Especially when the aforementioned self-apprecation is you stating that "Yes. I am on top of things!" While this might sound quite innocent to those of you not familiar with Workplace Perverts, for those of you who are, you know how mortified I was once those words slipped past my lips.

Not just any Workplace Pervert, but the WP who is married, has asked me out, makes annoying suggestive comments and just the other day walked into my office and asked me to stick my tounge out.

Yes.

You read correctly. Asked. Me. To. Stick. My. Tounge. Out.

At that, I simply asked him how his wife would feel about it.

Has called me to let me know she is alive. Actually, I take that back. I called her to make sure she was still alive.

She is. And quite happy.

My consolation is that she cried real tears when she realized the enormity of what she has done. i.e. Moved hundreds of miles away from her sisters and married the bastard child of Satan, er, I mean the man she loves.

I suppose the two aren't mutually exclusive, are they?

Last night, after dressing my naked sister for her date, I cruised home and ate a quiet and subdued dinner while reading the news. The only reason I paticularly point out the "quiet and subdued" is simply because after you spend half an hour with my sister, the whirling dervish of energy, just about everything seems quiet and zen-like.

After puttering around for a bit, I finally dressed and went to the gym. Now, I have a little confession to make. Just recently, I discovered the beauty of watching TV while doing cardio. Before, when I worked out in the mornings, the early, early mornings, nothing of interest was on. Leaving me to listen to highly unmotivational music or puff out a interesting conversation with my sister. The latter two activities aren't exactly conducive to distraction. The minutes slowly drag by. But, when watching whatever evening entertainment they have on, suddenly I find myself cranking out an hour of cardio, no problem!Last night I did over an hour of cardio and a good ab workout. I was in the gym for roughly and hour and forty minutes. Now, please understand! Back in the day, I would mercilessly ridicule my sister for spending extrodinary amounts of time in the gym. And by extrodinary, I mean anything over half an hour. But now that SHE is the one with the whirling social life, my other sister is married and my best friend lives two hours away, I find myself becoming the quietly cliched single woman who rocks out with her iPod.

After the gym, I went grocery shopping. GROCERY SHOPPING! I quietly rolled about the store, headphones intact, picking up healthy food. HEALTHY FOOD! And THEN, I went home and prepared my lunch for work. Of course, midway through the preparation I got a call from the previously mentioned sister who had finished her date. Living vicariously through her.

Dashed over to her apartment to rehash it, then came home and finished my preparations. I felt so single and lonely and LOVING IT. This morning, I trotted into work with two carefully and neatly packed lunches. One for me, one for my sister. I felt so domesticated! I felt so... old! Before you know it, I will be cutting our sandwiches into shapes and making bug cupcakes.

I think the whole single and lonely myth is encouraged because people might actually find the solitude ENJOYABLE. AND GOD FORBID IF WE DIDN'T PROCREATE AND FILL THE WORLD WITH SCREAMING TODDLERS.

I'll leave that to my sister.

Said my sister, as I finished another long clothing consult via IM. However, the consult had done nothing, clothes-wise, to assure her sucess in this evening. Since apparel disaster seemed imminent, I told her I would dash over promptly after work to make sure she was in the best of shape.

I had tried to discuss outfit possibilities online, only to be met with negative comments and discouragement. Being the good sister that I am, I was not in the least thwarted. If I had a second date with Mr. Perfect, I would at the very LEAST be nervous about what to wear. You have to live up to whatever you wore the first time. Oh, the horror! Oh, the mental agony! Oh, the terror!

After work, I raced home and collected exactly three shirts, one skirt and one jacket. I had, in reserves, all the clothes on my body. Knowing full-well they could be drafted at any moment to dress her. You have to understand, when preparing for a hot date, anyone and anything can be drafted. You are allowed to snatch whatever you need, away from the sisters. Unless, of course, they too are on their way to a hopefully romantic evening. Since my dating karma has been rather sour as of late, there was no worries that I might be headed for such a event.

I laid out my wares. We discussed. I directed. She pouted. We deliberated. I ironed. She modeled. I disapproved. She stripped. I selected. She dressed. I inspected. She stripped. I stripped. Finially, she had the perfect outfit. Except I was now naked and shivering in the living room. All for a good cause.

After I assured myself she was perfectly dressed, perfectly groomed and perfectly at ease. But not before she could profusely thank me and assure me that "if I ever get married! It will entirely be your fault."

I know she meant that as a compliment. Right?!

