I WANT IT

Happiness is a bridesmaid's dress worth dieting for:

Modern with vintage flair. The crisp silhouette. The delicately detailed neckline. The amazing color (thank you Photoshop!). The flounciness. And it comes from the "Belle" line...wedding in Savannah..."Southern Belle"...this is not an accident. This is an act of God.

Words alone cannot express how much I am lusting after this dress. And that *is* saying something.

Spelling bee

Sarah: "How do you spell 'genius'?"

Keith: "K-E-I-T-H."

Dear Jen (A)

I want to say THANK YOU! for asking me what was wrong last Friday, when you noticed that I was going berserk in my own head and I thought I would suffocate from the burden of my own impending insanity. It was as a pin prick relieves a blood blister: a bit painful, kind of icky, but DAMN if I didn't feel instantly better!

Gestures like this serve as a periodic smack in the face to bring me to my senses and force me to realize that whatever I know, or think, or think I know, or know I think, my workaholic imagination is no match for an act of friendship, however simple.

Love, Sarah

And they still let me walk around free

Is it possible that there is a point at which you can be so addicted to creativity, let your imagination so free that you can no longer distinguish emotionally between reality and imaginality? And at that point, you feel that to choose reality would leave you feeling grounded, but hollow, while on the other hand to allow imagination to take over and let your creative genius flourish unhindered will make you happy but incapable of close, quality relationships with other people (especially when coupled with your perfectionist tendencies).

I mean, being a creative genius is nice, but at times it can feel like an infection. I look at the most brilliantly creative people in history and realize that more often than not they eventually went some kind of insane. I suppose it's bound to happen when you let all that un-reality flood your mind and slosh around wildly. At some point it has to spill over, and you have a random blinding moment of inspiration or insight, where your eyes are forced wide open and your hands fly up to your head as if to hold it in one piece and you make a little gasp or go "OH!" Then you run off in mid-conversation to lock yourself in the attic--for days at a time even--leaving others baffled in your wake. And then when you've worked it all out and have perfected this wonderful idea, you burst forth in the middle of the night and shout "Eureka!" while running naked down the street. And this is all fine, except that you are now running around naked.

I've been thinking about it, and have resolved that I may be on a steep downhill slope into imaginative insanity and that it's really only a matter of time before I reach the bottom. Just remember to tell your grandchildren with a sigh and a knowing look in your eyes, "Yep--I knew her when she still possessed a smattering of normal."

Happy New Year!