Realizing no one is going to be happy with a simple, quick update on where I’ve been for the past month (I posted earlier tonight), there are a few things that I feel warrant some comment. For instance, the table in our dining room has been a particularly disturbing sight as of late…

About three weeks ago, I got ambushed trying to make my way from the third floor of our house to the first–

Before I get into that, let me explain what I mean by ambushed and the layout of our house. We have a three floor townhouse. The majority of my computer stuff is in the den (i.e. third bedroom and most definitely NOT the baby’s room, as some of my more obnoxious readers like to refer to it) on the third floor. Anything video game or home theater related (read: geek) is in the family room on the first floor. No surprise, if I’m awake, I’m very likely on one of these two floors.

The second floor houses the kitchen, and anyone who knows me well realizes I’m in and out of there constantly. In addition to the kitchen, the second floor is also home to the living room or, as I like to refer to it, Bridezilla’s Lair. Wedding propaganda adorns every last corner of the Lair as a warning to those brave souls who venture too close. In the center sits the Throne of Bridezilla (or as Meg likes to call it, the “couch”). Amidst a sea of wedding magazines, envelopes, spreadsheets (remember she’s an accountant and that one will make more sense), and various other wedding related plunder, one can actually spot Bridezilla grazing on her laptop in the blighted fields of

In order to pass from one floor to the next, one has to navigate the treacherous reaches of Bridezilla’s Lair. It’s easy to get fooled into the common misconception that she is unaware of your presence. The Schroeder-esque (bonus points for getting the reference) appearance of Bridezilla as she feverishly pecks away at would lull anyone into a false sense of hope in passing unabated. However, with an alarming consistency, Bridezilla springs to life as I approach, ambushing me with a flurry of papers, pictures, and magazine ads that require my immediate and focused attention.

–Where was I? Oh ya, so a few weeks ago, I was ambushed on my way to the family room…

“Come look at these.”
[Bridezilla moves to strike]
“What are they?”
“Calligraphy samples.”
[Bridezilla has positioned herself precisely between myself and the stairs in a move that would make jiu-jitsu black belts envious]

I’ve learned by now to just suck it up and see what she has to show me. And in case the male readers were wondering, the answer…

“But I was going to go play a game.”

… is never correct. Ever. Heed my warning.

In a former life, I really enjoyed (and still do, on occasion) working with computer graphics, so the prospect of different fonts isn’t entirely foreign to me. What I was greeted with, however, was a series of envelopes with random names, each addressed in an allegedly different form of calligraphy. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a microscope powerful enough to better distinguish the subtle variations between styles.

“What are they for?”

Wrong question. In hindsight, I should have simply picked the one I thought Meg liked best. Stubbornly, I decided to try to find out why I was now firmly in the claws of Bridezilla.

“We are getting the envelopes for the invitations done in calligraphy.”

I stood there, staring blankly into space, waiting for the punchline.

It never came.

“Do you mean to tell me that we are going to pay to have the envelopes for our invitations done in calligraphy?”

Part of me had actually hoped to see a glimmer of a smile in Meg’s face to indicate this was a sick joke.

It never came.

Foolishly, I pursued…

“The envelopes that people will inevitably throw out once they receive said invitation? The ones that are going to have an ugly ass stamp, postage markings, and whatever other crap it may accumulate during its transit?” Better judgment kept me from debating the futility of an overly elaborate invitation in the first place.


Bridezilla’s spell had taken effect. I was left completely dumbfounded at this idea. However, I managed to muster the faintest strength to point to one of the envelopes before slipping away.

Some readers may be proud of me that I’m learning to shut up and accept my fate. Unfortunately, don’t believe for a second that I’ve learned my lesson. On my way downstairs, completely free and on my way to the rest of my night, I let slip one last comment in an attempt at rational thought.

“All this work, and we’re not even going to see it.”
“Yes we are, I’m sending us an invitation.”

I’d have a joke about that, but I’m still too stunned to even try to think of one.