At least I’m not talking about my boobs. For once.

Oh, Summer’s Eve! You’ve done it again!

I have been known to go from the workplace directly to an establishment that serves alcoholic beverages. I enjoy me some happy hour. But never have I thought, “I’d love to enjoy a drink after work – if only there were a way to conveniently freshen up my delicate ladyparts!” And if I’m putting my women’s studies minor to good use, I will also point out that the vajayjay is a maintenance-free operation, and the patriarchy is to blame for any shame around nature’s original self-cleaning oven and its accoutrements. This ad campaign pisses me off – like I’m supposed to constantly be wondering if my ladyparts are in acceptable condition for various social situations. Is there a similar product for men? Because dude, I think we all know that that business can get funky. And women don’t get jock itch.

Just sayin’.

Since this ad appeared on Pandora, there’s an offer for “V Radio.” Which, actually? Is pretty funny. But my vajayjay doesn’t listen to the radio. It’s totally more of a podcast girl.

Know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em.

In the last few days, My Guy and I have been finalizing the music for our wedding. The best part? The groom's dance with his mama.

My Guy asked his mom what song she'd like to dance to. She thought on it. And then she decided: "You Light up my Life" by Debby Boone.

Whatever makes Mama happy. That's fine.

Except that My Guy didn't really know the song, so he YouTubed it and looked up the lyrics.

"You light up my days and fill my nights with song."

Umm?

My Guy called his mom back, and she answered the phone by proclaiming, "We can't dance to that song! I looked up the lyrics!"

But she had a back-up: "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof.

Whatever makes Mama happy. That's fine.

Except that My Guy didn't really know that song either, so he YouTubed it and looked up the lyrics.

And then he felt like slitting his wrists.

Now, he's trying to convince his mom that a little Kenny Rogers is more appropriate and less suicide-inducing. He's pushing "Through the Years."

Personally? I'm holding out for "The Gambler." But whatever makes Mama happy.

In which I laugh hysterically.

Like a rabid hyena.

So ... my future father-in-law is randomly inviting people to the rehearsal dinner. The rehearsal dinner that he's not hosting and is in no way involved, except as a guest. A probable guest, as we had received no confirmation that he was actually attending.

Bwah ha! Ha ha ha!

My Guy set him straight and told me, "I'm starting to think my family is mentally deficient."

Har har har! Bwah ha ha ha ha!

I am so ready for this wedding business to be over.

That's the news for now.

I have not been blogging. Instead, I'm getting married in less than two weeks. Two weeks from today, I will be a married woman, and may commence Letting Myself Go. Woo-hoo!

I initially pictured blogging leading up to the big day as a way to commemorate all the little details and record for posterity the joy of being engaged. Instead? I've been not blogging as a way to take one thing off my to-do list in hopes of salvaging what little sanity I have left.

I think I'm over the hump, though. My mom came to visit this weekend and we talked through the ever-troublesome guest book table, picture display, post-reception clean-up, and, of course, the RSVPs. I believe there's a light at the end of the nuptial tunnel. I feel so much better. And, better yet? We got our new bed delivered. When My Guy rolls over 27 times in the night, I no longer get flung across the room. Words cannot describe what this has done for my outlook.

Now that I'm well-rested, I can see the humor in my future father-in-law e-mailing less than two weeks before the wedding, asking what he's supposed to wear and complaining that the hotel wouldn't give him the promotional rate even though he had heart surgery three weeks ago ... surgery we didn't know about and might not have actually occurred. And My Guy's cousins who RSVPed with their kids, who weren't invited? Yeah, they're sort of funny now, too. Sort of. I guess I have a little perspective. Here's what I know so far:

• Once you've booked your vendors and bought your dress? Looking at bridal magazines and wedding porn Web sites does nothing but stress you out. Stop. It.


• One of the key duties of parenthood - second only to potty training - is to teach your offspring to RSVP. Entire tribes of our families didn't RSVP - telling me that the ability to RSVP starts at home. Mamas? Heed my warning. Teach 'em young, lest you incur the wrath of a future bride, who will send you a cheerful e-mail enquiring about wedding attendance, but really? She will have voodoo dolls of you and your kin.