This morning, like always, I tripped into Starbucks. Mind you, I never go through the drive-thru, because I enjoy the opportunity to chat with all the Starbucks staff. Besides, half the reason I go to Starbucks is for the ritual of talking to everyone like I know them.

We ask about each other's lives. They ask me how business is. I ask them how them about their families. It's quite a nice little ritual.Today, as I was paying for my Gingerbread Latte, with only three pumps instead of four, one of the girls commented about how lovely I smell. Perfume being one of my addictions, I profusely thanked her and then set about trying to mentally establish the perfect scent for her. After we settled on a few different ones to test, she finished what she was going to say earlier--before I jumped on her with my perfume tirade--which was that not only do I always look incredibly well-groomed, but I am always so well dressed and classy.

Though I thanked her profusely, I was mentally snorting gingerbread latte through my nose. Me?! Well-dressed and classy?! The woman who frequently rolls out of bed a mere twenty minutes before she has to go to work. Me! The person who will get by with wearing the same top, all week long, simply paired with different skirts. Me! The female known for consistently dumping coffee on myself in the parking lot. Now THAT'S CLASS!

As I left, in all my well-dressed and classy glory, I thought that perhaps next to dressing in Starbucks t-shirts and faded black, I didn't look so bad after all.

You may be wondering why I have a noticeable lack of whining posts about my workplace. There are several reasons, all of which I am more than happy to explain.

First off--I while I am not in LOVE with my job, I am happy at my job. I don't leave crying every night, I don't wish chinese torture upon myself instead of work, I have a funny boss and a nice manager. Granted, I don't run about gushing that my job completes me (hey! who does?!) but by no means do I hate it.

Furthmore, I have, as of late, purposed to keep a good attitude. Yes. I could find things to nitpick and whine about. But what is the use?! I try to talk about work as little as possible. (For those of you who are accustomed to my hour long discourses on work, you know what a change this is.)

However, just yesterday I was talking to someone about the family restaurant. When I finished, they asked me why I didn't start one of my own. HA! If I really felt like throwing my money away, I might take up a slightly more interesting habit, like crack-smoking or making paper airplanes out of benjamin's. They continued to inform me when I spoke of that time past, that my face lit up and I grew much more animated. It got me to thinking, what WAS it about the restaurant that I loved so much? My father has said similar things. And I personally remember being happy.

So this is what I ponder, at my quiet desk while pretending to work. What was it that made me happy?

I often worry about what kind of mother I will be. The thought of raising children half as troublesome as I was, disturbs me. The idea of being a good parent and letting my children make mistakes, yet, having my stamp of parenting on them, scares me senseless. My father has set a rather daunting standard. He was, and still is, an excellent parent. He guides, but does not dictate. He counsels, but does not command. He loves, but does not smother. He is funny, smart and charming. He used revolutionary parenting techniques and equipped us with tools for life. In short--his excellence in parenting has left me scared beyond belief to be a parent. Will I ever measure up?

However, this weekend, I also got a tiny taste of how rewarding it can be.

Saturday night, I spent with my little brother. In between me moving, my parents moving and him going to high school and early college, my hours with him are few and far between. I know that soon he will (hopefully, IF HE GETS ON THE BALL ABOUT APPLICATIONS) be off in a ivy league school impressively puzzling over complex math problems. He will forget all about his older sister who used to torture him, bite him, punch him and dangle him over the side of the roof.

I was planning on spending a quiet evening with him. You know, me watching movies, him playing computer games. I had prepared some food for him so that during the week he would have sustenance. It was a rather large container of tuna salad that he started eating with gusto.

As I watched my movie, he informed me he would like to experience getting drunk. I pondered for a moment and agreed. After all, I would much rather have him drink with me, his older sister, in a controlled environment, than go out to some high school sex/drinking party. The repercussions and problems that could come of such a situation would be sure to abound for years. Furthermore, who better to monitor him than me? I would make sure he didn't do anything he regretted. (Like running up and down the dock in his underware, crying pathetically like a little girl or calling people and telling them he loved them.)

So. I mixed him a drink. He drank with gusto. Mixed him another. He slowed down and started chatting much more. By the time he reached the bottom of his second, he was talking so fast I couldn't understand him. Now, you need to understand that my darling little brother is 5' 10" of pure stringy muscle--all 125 pounds of him. I wasn't imagining his tolerance would be to great, but I wanted him to stop of his own accord.

