Save the drama for your mama.

I sit amid boxes, bags, tissue paper, gifts, trash, dirty carpet, clean linoleum, a sink full of dishes, half-folded laundry, cluttered tables, dusty shelves and a noisy dryer. If I move my mouse an inch to the right, it knocks over a packed bag of Christmas items. If I move the keyboard over to the left, it knocks over a stack of 300 CDs. I clearly am in a true, physical rut here.

This is why you will probably not be getting too many elaborate blog posts from this woman in the next few days.

This weekend was wedding shower, part deux, preluded by the meeting with the cake lady, and the meeting with the decorator. In a nutshell: They think I'm crazy.

1. "What do you mean we won't be playing shower games? Are you crazy?"

2. "Wait. Let me get this straight: You want a chocolate wedding cake with chocolate icing. Brown. Brown icing. On your wedding cake?"

3. "Do you like these flowers (pointing to one that looks like a beautiful, full rose)?" "No, I like this one (pointing to one that's tiny, because tiny means "cheaper," right?)."

4. "You really, honestly think you'll be able to move into a house that's almost 100 years old, and not have any bugs or mice or bats? You are C-R-A-Z-Y."

So be it.

We are now officially under the two-month mark (by one day, but still ...), which means my headaches have kicked it up a notch from "I'll deal" to "OH MY GOD ERIN YOU'LL NEVER GET IT ALL DONE." But my natural response, because I rock, is to say "Oh, well. Then it won't get done. Stop it, clenched teeth. You're being so melodramatic." Scoff.

Because I'm not down with drama. I don't really have the time at this exact moment. But, OK, you twisted my arm ...
Moment of drama in our lives, Vol. 975, issue 87:

It's 8:30 a.m., Ohio time. My legs still haven't adjusted to standing after my almost-nine-hour car ride. I stand in the warm kitchen at my mom's house, as she brings over the box of invitations that had come in the mail a few days ago.
My heart gets all excited. I open the box, ripping the tape and throwing off the paper on top.

And I read: "Erin, Dave, wedding, blah, blah, church, WRONG ADDRESS." My heart immediately says "I quit" and lodges itself in my throat, causing my eyes to water and my temperature to hit 1,000 degrees. I look at my mom, who noticed the mistake at the same time. "OH MY GOD," we said. Gasped.

I throw it down, I pick it up, reread it, hoping to be misreading it, but no, my skills haven't failed me ... I am reading MY OWN MISTAKE. On 175 invitations. Over ... and over ... and over ... like some bad techno song. Only this isn't a club, or even some crummy bar, there's no pulsing light ... It's my mom's kitchen, and I'm holding a box of 175 mistakes. And that's when I decided maybe I should take up drinking. But it's an expensive, unhealthy hobby, so I decide to brush my teeth and lay down for a bit instead.

Never in all my 20some years have I felt more stupid.

And here I am, telling you about it. So future generations can benefit. Somehow.

I don't know if there's a moral to this story, other than "Maybe it's a good idea to have someone else read over your invites before you send them to the printer." Maybe another one would be "Maybe it's a good idea not to blog to everyone about how you messed up your own invites."

Yes, yes.

(Photo: www.ctio.noao.edu.)
(Secret: Sometimes, when I hear the word "wedding," I am really screaming inside. Eloping is attractive, sometimes.)