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How can I top that last post? You know, the one where the love of my life said he wanted to marry me?

I can’t.  That’s how.

So instead, I’ll give you all sorts of insight into the inner-workings of planning a wedding, also known as The Thing That Came After That Really Fun Part Where I Got Engaged And Now Has Me Six Shades of Crazy.

Let’s start with a little sneeky peak into conversations between R and myself over the last two weeks. Keep in mind, we have decided that he’ll just move into my apartment.

R:  [walks into my closet] Baby, you know you’re gonna have to give me half of this.

Me:  But I don’t want to.

—

R:   Yeah,  my desk will go great right here on your wall.

Me:  But I don’t like your desk.

—

Me:   [flipping through bridal magazines] What color of suit do you want to wear?

R:  Brown. I like brown.

Me:  [Insert face I make when I down two boxes of Sour Patch Kids]

—

Me:  How many family members do you HAVE anyway?

R:  A lot.

Me:  Do all of them have to come?

R:  Yes.

Me:  Your family breeds like rabbits.

—

So there you have it.  Those are the loving, romantic, post-engagement conversations we’ve had thus far.  I’m just a white girl from Idaho who grew up as an only-child, learning that she’s going to share a home with a half-Indian whose family can fill six football teams three times over and once more for good measure.

Now for the planning of the heretoforementioned wedding thingy. That thing that I’ve had visions of. Since I was six.  Okay, that’s a lie.  I wasn’t one of those girls.  But let me just tell you, I wish I HAD been.  Because maybe those visions would have kept me from repeating “COURTHOUSE!” in my head every 9 seconds when I’m only 14 days into planning.

It’s the venue, people.  That’s what’s killing me.  Apparently, unless you want to cough up your firstborn child or singlehandedly bailout the wedding industry, your options are a little slim. You know, like what I need to be to fit into my dress.

But I digress.

And I’m not the only one getting ancy.  I lost count of the number of instant messages, emails, facebook posts, texts and phone calls asking me when’s the date? Cause I have to book my flight! And take time off work!

I’ll take OutOfMyMind, party of one, please.