I mixed him ANOTHER drink, he slowly started into that one. Keeping a non-stop commentary of the movie and all his surroundings. He got up to get something, he couldn't walk straight. He started slurring his words. He really ceased making sense. As he finished his drink, I suggested it was time to go to bed. After all, he was curled up on the floor in a rather tight little ball at this point. I tucked him in bed with a bowl beside him--just in case. (He had guzzled the last half of his drink. I know that false confidence mixed with visions of drinking graduer can be rather disastrous once the alcohol hits your bloodstream can be rather... messy.)

Ten minutes ticked by. He calls me from the phone in the bedroom. (He was sleeping in the downstairs master bedroom/Dad's bed. I was a mere fifteen feet away in the living room.) He tells me he loves me and I am a very nice sister. I walk in to check on him, everything's fine, but before I leave I remind him of the bowl beside him. He says he feels fine.

Seven more minutes. He calls my cell phone. He is lonely. He wants a stuffed... something. I find a rather large Tazmanian Devil that is bigger around then he and tuck it into bed with him. I tell him to imagine it is a fat lady. He tells me he thinks I am beautiful and would marry me if I weren't his sister. He falls halfway asleep before I get out the bedroom door and can remind him there is a bowl beside him for complications of the stomach.

Twenty minutes after that, I hear yelping. I stick my head in the door and see him projectile vomiting tuna and alcohol--everywhere. Everywhere but the bowl that is. I hustle him out of bed, steady him in front of the toilet, strip most of his clothes off him and tell him to puke until he can't puke anymore. While he hunches over the porcelain throne distributing whatever is left in his tummy, I strip the bed and rush the laundry into the washer.

By the time he has finished vomiting and I have rehydrated him, I wiped his exhausted little face, flopped him onto the spare mattress, layer him with blankets and pillows, give him ANOTHER bowl and tell him to go to sleep.

Before he does, he looks at me through his rather bleary eyes and says "It was fun for awhile, but not really worth it."

Oh. SO. True.

I slept on the couch that night so I could hear if he had anymore problems. I washed and dried the sheets. I had the bed remade before 5:00 a.m. transferred him back and tucked him in. I wanted Dad to find out about his lesson, by him being told. Not by the tell-tale scent of vomit, or chunks of dried tuna on his carpet, bed or remote programming booklet.

We talked about it the next morning. He thinks it pretty well put him off drinking for awhile. (How fun can vomiting tuna and rum up through your nose be?) But he learned a good lesson. He realizes the appeal, but also realizes the drawbacks, the consequences, the dangers. We talked about stupid things you do that you later regret. We talked about the addiction of it.

As we talked, I became less scared about parenting. I know it won't be easy. It won't just be staying up all night to wash sheets and clean up vomit. It will be late nights of prayer. It will be early mornings of begging God. It will be long days of watching your children make mistakes, but only so they can learn. But it will also be filled with moments of triumph. Where you guided them towards the right decision-but they made it. Where you see the fruit of your years of labor. Where you see your child take a tiny step closer to becoming like Christ.

I'm not going to now say I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT HAVING KIDS! I KNOW I CAN DO IT! I simply see a tiny, tiny piece of the pain and labor that my parents gave me. The prayers. The tears. The watching of mistakes. I am enormously grateful. My father always said "You know you raised your children right if your grandchildren also turn out well."

I can't guarantee you anything, Dad. Paticularly if the wishes of my Mother come true and all my children are JUST LIKE ME. But right now, I believe I am now one step closer to raising my children right.

Just like you raised us.

but feel alone.

You feel distant from everyone. Like you are viewing your life through the eyes of another.

You can't relate. You don't understand. You get frustrated.

You want someone--anyone--to understand you. Someone to hold you. Someone to know you.

How can they know if you if YOU don't know you? How can they understand if YOU are confused?

You tell yourself your holding out for something better. Something bigger. Something deserved.

But maybe lonliness is what you deserve after all. Who deserves to be understood?

It's been a whopping twenty-four hours.

I don't feel any more charitable to the man who stole my sister than I did yesterday. Or rather, as I like to refer to him in my head, The Devil In The Suit. Abbreviated--DITS.

My brother says I should get over it. My sister says it's a little late to harbor a grudge. My father actually agrees with me, though rather amusedly.

I am quite content to be running a one man campaign of bitterness. After all, I know I will probably get over it at some point. As in--the point where I no longer hear from my sister because she is absorbed with all the midwestern drama she will be consumed with once she settles into her red state life.

But, this is the United Effing States, I will keep my damn grudge as long as I feel like it. Besides, that's all I have left of my sister.

