Did I mention? I can't wait for your show?

I'm watching vh1's 100 Top Songs of the 90s. This means several things.

1. I cannot turn away from vh1 countdown shows, no matter how many times I have seen them. Case in point: my recent viewing - not once, but twice - of vh1's Top 100 Artists of All Time. I believe you will join me in my utter disgust that Buddy Holly was omitted from this list. And Journey? Only number 96? Seriously?

2. I am ... a bit of a has-been. I graduated from high school and college in the 90s, and I'm just now coming to realize that holy crap, so much of our music sucked serious ass. And on what planet is a bodysuit and a flannel shirt considered proper "going out" wear? Oh, right - Planet 1995. I knew you well.

Actually, it's sort of like someone I used to know lived in the 90s. Certainly not me. This is also how I felt about that person I used to be who had an escape plan to lock herself in the bathroom and jump down the laundry shoot to escape an unpredictable boyfriend. It's so ridiculous - I don't know that person any more. Like I also don't know the person who, at 110 pounds, wore XXL sweatshirts with leggings and ankle boots.

*shiver*

3. Because vh1 is vh1, every single commercial break has alerted me to big, big news. Bret Michaels: Life as I Know It premieres Monday, Oct. 18! Set your DVRs now. But, actually, it's easy to remember, because Bret's show premieres the day after my big premiere as an ordained woman of the cloth at Poochie's wedding.

Yep. You're welcome for that handy mental crutch. It's like a traditional mnemonic, but better. It's all "every rose has its mnemonic" mnemonic.

So, Bret.
You're awesome.

And I can't wait for your show.

And I will totally be wearing my t-shirt.

And even though I'm super excited to be marrying My Guy? He understands about you. About us.

So much so that when I saw these engagement photos that were crashed by none other than The Boss, and I demanded that My Guy and I have the same Springsteentastic engagement photos?

My Guy sighed and said, "Well, I had Bret Michaels lined up for our engagement shoot, but I guess I'll cancel ..."

So, can't wait for your show, Bret.

God has me where I'm supposed to be. Right?

So, My Guy and I put our houses on the market the first full week of July.

Have you seen all the news stories about how we're currently in the very worst real estate market ever in the history of houses?

Dude. It is totally true.

My Guy has had four showings in those two and a half months. I have had two showings.

The jokes about how someday we might live together are starting to get a little old. And I feel guilty about the twinge of desperation that I feel. I want to put positive energy into the universe: Yes, our houses will find the buyers who want them! Yes, we will be paid fairly for these homes! Yes, we will be exactly where we are supposed to be!

But I can't help but be a bit discouraged.

We've dropped the prices. We've even been making our beds every single day, for the love of Ray J!

I even turned to The Lord's Realtor. I ordered St. Joseph statues. Evidently, he is the patron saint of carpenters and real estate. You're supposed to say a prayer and bury him head down, facing the street. According to the brochure that came with our St. Joseph statues, he's "The Underground Real Estate Agent(tm)."

My Guy buried his as soon as it came in. Mine? Well, I was busy and didn't get to it immediately. However, this showed how truly sacred my mom's Catholic upbringing is.

When I told her I hadn't yet buried my Underground Real Estate Agent(tm), she had words. Harsh words.

"Dammit, girl! Get out there and bury the damned thing!"

Ahem. So I did. And ... nothing. Perhaps in addition to selling my home, St. Joseph is also trying to teach me patience.

I'm at a bit of a loss. Any words of wisdom? Anybody want a really cute little house with a main-floor laundry and granite in the kitchen?

You say TMI, I say funny.

I'm a bit of a delicate flower. Which is a nice way of saying that if I think about poison ivy or look at it from 347 yards away, I break out.

With two dogs and a fence line that is occasionally overgrown with questionable vegetation, this means I've had more than one brush with everybody's least favorite rash. The dogs brush up against the plant. The dogs brush up against me. I get the oils on my skin. I get the rash of death.

Good times.

So, this week I've had a patch of poison ivy on my arm that's about the size of a large grape. And boy howdy, has it ever itched. Like, I'd wake up thinking about the throbbing, itching heat on my arm. Holy crap. The itching. Itching!

Also? It looks awesome. Oh, you know Cha Cha? That girl who works on the 16th floor? You know, the one with the arm leprosy?

Combine that itchy, visually appealing awesomeness with a nice visit from Aunt Flo, and, well, you've got yourself a party. I am a mess. It's been a great week.

I haven't seen much of My Guy this week. He's had a nasty cold and has sequestered himself away. "I can't get you sick," he said. "I would just feel so guilty."

I thought he was just being overly sensitive and unable to think straight due to an overabundance of mucus. Then, he put it all in perspective.

"You already have poison ivy and your period. If you get a cold, too? Well, that combination is what killed the dinosaurs."

Flavors of self-improvement.

