I had the most fantastic dream last night. I even dreamt about how long it would take to write about it in my journal. I woke up smiling.

The dream revolved around this premise: Because I was the #1 Foo Fighters fan of all time, I was invited to a FF concert as Dave Grohl’s special guest of honor! Woot! I got to go onstage with the band, hang out backstage with them, and even go on part of the tour with them. (I think the last part is more because I became friends with them than anything else.)

I love silly, implausible dreams.

I swear, though, it was so real. The roar of the crowd, the screaming guitars, the heart-pounding madness of meeting Dave Grohl. Wow. I could seriously live with that.

I’m so glad I had that dream. My dreams tend to color my mood for the entire day following them, and I could use a good one. I think I have happy dreams when I’m pulling out of these funks.

Speaking of which, I met with Doug last night. I love Doug. I mean, I love him like I love DoubleStuff Oreos and a good weepy movie. Anyway, I just dumped everything that’s been going on right on him, and he was so cool. Damn how that man can sort things out.

Saw Max last night, too. I’d say accidentally, but how in the world do you avoid seeing him when you stop at Starbucks for a vanilla bean creme? The first thing I thought of was that I feel sorry for him. That’s a first. But here I am, with life so full of promise, with my present as interesting as my future promises to be, and there he is. At Starbucks. Still. He’s let his hair grow out all one length to nearly his shoulders, which makes him look like an old rock-star-wannabee. I guess we’re both getting older, though. But he doesn’t look happy. He just looks … old.

And have I mentioned that I’m having a baby? Woo! And that I’m getting married in two weeks? WOO!

Bring it on,
michelle