I have never participated in a wedding where I had to do everything in my power to keep from sobbing. The entire ceremony.

The thoughts of finality have been bubbling to the surface all weekend. What if he isn't the best for her? What if I had tried harder to discourage it? What if I hadn't encouraged it in the beginning? Why was I so damn eager to get her married off in the first place?

The thought of her getting married was a nice idea. Quite bearable when you are thinking about it with a faceless groom and the sweet promise of ever-after stretching before you like so much wedding tulle. But when the stark reality of someone ripping your sister away from you, eight hours away from you to be precise, actually happens. It isn't all lovely and hazy like a carefully edited wedding video.

It hurts. It makes you breathe in short, sharp gasps. It feels like a very part of your being was suddenly ripped away--never to return.

I avoided thinking about it all up until last night. Even then, I pushed it aside. As we carefully applied makeup and coiffed our hair, the finality of it began to creep upon me. As the pictures were taken and the prelude played, I become quieter and more sober. As she stood in the sunlit vestibule on the arm of our father, it hit me. She will never be just MY sister again. This is it. It's over. She isn't mine to protect anymore. And really, for a few panicked moments, I couldn't even breathe. When I was finally able to draw breath, it was choked with tears. I pressed a kiss on her cheek and told her I loved her, when all I wanted to do was weep with such sorrow and loss.

Where is the bittersweet joy that is supposed to accompany this? Why do I feel cheated? Why do I feel like someone has died?

The ceremony was beautiful and sweet. Poignant and meaningful. But it became clearer and clearer that the groom's family was gaining something and we, as the family of the bride, were losing everything. We were losing our sister, our friend, our daughter and our auntie. And what will we be getting in return? A Christmas card signed from a Mr. and Mrs. Brother-In-Law. And perhaps the occasional visit from the couple.

I have gotten past the point of hating to groom as a person. Now I just hate him for what he has taken from me. Selfish, I know. But frankly, I think it is pretty damn self-centered of him to take her eight hours away from me.

Lecture me on the joy of it all. Lecture me on my wretchedness. Lecture all you damn please.

But I can assure you all the lectures in the world do not soothe the pain of having your heart ripped out in church, wearing pearls and a dress, watching your best friend being stolen from you. Making you wonder, perhaps, the devil wears a suit and says "I do."

I will do almst anything for the sake of entertainment or a good story. Last night that included eating a large marble sized glob of wasabi. Prompting the comment from one of the wedding guests that "I had more balls than he ever would".

Unfortunately, this is probably true.

What I find quite fun and amusing is the fact I can be the proverbial red-headed step child. You bring me along because I am funny and will entertain you for hours, if given the chance. HOWEVER. There is always that slight chance I might say something completely offensive to the simpering guests, just to watch them squirm.

To these hardcore Baptists the occasional "hell" and "damn" is entirely unladylike. (Yes. I realize it is.) I briefly considered making a quick run to the Lands End store to procure the proper striped-sailor shirt and deck shoes that would have befitted the persona they were mentally labeling me: sailor mouth.

It was also quite fun to scandoulize the innocent by pretending my sister and I were incestious lesbians. After all, we shouted, men had done nothing but break our hearts! To round out my obnoxious act, I started singing, LOUDLY, at the top of the lungs for the waitress to bring our check. (I just wanted to make sure they poor guy had gotten his gas money worth of entertainment.)

I went home. I baked until 4:00 am this morning. I still have to ice the cakes. I woke up with a stuffy nose, bloodshot eyes, cough, light fever and matted eyelashes. I feebly slapped on some make-up and took some cold medicine. I sleepily drove into Starbucks WHERE THEY WERE OUT OF MY FAVORITE TEA. As I was balancing my way into work, I realized that my knee-high fishnets were no longer knee-high. They were now ankle high. Flapping merrily about my airy ankles why I was trying to walk in a diginified fashion. Rather difficult, I must tell you.

My dear sister. This is how much I love you. I ate wasabi for you, I will pretended to be a lesbian and I will baked all night. I will endure a rehersal dinner that is more painful that a sibling beatdown. I will party hard, Baptist-style, at your little shindig tonight. I will keep unwanted houseguests this weekend. I will smile prettily for pictures and buy some Visine for these bloodshot eyes to make sure your pictures look perfect. I will not say anything during the "speak now or forever hold your peace" bit.

This is how much I love you sweetie. Which, in my not so humble opinion, is on par with the moon and back.