So, it's the season premiere of The Biggest Loser. The trainers are traveling around the country, gathering hopefuls and having three potential Losers compete for two spots.

And holy crap. There are some really sad stories. Mamas who have lost their kids. People who were told they were nothing - by the people who were supposed to love them. So many people who have buried their pain in food.

Usually, I like the show because it's a lesson in perseverance. But tonight? This episode just makes me sad for all the folks who want to be on the show but don't make it. People who are desperate.

I've never been obese, but I went through a very definite chubby phase as a kid. And when I discovered that if I just didn't eat? I got all skinny-like! It was great.

Ahem.

I was never truly anorexic, but we flirted.

And as an adult? The only diet that's every worked for me is The Breakup Diet. Yep. Every time I get my heart broken, I drop about 15 pounds. When you're 5'3", that's a lot. But that post-breakup shopping spree is soooo fun. It's the gaining it back - and a bit more - that sort of sucks.

The problem with depending on The Breakup Diet is that I'm getting married. Which means that I shouldn't have any more access to The Breakup Diet. Which is good. And bad. Because while I look good and stuff? I can tell I've got a bit more meat on my bones than I'd prefer. I can just tell, you know?

So, I broke down and joined Weight Watchers. Which should really just be called One More Thing to Play With on Your iPhone. Because the app is awesome.

Given my flirtation with The Big A, I've never owned a scale. But there's one in the locker room at Corporate Behemoth. So, I weigh myself every Monday. Because that's an awesome way to enhance any Monday morning, when I'm usually running late anyway.

I've lost three pounds in a month, which doesn't feel like much. And since I didn't lose any the first two weeks, I was all, "Oh, I am NOT feeling guilty over my beloved Dannon Coffee-Flavored Yogurt to not lose weight, bitches!" But today, I realized that I've lost, like, 2% of my total body weight. Which, on The Biggest Loser, would be pretty good.

For a week. It would be good for a week instead of four. But considering that I'm not working out eight hours a day? And there's very little chance that Jillian Michaels will make me cry on national television? It's cool.

Why I'm stepping away from e-mail for the weekend.

I received an e-mail last night from our vet clinic. Our sweet, wonderful vet succumbed to cancer.

As soon as I saw his name in the subject line, I knew. I put my hands over my face. All I could say was, "No, no, no."

This man always had a smile on his face, but not in a weird way. He clearly loved his job, and I considered him my friend. He saved the Geriatric Poodle's life. And he was honest with me when the Geriatric Poodle was getting toward the end of his road.

I am forever grateful for this man and his kindness. I never felt embarrassed crying in front of him. And with the Geriatric Poodle? Sometimes, there was a lot to cry about.

On the clinic Web site, they posted a notice of his passing ... along with a photo of him wearing a red velvet crown. You know, like they give to the homecoming king? The look on my friend's face is priceless, and the photo seems so perfect. It's obvious the people who worked with him love him.

This morning, I discovered an e-mail in my inbox from Ex-Ex. He was writing to tell me that our vet had died. As if he was the only client they e-mailed. As if I live under a rock.

I found myself saying, "FUCK YOU!" out loud.

Rationally? I know that this is yet another attempt from Ex-Ex to interact with me and get some sort of validation that he's not a total schmuck.

But irrationally?

I want to write him back and tell him that he's sullying the legacy of a man of great kindness and integrity by using his death for those purposes. I want to tell him that our vet was a man of honor and my friend - two things that he certainly didn't have in common with Ex-Ex. And Ex-Ex? You and I both know you didn't do squat as far as vet care when we lived together - that all fell on my shoulders. And our sweet vet? I never had an escape plan from him, like the escape plan I had toward the end of our relationship when I figured I could lock myself in the bathroom and jump down the laundry shoot to get away from you if necessary. So fuck off.

So, yeah. I don't think I'll be responding.

And what recording artist are you?

I've been in Boston this week for work. By the last day of our trip, we were admittedly getting a bit slap happy. The conversation that follows was the highlight of the trip.

"You know, we had another baby because we thought we'd get another one like Jake. Instead we got, like, Crazytown."

"Huh? Emma's crazy?"

"Yeah. Like, she's only 3, but she's insane, like she's high all the time."

"Hmm."

-pause-

"The best way I can describe it is that Jake is like Michael Buble. And Emma? Emma's Amy Winehouse. "

-guffaw-

"Seriously. Jake's like, 'Can I help you clean something?' And Emma? The other day, I got her dressed and put some pants on her, and she started screaming! 'I need something in my pockets! I Need Something In My Pockets! I NEED SOMETHING IN MY POCKETS!'"

"Ohmygod! What did you do?"

"I just grabbed a bunch of shit and stuffed it in her pockets!"

"What did she want in her pockets?"

"I don't know! She's just insane!"

(At this point, we were all laughing so hard we couldn't breathe. I think I blacked out.)

Is it just me?

