We were standing on the deck of a boat, in the middle of Lake Tahoe. The woman next to me pulled out her camera and then turned to me with a wry smile and noted that if she actually took pictures of the gorgeous view, noone would listen to her when she complained about having to go on a business trip. Considering that I was there for the same business trip, I had to agree. Compared to the mandatory trip to Las Vegas last week, this mandatory trip to Tahoe was a world different. There were meetings to sit through, to be sure, but that’s where the similarities end.

This trip was rather hastily planned, and I hadn’t realized quite how involved I would be in the whole thing til Friday, when the Development head called me at the conference in Las Vegas to let me know that by the way, I was going to be introducing my team, and also facilitating a meeting. I didn’t find out what the meeting was about or what I needed to do to facilitate until about ten minutes prior to the meeting, but it turned out fine. Then afterwards, I found out that I was elected to skim through all the flow charts on our development process – in front of the whole crowd. Did I mention that I really am not that crazy about public speaking? I have a tendency to talk fast normally, but when I’m nervous (and talking in front of a huge crowd does that to me) I speak even faster. I had a number of people come up after the presentations and tell me how much they enjoyed it…and how amazed they were at how fast I was capable of talking. Oof. I try to slow down – really I do.

This trip to Tahoe wasn’t nearly as slick or fancy as the meeting in Las Vegas, but it was much better. The meetings were relaxed, yet we actually got a lot of work done. Yet despite that, there was still enough time set aside for everyone to have fun and enjoy the area. My company could learn some lessons from them.

I’m here in Las Vegas (also known as “Come-See-How-Much-Money-You-Can-Lose-Ville”) for a mandatory conference. Three days of presentations that all say the same thing. Shudder.

Call it a failing of mine, but I just don’t understand the point in this sort of thing. For every conference like this I have been forc…um…lucky enough to attend, they gather everyone together in a beautiful location at some truly fabulous hotel, and then plan 12-15 hours per day of meetings guarenteed to bore you to tears…but yet it’s somehow supposed to be fun? Relaxing? Why waste all this money? Why not rent the nearest high school gym and stuff all 3000 of us in there. It would accomplish the same thing and save tons of cash to boot. What’s the point of taking us to some lovely vacation spot if we don’t get the chance to do more than just comment on the scenery as we walk past, heading for yet another mandatory meeting?

The problem is, I just don’t have the right mindset for this type of thing. I don’t drink alcoholic beverages and I truly hate schmoozing, or going to cocktail parties where I know no one. It’s a hold-over from the days when I used to be shy, I suppose, but meandering around buffet tables trying to make small talk with thousands of strangers, most of whom are doing their best to drink their jet lag into oblivion, is not my idea of fun. Nor is sitting in long drawn-out marketing presentations, especially when they have little if anything to do with what I work with on a day-to-day basis.

Part of my discontent at being here stems from the fact that my little corner of the company is barely mentioned. Imagine going to a three-day long event and being subjected to painfully dull presentation after presentation on something that you never deal with and could care less about. I’m still trying to recover from being part of the little fish that got swallowed by the big fish over six months ago, and now we’re being required to go to the big fish’s events. It would be nice if maybe, just maybe, they tried to make it remotely interesting or informative or even *useful* to those of us who still deal with the little fish’s technology, but that’s not the case. New products and services are discussed and my little group gets an aside of ‘oh, and you’ll get that later. Maybe. Someday. If you’re really lucky.’

Sigh. I suppose if I enjoyed gambling this might be more tolerable, but I have failed to learn to like that particular vice either. Last night I got $20 worth of quarters and spent about 45 minutes feeding them into a slot machine. I had no glorious dreams of winning. My plan was to keep feeding in coins until they were all gone. There. I went to Las Vegas and gambled. My duty is complete.

One more day left. I’m leaving early – and had to get special permission to do so because this literally was mandatory (and trust me, I tried my hardest to get out of it too!) because I’ve got things planned on Sunday. And I suppose there have been one or two perks out of the whole deal. I got two days off from work. As is typical of technology firms, they’ve given us lots of neat little gadgets and other goodies, and of course the required shirt. If you work for technology companies long enough you will acquire an entire wardrobe from the waist up. Seriously. Also, I got to meet my new manager, which gave me a chance to let her know that I really want to phase out of consulting. Actually, that went surprisingly well. She said she’d keep her eyes open for opportunities for me – and it’s not going to be for another six months or so anyway. At the very least, I’ve started that particular ball rolling, and it won’t come as a nasty shock to the managers when I start actively pursuing it come the end of this year (fingers crossed just in case though).