I have a friend who is a connoisseur of all dive restaurants. Mind you, it isn't that she doesn't know how to eat well--her sugar daddy takes her to The Palm and other fine dining establishments, she has been to many a state dinner and she is most assuredly at ease in any elegant restaurant. But this friend has a dirty little secret--actually it's not a secret now that I think of it--she LOVES the greasiest, grossest, most unhealthy foods possible.

Fried twinkies? Check! Barbecue joints with dirt floors? Check! Pig pickin'? Check! Scary fair food? Check! Drinking grease straight out of the bottle? Che--

You get the point.

While I used to mock her, I have quietly now joined her. I have come to recognize the beauty of simple, yet disgustingly unhealthy foods. The little half-restaurants in gas stations. No, not the old hotdogs that have been rolling for hours, I haven't degenerated that far. But the little places that cook your food for you. The french fries that soak through their brown paper bag with grease. The hamburgers that leave a rivulet of juices down your chin. The food that just tastes of grease older than you are.

More often than not, the portions are huge and the service is great. And while some may want to point fingers at my lack of health or support of obesity. You cannot fault me for supporting a local and independently owned establishment, rather than a fast-food chain.

What I find most attractive about the whole thing is not the guilty pleasure or the fact I am creating a premature heart attack. I love the fact it is a simple enjoyment. It is a calm happiness.

It is greasy spoon religion.

I hate the word closure. For me, it conjures up visions of emotional females who make vodoo dolls of their former someones. Women who go out to one last lunch date with their ex, wearing the most provocative outfit they can find. The ritual of burning his possesions, cutting off all his friends and running over his dog. When the final flauntings and bonfires are over, they let out a supposedly relieved sigh and announce they have acheived "closure". Only to go on obsessing over every spoken word the next time they see him.

That was just a little PSA for those of you who might say I have acheived closure. Don't even dare.

Last night, I met with my ex-fiance for coffee. He called me up and asked to meet me at Starbucks. Now, you have to understand, ever since we broke up we have been on varying shades of speaking terms. But we have never, ever, actually discussed why we broke up. (Barring the distinct possibility that we were young and stupid.)

Ever sine he dumped me, I have used him as a highly convenient scapegoat for all my emotional hang-ups. Can't get along with men? Have a inability to trust? Am a bitter caustic female? Go on lesbianish rants at the drop of a hat? Jared's fault, Jared's fault, Jared's fault and Jared's fault. (Depending on the mood, the answers can be alternated with: Mom's fault.)

After it was over, I continued my wench-ish ways and saw to it that his life was as miserable as I could make it. I had new boyfriends threaten to beat him up, I said horrid things about him and I did just about anything my creative mind could conjure. Regardless of this, he remained not only civil towards me, but quite friendly.

Whenever we talked about the breakup before, he was quite glad to take all the blame. Thus, leaving nothing to talk about once I would finish my angry tirades. He would nod and smile when I would tell him he was insensitive, selfish, rude, uncaring AND JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME.

(Wow. Typing this out makes me realize what a bitch I was at time. And probably still am.)

So. Last night, for the first time he actually let me take some of the blame. Talking about the things I did to make it difficult. And it was a welcome change. Something I needed to hear. As we talked and solved the problems of the world, I realized how glad I am for him now. Glad that he is maturing. Glad that he has changed so much. Glad that he realizes how damn stupid we were. Glad that I can let it all go now. (I sound like Polly Frickin' Anna.)

When we finished, I actually apoligized. Yes. You read correctly. An genuine apology passed over my lips to this person I had made it a personal mission to make their life miserable for the past two years.

I am glad. I am relieved. I am happy that I have made myself let go of one more scapegoat on which to blame my lack of happiness. I have attained--peace.

Chatting with one of my dear friends, I mentioned that there are times when I would give my left kidney to "say fuck it! and just go be a trophy wife."

To which my friend replied "I can't really imagine you as a trophy wife. And by that, I mean that you don't seem like the barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen type of gal."

I have many dimensions.

I feel a bit like Carrie from Sex and the City for writing this--minus the bad fashion sense, protruding mole and consiquence free sex. Now that I think about it, several other things are missing as well. But I thought I would stick with the basics.

On to the point.

Today, I was musing. I cannot speak for all women, or very many women at all, perhaps not even for my single sister, but I know I can speak for myself. Dating is no longer fun, it is plain drudgery. I remember when it was fun. You looked forward to the date. There was give and take. You didn't always have the upper hand. There was spirited conversation. You hoped they would call.

