Now I lay me

In what threatens to become an unfortunately recurring Sunday night phenomenon, I went to bed last night at a decent hour only to find myself tossing and turning, wide awake, two hours later as visions of June danced in my head.

When this happened the first time, two weeks ago, it was more of a fear-based thing, i.e. how will we pay for it, how will we fit everyone into the inn, will anyone even show up, why does my father hate me, what if we don't get the chicken pot, how long will it take to teach my mother to DJ?

Last night's panic -- thanks to a weekend spent more-calmly-than-not reviewing and prioritizing our new bullet-pointed Things Still Left To Do list with M. -- wasn't rooted in fear as much as in details, i.e. will friend X and friend Y really sound okay singing together and if so who will sing verse C, what's so wrong about a boy with a bouquet, would an ecru suit look better with blue or purple, tie or no tie, why hasn't our potential partially-shaved-headed goth DJ written back yet and if he does write back and we hire him will his hair be long or short, where will we put the chicken pot? But fear or no fear, there I lay, wide eyed and ready to plan.

The good news is, I didn't wake M. up to share my new idea about incorporating our brothers and our mothers into the ceremony entrance.

The bad news is, even though my cold symptoms mostly disappeared on Saturday, I got out of bed at 2am and took a Nyquil. So I could rest. Which, indeed, I did.

The other bad news is that there are 4 months full of Sunday nights between now and June 24th, and Nyquil must surely be a gateway drug, leaving me with the unfortunate but inevitable fate of marrying M. from the safe confines of rehab, just like Liz Taylor.

The other good news is that Liz Taylor, rehab or no rehab, is undeniably glamorous.

The other other good news is that hospital johnnies only come in one color, and I'm pretty sure it's my signature one.