then become driven by fact instead of emotion, and the moment a play leans away from feeling toward fact is the very moment it DIES. A play should be felt and then later fixed with fact. I hereby declare that I will henceforward write without internet, save the occasional break for Drunk girls being surprised for puppies, then of course back to work and thenmaybepuppiesagain.
This is a real thing that I saw on a cooking segment of the Today show this morning: DELTA PILLOWCASE TURKEY, in which you wrap a turkey in a pillowcase and then dump a bottle of red wine all over it, and then bake it.
IS IT NOT THE MOST WONDERFUL AND HORRIBLE THING YOU HAVE EVER HEARD? It’s as if Martha Stewart says it’s no bigs she can handle Thanksgiving by herself this year because she’s Martha Stewart, and no sure it’s okay bring the whole family it’s no big deal that the guest list is up to 80 and sure New York Times no problem you can also come and take pictures and no I haven’t been up crying all night and no I do not feel alone I feel great and OH GOD I FORGOT TO PUT THE TURKEY IN THE OVEN QUICK WRAP IT IN THE PILLOWCASE HAHAHAHHAHA WHERES THE WINE
We should all read this article in today’s NYT about the women who are involved with ISIS. I have been fascinated by the young, educated, world in front of them british teens who packed up and shipped off to Syria to be brides to suicide bombers — I’ve been wanting to write a play about them, and while I believe that a writer should writer whatever they’re pulled to — I feel like this story is far more complex than I could ever fathom, and I could never truly do their head spaces justice. For one, I was sort of projecting onto these young women a loneliness, a longing to Matter. But this article provides a slightly different glimpse: women who were born / raised in Raqqa, who, not even two years ago, were studying English Lit, swimming in bikinis with their friends. When ISIS took over the city, a lot of them felt like they had no choice but to join the ‘morality police’ and marry fighters, for their own safety and that of their families. A lot them actually fell in love with their husbands. A lot of them wept when their husbands subsequently blew themselves up. A lot were forced to marry yet another soon to be suicide bomber just one month later. Some fled. Some are still trapped in Syria. I like maybe all of America am on a quest to understand ISIS, not just the stereotypes and the assumptions, but what is actually going on in the heads of it’s members. Comprehending how women function in ISIS is PARAMOUNT. Without the women, where are the men? Is the part of them that’s still human and empathetic protected somehow in their women?
I KNOW WHAT THEY NEED
A while back, I created a web series for AwesomenessTV — Guidance — that was basically In Treatment, but with a guidance counselor in a school instead of a therapist. It traces the mystery of some scandalous pictures circulating around the school through one one sessions with the guidance counselor, the luminous Michelle Trachtenburg, as she questions and digs deeper into her students. At most to all times during the process, I had no idea how it was going to turn out, as I was juggling Switched and Secret as well, and often times felt like I wasn’t doing my best work. I still feel like I could have written more good, but the episodes are now on this Verizon app go90? because this is the future and apparently you can’t watch things online anymore, like that’s not even a thing. But the episodes LOOK AND SOUND AMAZING.
And what’s more, kids are INTERESTED AND ENGAGED AND EVEN WANT MORE.
So I guess, ah, my job here is done?