• The bridal freak-out is not rational. Case in point? I had a minor mental breakdown in the frame section of Joann: Experience the Creativity! yesterday. Standing in a 20-person line to get some fabric cut didn't faze me. But having to choose a picture frame in which to display adorable photos of myself and My Guy through the years? Overwhelming! People will judge me and our wedding and my ability to be an even marginally acceptable wife if I choose inappropriate frames! And I knew I was being crazy. I did. But it happened anyway.

And ... that's about it. So far. Hopefully, I'll learn more stuff in the next 13 days. I'll keep you posted.

Hllelujah.

You know on Grey's Anatomy when a doctor loses a patient and they're all pissed off and distraught?

That's me today.

I let a big stoopid typo slip. And it was pointed out by a client. And makes Corporate Behemoth looks dumbdumbdumbdumbdumb. And makes my ears burn with shame.

And I know that nobody died and I've caught a gazillion typos and of course one would slip by because I am, after all, only human - editor or not. But I don't need this fallibility pointed out, OK? Because I am keeping the Corporate Behemoth / wedding planning / moving / owning three houses train on the tracks the very best I can, OK?

But in other news?

We got an offer on my house. After a mere eight months, my house is under contract.

I don't know whether to laugh or throw up.

Do they cover this in business school?

In the interest of full disclosure, I made $26 from this blog last year. So, what I'm about to say might qualify as biting the hand that doesn't feed me.

However.

This ad ran on my blog a few days ago.

This is for a necessary product that many woman use. OK, fine.

But this marketing tactic?

I'm not an expert on business travel, but I do travel maybe four times a year on behalf of Corporate Behemoth. Sometimes, this travel is so that I can give a big stinkin' presentation. Sometimes it's stressful.

But never, ever in my life have I thought, "I just got off a plane and only have a few minutes before my big presentation! I've got to towel off my hoo-ha!"

Maybe that's why I'm only a middle manager.

It's the final countdown!

My Guy and I are getting married one month from today. Hurray!

I believe he is most excited because it means a hopeful end to my complete and total bitchitude. I ain't gonna lie - I don't think I'm a terribly fun person to live with at the moment. Not that I'm totally off my rocker ... but it's like having a maybe kinda sorta cold. You're just not quite right.

However, I think it's important to learn from each other. So, here's what I've learned.

1. People are crazy.

1a. As part of this crazy, people are completely ill-equipped to deal with the demands of the RSVP responsibility. They are also blind to the concept of only the people whose names are on the envelope are the people who are invited. I could write a month's worth of posts on this particular topic and how it has made me want to cause physical harm to various folks. But I will just keep it to this one paragraph lest I have an aneurysm.

1b. As part of this crazy, people also forget that as the bride and groom, you are on a need-to-know basis and are suffering information overload. We don't need to know the full medical report on a family friend and her tumor. Right now? Right now, we just need to know whether she's coming or not. No report with mention of mucus, any ladyparts, or medical billing is necessary.

1c. As part of this crazy, people also forget the opposite side of the need-to-know-basis coin. That side is called If You're the Parent of the Bride or Groom and You a) Need a Hysterectomy and b) Schedule That Hysterectomy for Three Days After the Wedding, You Should Tell Us, and Not Via E-mail at the Bottom of a Long Message About RSVPs, Like Getting Your Ladyparts Removed is an Afterthought.

I know this is tricky, especially with the rule in 1b about ladyparts. This is an exception to the ladyparts rule. Future MIL? I'm lookin' at you.

1d. As part of this crazy, people also start sending you gifts. My Guy and I? We didn't do shit, man. But we're getting dishes! And today we opened the most gorgeous Le Creuset tea kettle. I almost wet myself.

Tea has never tasted so good. It makes me look a tad more kindly to data points 1a - 1c.

Image courtesy of Amazon. Perhaps you've heard of it.

We're not equal. I'm much smarter.

I told a lie today.

But it was for a good cause, I swear!

I was walking down the hallway at Corporate Behemoth. And who should be walking toward me but Creepy Rajeev!

