I might get monogram crazy.

My fiance and I came up with the best idea ever.

We're getting all of our everyday stuff monogrammed. But since we're not typical follow-the-rules types, we're not using the standard his initial, our last initial, my initial nonsense.

We're going to monogram our stuff with something better.

FTW and WTF.

Just imagine. You're staying with us for the weekend and you're getting out of the shower. You reach for our soft, puffy wedding towels and see a vivid white WTF sewn into the cotton.

You'd die laughing, right? I mean, what the ... ? It makes total sense in a really WTF kind of way.

You're sitting at our dinner table drinking a glass of wine, scotch, champagne, whatever. Just as my dear husband says something hilarious (and he will because he is hilarious) you see FTW frosted onto your glass. Perfect timing, perfect comment. We all pause and then errupt into laughter.

I usually don't use these silly little abbreviations when I type and write. But putting them out into the world always cracks me up a bit. Makes me want to put LOL on the wash rags.

So, when do we get to register?

I'm tempted to get a potato sack.

I've tried on like 30 wedding gowns, and every time one touched my body, someone would say, "Well, it doesn't matter what dress you pick; you'd look great in a potato sack."

This is people's way of supporting a bride's ultimate decision, because they might actually hate her dress. But rule number one is "don't tell the bride you hate her dress." It's better to hate the groom than the dress. Seriously.

Anyway, the prankster in me is very very tempted to get a potato sack. And why not? After bleaching it white, cinching the waste with a rope, maybe sewing on some other sacks for ruffles, it could be quite pretty. I watch Project Runway. I've seen what a gay man can do with some red thread and a trash bag. If that concoction is acceptable for a cocktail party, my potato sack dress will be a wedding celebration sensation!

Not to mention how cheap a potato sack is. I mean, gowns are hundreds if not thousands of dollars. How much are potato sacks? Free? Maybe ten cents? Thread is less than a dollar. I've already got some needles. This could be a fun craft project.

The only problem is the scratchy material of a potato sack. It wouldn't be attractive for the bride to break out in hives as she's walking down the aisle. So I guess I'd have to line it with something like an old T-shirt. I've got a few of those. Heck, it could be my something blue.

My fiance and I are already going to honeymoon in Ireland to celebrate our drunken heritage. So a potato sack would fit in nicely with out under-stated theme. Hell, it'd go great with the mashed potato bar. We could even sack race to the limo when we leave.

I'm going to have the best wedding ever.

You know what, Weather? You can suck it.

Sometimes, I'm lucky enough to work from home (or just be home during the day on those days when I'm a jobless bum).

For the last two weeks, I've been banging keys in my own apartment. Sometimes I'd leave to run an errand or just to escape electronics for a bit.

But for the last two weeks, it's been lugubrious outside. The clouds hung like socks on a clothesline. The rain has pelted the ground like stones. The ground swelled and became soft.

On the few dry days we had, it was too hot to really enjoy anything. Skin cancer and sweat aren't a fun combination.

So I didn't mind that I'd be in an office all this week, absorbing whatever it is you absorb from fluorescent lights.

Until today.

Because today, it's fucking gorgeous outside.

Today is the day I should be walking around downtown. Today is a great day for poolside reading. Today is the day I shouldn't be "working."

I'm sure the clouds are getting a good laugh at all of us schmucks today. And next week when we all have the day off on Monday, just you watch. It'll rain.

The problem is that I'm too happy.

For whatever reason, creativity seems to flow in times of struggle.

When the painter is sad, she paints canvas after canvas of angry reds, weepy blues and bleak blacks.

When the song writer is frustrated, he pounds on the piano, he fills his notebook with new phrases and he pours his soul into a song.

When the writer is lonely, her pen moves swiftly and a never-ceasing string of the most beautifully combined words flows from her like ...

And then the writer gets stuck. Because she isn't lonely. She's actually quite the opposite.

She's very happy. Her life is happy. Everything around her is happy.

Love does wonderful things to a person. And horrible things to that person's writing time!

But this writer is fine with that. Maybe I'll stub my toe this week and come up with something witty.

I like my Coke with a capital C.

I knew better.

I knew that if I had the Coke*, then I wouldn't sleep for hours. It would get in my veins, my heart, my head and keep me frantically searching for something to do all night.

And that's exactly what it did.

I don't have Coke that often. Probably only once a month or so. But last night, I needed it. I needed it badly.

Around 8:30 PM, a waiter gave me my fix (waiters always have Coke, don't they?). About ten minutes later, he gave me some more. I didn't really want more, but how could I say no to more Coke?

So I made quick work of it. And it was so good.

Around midnight, I tried to go to sleep. But the Coke wouldn't let me.

I tossed. I turned. I stole the covers. I returned them.

Hours passed. Sleep couldn't fight with the chemicals in my system.

I rolled over and watched my fiance sleep. His eyes opened and he met my gaze for a few seconds. Then he continued sleeping. I bet he wasn't even awake. I recently wrote an article about the stages of sleep and it's not uncommon for people to open their eyes, speak, or even get up while in stage 2.

I rewrote the article in my head as I watched him sleep. While I was buzzing off of Coke.

At around 3:30, the boredom finally got to me. So I played mahjong. I watched infomercials. I sat through half of a movie.

I started to crash around 4:30. Finally, after around 7 hours, the Coke was finally wearing off.

I crept back into the bedroom and covered myself with the sheets. Sometime around 8:45, my fiance kissed me goodbye as he left for work.

I woke up embarrassingly late and mucked about all day. Maybe tomorrow I'll get some work done.

As long as I stay away from Coke tonight.

*Pepsi is for chumps. It's all about the Coca Cola.

They are invading my space. Again.

MySpace was the cool thing a few years back.

Then it was invaded with creepy, saggy old dudes who wanted to get nasty with young, tight chicks.

So we all fled to FaceBook. After all, you had to have a dot-edu email address to join.

Then they opened it up to corporations. Then they released the flood gates and everyone could join.

No biggie.

And now everyone's sixty-something year old babysitter from the seventies has joined. And we're all censoring our pages like crazy (which we should have done in the beginning).

Oh well. At least they aren't trying to sleep with the youngins. Yet.