One more day until I can fly home. And only about 12 more hours of Death by Power Point. I can make it. Somehow. Sob.

Given a choice of fast food restaurants, McDonalds comes last on my list. While I may be willing to swing through the drive-thru every once in a while for a drink or some fries, the actual burgers and sandwiches are just not high on my list of things I like to eat.

Yet once a year I make the pilgrimage to the golden arches for several weeks and grimly choke down McDonald’s food, all in the name of friendship. Beware of befriending vegetarians, in other words. Especially vegetarians who like beanie babies.

To be fair to my friend, I collect the cats too. But just the cats, and if that was all I was going for, I’d only have to eat one or two McDonald’s meals per year. But she also collects the dogs and the bears. And this year they have three cats, one dog, and four bears. Sigh. For the rest of the little critters I can get away with buying a bag of fries or a Happy Meal and then forking over the extra buck-fifty. But the bears require more. To get a bear, I must eat a value meal.

So I’ve been dutifully stopping by the McDonald’s on the way to work every morning in my search for the specific beanies I need. And then most evenings for the past week I’ve swung through both McDonalds’ in my hometown to see if they’ve got something new. My dream is to find three of the ones I need on one day. Sure it’d be a bad food overload, but at least then I’d be that much closer to being done for the year.

At least right now I’m halfway there. And I did luck out this morning since I was able to get two different beanies with the same meal.

The things I do for friends. Four down, four to go. And then I don’t have to go hear anything resembling a Big Mac for at least another year.

My mom sent me an email on Monday, mentioning that while the two of us slinging emails back and forth to each other might do just fine for planning a virtual wedding, there were things we needed to discuss and face to face might be a better option. She realizes how busy I’ve been lately – and it doesn’t help that she’s just as busy. But she had a point, so tonight after work I drove to my parents house and my mom and I talked.

She got me a wedding planner so the two of us pulled out our respective books and checked the list of things to do. I’ve been worried about numbers and the size of the church. She’s gone through this before with each of my sisters, so she’s got this wedding planning thing down pat. She had a list of questions. Did I have any ideas for color? Did I have any ideas about what I wanted to do about food? Did I want dancing? Heck, I was happy just to have narrowed down a month for the wedding. This other stuff is still in the ‘um…what?’ stage of my brain. But I need to think about it. People and places need to be reserved in the next several months.

We pulled out our calendars and scheduled one day a month to meet and do wedding stuff. We found it ironic that the first free weekend day the two of us have to meet isn’t until the end of July – we’re both that busy. We went to the church and figured out how many people could fit in the sanctuary. She brought a tape measure and we figured out how big the social hall is, so that we have a size to compare. We drove around town trying to think of other likely spots for the reception. Passed by barns and teased about having the reception in the middle of a hay field or something. Anything so long as the room is big enough. For a brief moment I babbled about maybe having the reception in the house that we’re building, but my mom thankfully brought me to my senses. That would be more hassle and stress than any of us have time for.

Despite our best intentions we realize that we’re going to have to break down and go to one or two of the local bridal malls. I firmly intend to avoid bridal fairs at all costs, but I’ve got to look at stuff *somewhere*. And on the way home I broke down and bought two bride magazines. I flipped through a few pages of advertisements before I went to bed. There are some UGLY wedding gowns out there. Really. Although I did get a lot of lovely ideas for bridesmaid dresses…assuming I really hated my bridesmaids. Who wears these things? Ick!

Saturday night I gathered in the Sacramento convention center with hundreds and hundreds of other Methodists for the ending of the annual conference. I’d never been to anything quite like this before, and I was glad to see familiar faces when we walked in. There was a small gathering from my parents’ church, and my older sister, her husband, and his parents were there too. Richard got to meet my sister’s in-laws, who are wonderfully sweet people, and who immediately starting to tease him, asking if he’d been warned about what sort of family he was marrying into.

I don’t know about all the others, but this little crowd was there for one particular reason that night. My mother was consecrated as a Diaconal minister in the Methodist church. She knelt before the bishop as he spoke the words, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever been more proud of her than I was at that moment. She has been working up to this for a number of years, unsure at times if she was doing the right thing, but sure at least that she had been called.

