Addresses, schmaddresses

I don't want to go home to my apartment.

I've been trying my best to think of errands I have to run, or groceries I need, or library books I've been meaning (but don't have time) to read. Why? Going home means Wedding Planning. Capital letters, W and P.

Right now I'm in the guest list stage, which I mentioned earlier this week. It's not bad, unless you stop and think about actually finding addresses for people (using Mom, Dave's mom, my stepmom, and anywho.com), and then writing them down, and thinking about how when the invitations come, you're going to have to rewrite them ... In much prettier handwriting, of course, because otherwise you're breaking the code of weddings, which decrees that all things written must be in script or calligraphy (see also: Things Erin hates, hand cramps, and "no.")

I thought about writing in all bubble letters, just like I used to write my name in junior high, just to say "dang the man," but that'd be pretty ugly, anyhow.

And I started noticing certain things -- like how many people with a last name starting with "S" I know. I had to overspill into the "R"s and "T"s. How many Roy Schroeders I know. How many people named John/Jon I know. I need a new hobby.

So if you want to reach me, I'll be at work. Or the library. Or the store. Or in my car, driving around as if I've lost my way. Don't bother calling my apartment. I'm not there.

Or, trying not to be.