I had the humbling experience of receiving two very kind, very generous e-mails today. Both messages lauded me for being an authentic, honest blogger.

By "authentic and honest," I'm assuming both of these friends meant "mute and MIA."

I'm more than a bit disappointed in the volume of my writing as of late. I look at the post counts from last year and think, "Ah, those were the days! 30 posts in one month - I really had it going on!" And I forget that yeah, I posted 30 times in one month ... a month in which I didn't really leave my house. My main activities were knitting, blogging, and nursing a broken heart.

And now? Now, life is coming at me at the speed of ... well, at the speed of a really high-quality Internet connection. And I just don't have the time or the energy to post like I think I should. I'm too busy doing. I'm swamped at work. I have a lovely albeit time-consuming second job planning a wedding. I like to do crazy things like spend time with my fiance. And yet?

And yet, I am still attempting to not learn the very valuable lesson that My Guy would teach me if I'd just pull my head out of my ass and fucking pay attention.

That lesson is compassion.

I feel like I'm doing everything half-assed. I'm having moments of freak-out over the wedding. The pile of work at Corporate Behemoth continues to grow. My house is a mess and all of my produce has gone bad. I feel like a fuck up.

And yet? This kind man still loves me. And when I confessed that I didn't think I was being a very good friend to myself? He said, "I'm so glad to hear you say that. You're such a good friend and so understanding and compassionate. You need to cut yourself some slack."

So, this is me being honest. And attempting a cease-fire in the war with myself. And asking to hear from all you other my-own-worst-enemies out there: how do you engage in peace talks between the warring factions in your brain?

Because I can't blog about anything but boobs.

Guess what I did last week?

I bought a wedding dress.

Yep. It was sort of crazy. My mom came down and we visited three bridal salons. It took until about the middle of our visit to the second salon for us to get over the "OMG, Cha Cha's in a wedding dress and is going to get married!" shock. I just kept saying, "I'm getting married!" And my mom just kept crying.

No one tells you this, but trying on wedding dresses is exhausting. I mean, it's not just that you want to look good - it's that this is the most-photographed ensemble you will ever wear. And you're supposed to have been planning this ensemble since you were 3 years old and wearing slips on your head, pretending they're veils. Nevermind the fact that these gowns are also truly marvels of engineering, tend to be heavy, and make you sort of wish for your pajamas.

But we found a dress. I didn't know at first sight - in fact, we left the salon, had lunch, went to another salon, had a mental breakdown over the third salon's 18-year-old consultant who kept bringing me stuff that I had already said I didn't like, and then returned to the second salon to order The Dress.

And it's a surprise. However, this is my artistic interpretation of the gown.

Yes, there's a reason why I'm a writer and not a visual artist. Whatevs.

So, I'm excited. But the real story with the wedding gown shopping?

My mom insisted that I have a strapless bra to wear dress shopping. This was the staple that was missing from my lingerie wardrobe ... mostly because strapless bras are the boob-management equivalent of driving on ice. No control!

But I saw the rationale of my mama's stance, so before any of the dress-shopping shenanigans, we headed to Nordstrom to get the girls fitted for a strapless bra.

Now, longtime readers might remember my love affair with the Nordstrom lingerie department and my shocking realization three years ago that I was wearing totally the wrong size bra. Like, really, really the wrong size. I shelled out some serious dinero for some seriously nice bras. Nice bras that are now starting to feel a little ... umm ... past their prime.

On our quest for the strapless bra, I figured out why.

Those poor bras have been working overtime. In the last three years, I have gone up TWO CUP SIZES.

I have not been pregnant. I have not gained a ton of weight. I haven't been taking any weird drugs or been doing that "we must increase our bust" exercise from "Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret." Evidently, I've just been sitting around, quietly turning into Dolly Parton.

My mom just kept saying, "Honey, people pay good money for those things."

And when I told My Guy? He high-fived me and smiled sheepishly. "Well done," he said. "Well done."

*And, for the record? If you need a strapless bra, go to Nordies. I wore that strapless bra all day and never fell out once! It was a marvel of modern engineering!

I'm slow, but I eventually catch on.

I woke up with a magnificent - if somewhat belated - realization.

Remember Ex-Ex and his ecologically friendly wedding? The wedding where they had bamboo plates and utensils and printed on cork instead of paper? The wedding where they scoffed at the caterers' suggestion to serve salmon, since it isn't native to a 50-mile radius of the ceremony site? The wedding they kept at 150 guests because they wanted it to be intimate and to have the slightest environmental impact possible?

Right.

It was a destination wedding.

Where everybody had to drive anywhere from an hour to 15 hours to get there.

I'm speechless ... except to say, "Ecologically friendly, my ass, you pretentious bastard."

But other than that ... speechless.

OK, speechless and a bit smug.

Actual conversation between My Guy and his 5-year-old niece.

"So ... what's your favorite Glen Campbell song?"

"Umm ... I really don't like camels."