I think we all know Creepy Rajeev - he's the coworker who loves alllll the ladies, whether they love him or not. And in most cases? They don't. They don't love his cologne. And they don't love the way he turns even the most innocuous workplace small talk into an exchange that makes you worry about VD.

Also? The ladies generally don't care for his omnipresent turtleneck / sport coat combo. Just sayin'.

So, today, I walked toward Creepy Rajeev and there was no hiding. We were in a hallway. So, I bit the bullet.

"Hi, Rajeev."

"Well. Hello, Cha Cha."

And it was at this point that Creepy Rajeev stuck out his hand - but not really stuck it out. More like offered his hand, but kept it close to his body, as if to force me closer. Creepy Rajeev can't talk to a lady without palpating her in some way.

This is where my lie came in.

"Uh, no. I'm sick."

Yes. I'm tempting karma and fate by pretending I couldn't shake his hand because I have a cold.

I guess it wasn't that much of a lie, though. Because I am sick. I'm sick of being molested by my creepy coworker.

I went through a phase where I was just daring Creepy Rajeev to be just creepy enough where I could go to HR. Now? I'm mostly avoiding him. Like, dodging into the ladies' room if I see him coming.

I must admit that I'm almost impressed with Creepy Rajeev's tactics. I few months ago, I was leaving the Corporate Behemoth parking garage and I was in a big fat hurry. And I got behind this SUV that was driving So. Freakin'. Slow.

I was annoyed. And then I realized that the SUV was driving slow because the driver was driving alongside a woman who was walking to her car. The driver had his window rolled down and was talking to the pedestrian. And the driver was Creepy Rajeev.

OK, funny.

The lady got into her car. Creepy Rajeev drove on ... until he came upon another woman walking to her car. Rinse and repeat.

He didn't accost any men walking to their cars. Only women.

And when we ended up side-by-side in adjacent lanes at a light? I could feel Creepy Rajeev looking at me. He could have pulled up, but he kept his SUV even with my car. And I suddenly remembered something very important that I needed to find in my purse.

I have trouble watching Mad Men because the way the women are treated in the office is so incredibly troubling. But I think it's safe to say that complete equality in the workplace - at least my workplace - still doesn't exist.

Why I started taking Ativan again.

We're five weeks out and the wedding planning has shifted into high gear. This is the easy answer to why I haven't been writing lately. The perhaps more honest, definitely uglier reason is that I only have stressed out, borderline-Bridezilla things to write.

The good: I had the final fitting for my dress. It is amazing. I also had a run-through for my hair, and it, too, is amazing.

The bad: I am still coming to terms with the fact that maybe I shouldn't attempt to host a day-after brunch for out-of-town family since we're still living in a hobo camp with no real furniture. Or if I do, I need to accept that it will mean seating people in the garage, and cleaning out the garage might be more than I can handle right now.

The ugly: The RSVPs.

Oh, sistah.

My Guy's aunt can't come because one of her grandsons has a guitar solo in a junior high band concert the night of the wedding. She's really torn up about it, but the junior high concert won out.

But the first RSVP my mom opened? Was from that aunt's son. It was an RSVP for himself, his wife, and their three children. Three children whose names were not on the envelope because they aren't invited because at $50 a head, we're not inviting kids. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you can perform at a junior high band concert and attend a wedding simultaneously.

I told My Guy he needed to address the situation. He looked at me and said he couldn't think about it right now, but maybe we should have been clearer on the invitations. This suggestion had me dousing our house in gasoline, lighting a cigarette, tossing the match, and then walking away all slow like, just like in the movies.

Umm, also? I think I might have said that only white trash don't know that the names listed on the envelope are the only people invited. Which might mean that I inadvertently referred to his kin as white trash.

Sigh.

Help me. Tell me something besides "calm the fuck down." Tell me it's worth it, tell me what got you through this insanity. Don't tell me to elope. Because much like rewording the invites*? That ship has sailed.

* Also? What sort of invitation wording would that be, anyway? "We request the honor of your presence - but just you, not your damned kids - as we vow our undying love to each other - but just to each other, definitely not to your damned kids."