I’m not a religious person by any stretch of the imagination. I suppose I would classify as an agnostic. I believe that religion has a usefulness and a place, but I have a difficult time with the concept of one all-powerful supreme being. I accept that there are things that are unexplainable, and that there are forces greater than what is known at work. And I have a great deal of respect for people who are religious, like my mother, while still being open and tolerant. Right wing fanatics of any religion (although I’ll admit my main exposure to right-wing fanatics has been Christian) I have little respect for. Any inability to accept that there may be differing views on faith and religion, that there may be more than one ‘right’ way – that I find pathetic and sad. (As a side note, if you ever want to have a lot of fun with a right-wing fanatical Christian, ask them to prove the existance of God without using the Bible. They can’t do it. Go on! Try it! You’ll see.)

My mom is one of the most open and liberal ‘religious’ persons I know. Her particular calling is working as a chaplain in hospitals and hospice care, comforting the sick and dying, and their friends and family. It’s not a task I would ever want, or be able to do, but she seems to be made for it. If there is a God (or Goddess) then he/she guided my mom to the right path. Call it God, or spirituality, or simply overwhelming love, but whatever sent that calling, it was there Saturday night. In the hundreds of other Methodists who stood silently to support the candidates that they knew. In the words of the Bishop as he gave his farewell sermon. In our little group as we watched my mom. And yes, even in some who normally find it hard to believe. Like me.

I left work early today because I am sick. In fact, I’ve been doing this all week – going home early because I’m sick. This thing started last Friday as a cold, which was mildly annoying but not so bad except for the whole snuffly thing. Unfortunately it turned into something nastier by Monday, complete with fever and aches and a lovely sore throat. A sane person with a less hectic job might have taken a day or two off to recuperate, but my job is of the ‘more hectic’ variety (and we just won’t go into the whole sanity issue), which this week has translated into meetings every day for project planning. And considering that two factions of the project have not been playing nicely, I felt a distinct need to be there, if only to try to present my particular niche of this happy little family in as positive a light as possible, and to prevent any waves or snarls from the more testosterone-enhanced members of the crowd. You see, when it comes to this project I’m the only female on the development side, and one of only 2 in the entire group, not counting the extra-sweet lady who is unfortunate enough to be the admin to all the people who run this project. She does an admirable job considering they run her ragged on a daily basis. So this can often be an interesting concern of mine. I’m not so sure my male coworkers would necessarily agree, but then they don’t see things quite the way I see them (being less testosterone-enhanced). Butting heads has never been my style and I make it a point to try to avoid letting people on my team do it either. Yes, yes. Mean ol’ boss lady – I think we established that earlier.

But anyway, I felt the need to be there at the meetings, and thankfully they went relatively smoothly. At the end of each day I would stagger off to my car, drive home, down some cold medicine, and then curl into bed with a box of tissues. My fiancé has been incredibly sweet, worrying about me and checking on me – something that is a bit odd to handle – considering I’ve been taking care of myself all alone for the better part of ten years. You see, I hate being really sick. I hate feeling helpless, being completely exhausted just walking to the car, not being able to rest because I can’t breathe, and this constant coughing. I know I have to rest and when it’s as bad as it’s been I have no choice. But then I start to feel better – that false bravado that ends a bout with the flu – and I want to *do* things instead of lying in bed sniffling pitifully. Except I still don’t have enough energy and then it only makes me cranky. I have a greater tendency to snap at people when in reality my frustration is at myself and not them.

It seems to be going away though – finally. I’m hesitant to get too excited yet, since this stupid virus relapsed on Monday when I was thinking I was over the darn thing. But so far so good. Besides, the timing couldn’t be better. I have no meetings scheduled for tomorrow. I could quite easily take tomorrow off and stay home to recuperate. It wouldn’t inconvenience me at all.

Can you think of a better time to get healthy than that?

Family means different things to people. I consider myself incredibly lucky that I’m so close to mine – both in physical distance and in relationship. Most people I know don’t have that connection with their family – especially their parents, and to some friends, there seems to be this need to continually push away. People fall into ruts when they deal with their family; methods of behavior that were established before they left home and that are often very hard to break. I’m not sure whether my rut was just shallower than most, or if I was just fortunate enough to figure out how to get out of it by myself, but my family is important to me. In fact the house we’re building is in the same town as my parents – something which has caused more than one eyebrow to raise in surprise. Bear in mind that if we all actually had to *live* with each other again very few of us would survive, but my family usually gets along quite well. And it’s something that has been a bit frustrating because the majority of people I know do not have that same bond, and therefore cannot understand it.

