We didn’t end up going to the bakery yesterday.  We actually ended up having to cancel, much to my disappointment, because Tony was really sick to his stomach.  The last thing he wanted, according to him, was to eat cake. 

It could have been the spicy chicken sandwich he made himself the night before.  Or the lemon garlic chicken.  Or maybe the copious amounts of bacon he was shoveling down his gullet.

But nooo.  He chooses to the blame the 3 a.m. stop at Taco Bell.  Listen, with the laundry list of food in his stomach, he was a ticking time bomb waiting to happen.  Don’t blame the TB, honey.  It’s never the TB’s fault, in my book.

So we’ll have to reschedule, no big deal.  But it got me to thinking how down to the wire we are.  We’ve passed the 3 month mark and here’s where my freak-out, spazzoid temperament will reach an all-time high.  So don’t get too close to me unless you want a panic-striken bride all up in your face begging you to choose “cylinder vases or square?!  Tell me!  Cylinder or square?!”  Here’s where I picture myself grabbing your shoulders and shaking you like a rag doll, pleading with you to just “pick an answer already and spare me the misery of making yet another decision!!!”

Did my spazzoid-ness come across?  Maybe I should give you a call.

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