On a serious note...

I'm trying not to hyperventilate. Eight weeks until the wedding. Eight WEEKS. When it was months away, I was okay. Now it's WEEKS and after seven of those, we'll be at DAYS. And then HOURS. And then MINUTES. And then it will happen.

I am about to lose my shit over here and the only thing keeping me from doing that is my flimsy sense of decorum in the office. Well, that and the crazy-looking, windblown Angora bunny on my monitor. As I told Chris, I can't tell if I'm looking at the rabbit's face or ass. And that shit makes me laugh.

I feel like wedding planning has kicked into high gear. I've been making secret phone calls from work to set up appointments with the vendors, making JetBlue Airways very very happy with all my travel, buying fabric, scribbling down shedules and details, and obsessively opening and recording all the RSVPs as the come in. Oh, speaking of which, Anonymous Decliner Count: 2.

On a totally unrelated note: I might hate Carlo. I'm pretty sure I don't love him. I have moments where I feel tenderness towards him, but it evaporates pretty quickly as he starts getting into all kinds of shit he's not supposed to be in. He nearly reduced me to tears last night and this morning. I don't remember the last time Chris and I had a meal where neither of us had to get up and haul a Carlo off the kitchen counters. Oh wait, yes I do: the day before I brought Carlo home. Last night was particularly bad. I was home alone, trying to get my voicemail issues resolved by AT&T and eating dinner, and every two minutes, I had to squirt Carlo with the water gun or physically remove him from my dinner or the kitchen sink. I thought seriously about putting him outside and hoping someone who likes stupid, annoying cats would pick him up. But I don't think those people exist, so I kept him.

But I feel this blinding rage come on when Carlo starts up with the constant yowling and chewing and into-shit-getting. I'm afraid I'm going to become a kitten-shaker and that'll eventually translate into me being a baby-shaker. What if I’m a baby-shaker? I like sweet, quiet babies, but even the sweetest, quietest babies have not-so-sweet and dear-god-I've-gone-deaf moments. And what then? What if I turn out to be a raging baby-shaker? You all probably hate me now (all three of you), and believe me, there's no shortage of self-loathing going on over here, so get in line. And you've been forewarned: I might shake you if you start up.