The topic of families is on my mind because Saturday night was the First Meeting of the Families. Richard and I were both a little nervous, although I’m not sure why. His mom and dad are open, friendly people. The first time I met them was after I had spent a day helping friends move. It had been raining, and so with the moving and hefting heavy things and such, none of us were looking remotely glamorous. So when Richard suggested that we stop by on the way home to visit his family, I had to laugh. It’s not the way one envisions meeting the parents of the man you’re in love with. Usually this is done when you have time to get ready – do a bit of primping, try to look nice so they don’t take one look and immediately think ‘in what swamp did he dredge *this* one up?’ But anyway, we went to visit. His mom came to the door, took one look at me, grinned, and said “Richard, how nice of you to drop by”, or something to that effect. This didn’t faze me a bit – I’m quite used to it from my own parents, so I replied “Hi, and I’d like you to meet my friend Jennifer”, gesturing to Richard. Right about that moment I knew that these were my kind of people. There is a warmth in his family that I recognize from my own – in the gentle teasing between Richard and his parents, and between him and his sisters.

Introducing his parents to mine *before* the wedding might have been a mistake though. Our moms together are a dangerous pair, because by the end of the evening our wedding included a belly-dancing aunt, topless pregnant bridesmaids (well, to give them credit, that one was actually my sister’s idea), Richard swinging into the church on a vine, and me wearing wings and a fairy costume. They traded embarrassing stories about their respective children across the dinner table. We all spent most of the evening laughing. In other words it went well. Really well.

We have joked that it might be easier if one of us hated our family, because then figuring out that nifty dilemma of ‘whose house do we go to on which holiday’ wouldn’t be an issue. In reality, however, I would gladly deal with this particular little problem than the alternative. I’ve seen what happens when one half of a couple has In-Laws From Hell, and it ain’t pretty. Granted it’s early in the game and both sides have got at little over a year to suddenly sprout horns and forked tails. But somehow, I’m not worried. Not one bit.

Driving home from the project site this morning, I saw an airplane cavorting. It was one of those tiny one-person planes, and whoever was flying was obviously enjoying themselves – dipping close the ground, tilting just enough so that the wings looked as if they were mere feet from grazing the tops of the grasses, and then soaring back into the sky. I watched it and thought that if I just closed my eyes and tried hard enough, I could be that plane – spreading my arms wide, face tilted back to feel the wind on my skin and blowing through my hair. There was joy in the flying and I wanted to be a part of it.

My thoughts are scattered – haring off in tangents every which way. At least with the cold medication taking effect I’m not feeling nearly so dizzy. Managed to stick at work for nearly two hours before I realized that I was not going to be able to get anything done. Being sick like this drains me and I cannot concentrate. Too much to do there, but I sent off messages, tried to wrap things up before I finally broke down and left. This thing – whatever I have – is going around. Two others on the team have it too – we are all miserably snuffling together.

The house plans arrived – rolled neatly into a cardboard tube. I have not opened it – heard the doorbell ring and when I dragged myself out of bed there was no one there, merely the delivery of this package. I am hesitant to open it. There is a part of me that likes to do the thousand ‘what-ifs’ when something good is about to happen. This is the detailed plan for the house I want to build – my dream house. The one I fell in love with oh so long ago. And what if I open it, now that I will get to see it in three dimensions, with all the tiny details I was only able to imagine from the floor plan, and discover that it just won’t do?

After that I couldn’t get back to sleep, despite the concerted efforts of several sleepy felines. I took more medicine and waited for it to kick in. I went to the grocery store because I needed laundry detergent. Four young boys were playing with balls in one of the aisles and I couldn’t help myself. They were playing with complete disregard for who or what they might hit. I asked them if they were willing to pay for anything they might break. They stared at me dumbly -this grouchy, sick-pale woman pushing a cart. Later on, at the check-out I saw them with their mother, who looked tired and cross, and completely oblivious to their behavior. And I wanted to tell her – see? This is why people like me don’t like children. I was raised with manners. My mother would have been quick to stop my sisters and I should we have even attempted to play with toys in a grocery store – toys we did not own, toys which could hit someone or do damage. I held my tongue and paid for my groceries. I’m tired and not feeling well. That’s all it is. Of course. That much was obvious as I stared blankly for nearly five minutes in the cleaning products aisle, until I couldn’t remember what it is I was looking for.