Now it is a bit more like plucking your eyebrows. Necessary, painful and best if done quickly. It isn't fun. It's more like "Oh! I'm going on a date tonight with..." all the while, rolling your eyes and knowing full well even if he DOES call, you would wish he hadn't bothered.

Even though I feel like a old lady remincsing on her youth and even though I am loathe to admit it, maybe it's me. After all, I am not that old. It isn't like I have gone through generations of dating. You know, "Well, way back when! Dating was fun! Boys were nice! And girls were ladies!"

I pondered the posibility that I could quite well be getting jaded about dating, and I simply view every date as another guy to find another problem with so I can eliminate yet another guy from my list of men who "are not the one". But. I have been on many a guyatus! I have tried dating out of my "normal" circles. (The only common factor between all my dates is that they are pathetic, spineless wimps.) Perhaps this is the byproduct of online dating. Having so much to choose from. Having to quickly eliminate. Having to weed out the weirdo's from the semi-weirds.

There is no POINT to this post except that I am wondering if I am the only one out there thinking this. DATING IS NOT FUN. Dating cannot even be classified as work. Because I enjoy work! I like work! Dating is henious DRUDGERY. You walk into it every time wondering can it get any worse? And it does! Miraculously enough. It does. And you have one more horrific story to tell. Hopefully, one more horrific story to tell once you have found The One and you are cutely cuddling at the family dinner. But more realistically, one more horrific story you will tell to your girlfriends while you are eating out and warding off the advances of the nearby creepy guys who are trying to get your number--in hopes that THEY CAN REPEAT THE WHOLE VICIOUS CYCLE.

Dating is exhausting. And boring.

Let's NOT forget boring. Except for the good occasional escape story.

I love my sister. I really do. But in her haze of love and nupital bliss, she is even more of a pushover than normal. Regardless of the fact we have several hotels, motels and bed and breakfasts in the very close driving distance she very kindly agreed to put up four out of town guests.

Two of them were supposed to stay with me. They were well informed of the lack of furniture, hospitality and food. One of them is a very dear friend and the other is someone who has a great sense of humor. I knew they would both understand that they will most likely be sleeping on the floor. I knew they would not begrudge the fact all that there is to eat is stale cereal and curdled milk. I knew they would be able to identify with my lack of time to hostess--after all, I can barely get off for the rehersal dinner.

HOWEVER. I was NOT prepared tonight when I was told that there would be two MORE guests staying at the stripped out house I call home. One of the guests I can tolerate, but ONE of them I absolutely loathe. When it was first arranged for her to stay with my sisters in THEIR apartment, I thought it was a bad idea.

This is one of those "dear friends" of my sister, who no one likes. She is allergic to EVERYTHING. Even her own hair. She cannot eat vegetables, she is allergic to dust, she really should be living in a plastic bubble. She is, in essence, a sweet person, but not really our kind of person.

Regardless of this small detail, I have been given two extra house guests that I had NO IDEA I was going to be recieving. One of which, I don't really know how I am going to keep her from going into anaphalactic shock. Dogs have lived in his house far too long, as have cats. I am sure this place is crawling with animal dander, no matter how hard I scrub. And WTF am I supposed to feed her?! I believe she can die at the slightest mistake in cooking. Wait! Idea!

Apparently, the sister who is not getting married had the brilliant idea of putitng them up with me, so their apartment wouldn't be so crowed the morning of the wedding. Super. So YOUR apartment isn't going to be crowed and you will be getting ready easily, but I will be playing waitress too HOW MANY GUESTS while trying to get ready for the wedding AND do the bride's makeup.

This also throws a wrench in the plans of doing things the evening and day after the wedding, since I will clearly be responsible for Miss. Allergies who does not believe in doing fun things. Unless fun things consists of knitting, needlepoint and tatting.

Upon hearing this news, I went into full meltdown mode. Arms waving, hair flying, foot stomping and voice escalation. Amusing to many, but highly irritating to me when I am trying to make myself be taken seriously.

I have sufficiently calmed now that I have left two theraputic voicemails to various uninvolved parties, explained my grievences twice to uninvolved parties AND typed this post out to you all--uninvolved parties. But. Regardless what is it about wedding that screams "LET'S INVITE EVERYONE OVER FOR A GIANT SLEEPOVER! WITH THE FUN GAMES! OR ALCOHOL! OR EVEN THE GIGGLING ABOUT BOYS!"

Girls cannot get "GQ'd" up. Because, my dear friends, GQ is a mens magazine. Thus, telling me that I look as such is quite foolish.

Or are you trying to tell me I look like a butch?