In which you all realize I'm getting married in three months.

In case, perhaps, you had forgotten, or weren't keeping track of your calendars by intricately placing an "X" over each passing day, eagerly awaiting my wedding day, well, I get married in three months and four days.

That is really not a significant amount of time considering the few pounds I'd like to make disappear from the mid-region, the amount of golf balls I need to wrap in tulle and the number of invitations that need to be both created and addressed. And that part where it needs to be paid for in the midst of gas prices becoming more expensive, per gallon, than a box of Kotex super absorbency tampons. Not that I keep track.

But this weekend was another "knock a few items off the ol' list" weekend. The bridal shower now has invites in the mail, food planned, and perhaps I will attend. Also, the bachelorette festivities have a date and a plan. And the honeymoon? Paid in full. That sound you hear? It's my bank account both weeping and shouting hallelujah from the rooftops.

But most importantly, the Mother of the Bride (we'll call her MOB, or mob, because that makes me think of a handful of angry men, which is, really, nothing like Mom, but whatever, mob it is) bought her dress. The wedding can go on. She is officially outfitted in the classiest of all mob dresses, and she will outshine her wee child, who happens to be the bride, but that is just a minor detail we will overlook for the time being, because she? She birthed me, and if it were not for her, this wedding would not be taking place. So for that, we must bless her.

Bless you, mama.

We've decided to call the color of her dress bronze, and we were also sure to place her into the highest of heels imaginable for a woman of her four-foot-eleven-and-three-quarters-of-an-inch stature. Now? Now she looks tall and mob-like. And all it took was a little bit of zipping and pulling and unzipping and reminding not to wear pink underwear to the wedding and giggling in the dressing room to make it happen.

Mission accomplished. My mob can totally kick your mob's ass. And she has the heels to prove it.

Also, I saw the chapel. THE CHAPEL, people. I will officially carry on with the planning now, because I approve. It's lovely. And quaint. And very wooden and pretty. And in case you need proof, I shall include photos (which may or may not be a little dark, but I tried - I did - to turn on all the lights, and God was just not letting it happen, no matter how hard I tampered with the chapel's fuse box):

And that, dear readers, is where I shall be wed. And making The Fiance cry. And hoping my mob doesn't fall in her heels, and that my mascara is waterproof. And maybe throwing up, because, people? I'm shy. And I'm pretty sure there are 200 chairs wrapped around that chapel, and all those people? They'll be looking at us.