I tire of the politics at this project I am assigned to. Somehow it has divided into two camps – the development team and the design team. The first part of this project wasn’t like this – why does the second part have to be? Despite our repetitions of the fact that we are following the same process for both design sessions, this group seems determined to feel put-upon, picked on, alienated. Many of them are young – prone to grumbling behind backs because it is easier to do that than to face the problem and find a solution. Yet when they come to me with a complaint, every time we have found a solution that pleased them. You think they would learn. Why is it so hard? Their backs must get tired from carrying these chips, yet they still persist. I’m the mean old boss lady. That’s alright. I’ve been that before. Doesn’t matter how many times I say ‘this is the way it is. I didn’t come up with the process, and guess what – I’m not all that crazy about parts of it either. But I learned to adapt and so will you’. Far easier to complain. Ah well, if it makes them happy to blame it on me, so be it. That’s part of my role I suppose, and I’d rather that burden be on me than on the others who are trying so hard to get the work done. And besides, I watch them come around slowly and I hide my smile as I give them the help they need. And I want to tell them – see? I’m not so bad. I’m the same person I was when you were grumbling about me to your buddies, but now that you actually broke down and *talked* to me, suddenly I’m not the enemy.

Dragged Zuchinni out from under the kitchen sink where he’s been hiding lately, ignoring his fearful hissing. I held him close and pet him for a long time as I lay – half-awake – on the couch this afternoon. Sometimes I worry that I did the wrong thing with him so many years ago when he came to me as a kitten – that perhaps it would have been kinder to let him go so that he could come back next time without whatever chemical imbalance it is that makes him so terrified of everything. He trembled in fear at first but gradually calmed down. I wish so much that I could tell this poor cat, in a way he would understand, that there is no need to be afraid. The people at the project may be just as skittish about approaching me, but at least we can communicate. With Zuchinni I feel I never shall. When he finally bolted he only ran a few steps before stopping and turning around to look at me. So maybe somewhere deep inside him he is trying to understand.

I don’t like being sick. I don’t have time to be sick. Inconvenient that illness always comes when I have the least time to deal with it. This weekend is going to be busy and I’ve a house to clean before the entire family comes over on Sunday. I need to gather my thoughts and I can’t. They are floating in the air, dipping and soaring. If I spread my arms wide and close my eyes maybe I can collect them and hold them close while I fly away.

I got a goose for my birthday. A cement goose that stands probably nearly three feet high. I knew about the goose – my mom had already mentioned that both my sisters were receiving the same thing as house-warming presents, and there were hints dropped that a third goose was out on my parents’ back patio with my name on it. A very *heavy* goose, as my poor fiancé can attest to, since he was elected to carry the thing out to the car when we left.

I should at least explain the whole concept of this goose. It’s not like my parents were out shopping and just randomly decided that their daughters couldn’t live without a stone bird. Amazingly enough, in some parts of this country, these geese are all the rage. In the midwest, someone somewhere started a quaint trend of dressing their little cement goose and the idea caught on like wild fire. Whenever we are out in Ohio for family reunions, we see these geese on lots of porches. There are actually stores that sell clothes for stone geese. Little dresses. Hats. Halloween costumes. I kid you not.

My mom saw these geese and was immediately enamoured. She decided that her porch needed one. Finding the goose was not a major problem. Finding clothes, however, was. Amazing as it may seem, the stone goose craze just hasn’t made it out this far west.

My older sister and I – since this was back when we both still had free time (read ‘pre-baby’ for her, and ‘still in school’ for me) enough to play on the sewing machine – managed to track down a pattern for goose clothes. We divvied up the pattern pieces and set about making goose clothes as a surprise. Of course once we had one outfit nearly done, we weren’t exactly sure whether we’d gotten the right size (these stone geese come in short and tall, and therefore one must be certain of getting the right size pattern because it just wouldn’t’ do for your goose to be inappropriately clothed). We knew that my parents would be at church, so we drove over to their house, parking my sister’s car further down the street, and then dashed across several yards to their front porch, where we yanked off the one outfit the goose owned, stuffed the poor stone critter into the dress we’d made, determined its fit, switched outfits, readjusted the hat, and then scurried back to the waiting car, giggling like lunatics. We figured if any of the neighbors saw us, they’d have an odd tale to report to my mom and dad. “Two grown women snuck onto your porch in broad daylight and fondled your goose!” It’s one of those senseless crimes – a drive-by stone fowl undressing.

But anyway, now I have this goose. Or rather, my sisters and I have these geese. And I think that their reaction was most likely the same as mine. What on earth am I going to do with this thing? Cement barn animals – with or without clothing – have never been my thing. For now, it gets to sit in my garage because I don’t trust the neighborhood kids not to try to knock its skinny neck off, but sometime next year I’ll move into this new house we’re building and then this goose will have to go *somewhere*.

I asked Richard if he had any thoughts on the matter since, after all, it’s going to be his goose too. It was sort of a joke present, but still, one just can’t blithely ignore 50+ pounds of cement shaped like a goose standing at attention, especially when it was gifted by one’s dear parents – who not only own a similar creation, but dress it in little outfits on a fairly regular basis. And I do admit that, despite my best intentions, I almost feel sorry for the poor thing as it sits, naked, in my garage while we decide its fate. Richard, being the marvelous and practical guy that he is, calmly pointed out that this cement waterfowl has, by virtue of the fact that my mom gave one to my sisters too, now become a family tradition. And how does one argue with that? So bear with me. If you’re driving through my neck of northern California sometime next summer and you spy a house with a dressed goose on the front porch, well…don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I wonder if I can get it a cat costume for Halloween…

I’m not a big jewelry fan. Some woman may be thrilled with gold and gemstones, but I’ve never been one of them. Somehow I missed out on that trait that most – if not all – of my female friends have. I’ve got my ears double-pierced, yet at least 80 percent of the time I forget to wear earrings, even though I’ve got lots of adorable pairs to choose from. I wear an anklet mainly because I put it on a year or so ago and it’s one of those things I almost never have to take off. I have a necklace I wear some of the time because I bought it for myself one Valentine’s day. And I wear a ring that I designed myself – based off a bit of costume jewelry I found years ago. It’s a cat’s face (yes, I’m addicted. This should not surprise you by now) with sapphires for eyes, while the metal is carefully scored with ears and nose and whiskers. I love it. It might not be everyone’s idea of exquisite, but frankly, if that were what I cared about, I’d never be caught dead in some of the earrings I wear anyway. Besides which, ring, necklace, and anklet have all been part of my plan to get myself to wear more jewelry – a plan which, up til now, has had only partial success.

And as for sparkles and glitter? I know that popular sentiment claims that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and I certainly have known women who uphold that myth, but I’ve never been all that drawn to them. Besides which, I had that whole single thing going on for quite a number of years – a state of being that seemed to baffle some of my female acquaintances who were of the ‘no woman can possibly be happy without a man or two to validate them’ mind set. And despite the best intentions of the aforementioned female acquaintances, who would occasionally toss out mentions of eligible bachelors – as if by virtue of their possessing a lofty degree or some other equally yuppie definition of ‘success’ I would suddenly change my tune and ‘need’ a man – my ring finger remained blessedly bare; a fate which I was perfectly happy to sustain. Long ago I made the decision that any jewelry I wore would be jewelry I bought for myself – after all, who knows my taste better than I?

Ah, but fate has such a wonderful sense of humor. Recently another ring was added to the small collection of jewelry I wear – a ring that not only has a diamond, but was also something I had no say in picking out. And it’s been ironic, at least to me, that it’s this ring that is the most beautiful, and means more to me, than any of the pieces I’ve purchased or had made for myself. But what makes this ring so special is not the stone or the setting, because frankly, it would have just as much meaning if it had been crafted from a bit of glass and a twisty tie. It’s the sentiment behind it. It’s the fact that the ring has a history – that it was the ring that Richard’s father gave to his mother when he proposed to her, and that the diamond has been in the family even longer than that.

I may have to actively remind myself every day to put on the rest of my jewelry, and it’s looking highly likely that despite my best intentions, I may never get the hang of this whole ‘girl’ thing of wearing lots of baubles and bangles. But this piece has been blissfully easy to remember every morning. After all, this ring came from the man with whom I’m going to spend the rest of my life. What better reason to remember could there be than that?