After a good two or three months of minutes upon minutes of searching, driving the committee batshit with options and finally reaching out to the Innerbunny for guidance, I finally purchased my dress for the Wedding of the Year Saturday.

And it wasn’t anything on the list.

I know: We all decided that No. 1 of my last three choices was the one, and I agree wholeheartedly. However, that dress is much too gorgeous to tastefully cover with a shrug or wrap, and I gotta be honest, Homie ain’t ready to bear her arms in something sleeveless yet. My final choice, on the other hand, will look equally good with or without a shrug. My final choice was also $110 cheaper, and for someone who doesn’t have to dress up often, it makes much more sense, and then I can spend my hard-earned dough on more worthwhile pursuits, like yesterday’s $60 Target purchase comprised mostly of pedicure tools. (Nooooooo, my feet are NOT that gross; they’re not gross at all considering how rarely I wear socks. I’m a girl, and it was Target, and everyone knows that girls cannot go into Target without getting distracted by all the products and gewgaws of Target. Simple genetics, really.) Speaking of which, next up on the decision-making for Operation Look Hot: the right shade of nude/buff nail polish that will be visible yet not make sallow yellow me look like a corpse for said pedicure. You think the dress business was a pain in the ass? We’ve got two weeks, people!

So I didn’t end up having company this weekend, which was ultimately good because I have a metric shit-ton of laundry that keeps mocking me while I zip out hither and yon, and nobody outside my inner sanctum needs to see a metric shit-ton of laundry piled outside my bathroom. (My inner sanctum probably doesn’t either, but they know and love me, so it’s cool, at least in my mind.) But can I just tell you that people in their 20s crack me up? Caught up with a pal a few weeks ago when I was working on a story, and he said he wanted to get together this weekend. Plans weren’t set in stone or anything, but it seemed like a good possibility, and one that I was looking forward to since he’s truly one of the most genuinely nice people I know and certainly the most happy-go-lucky, and God knows I desperately need some happy-go-lucky energy after the last few weeks—no, months if you count the nightmare with Mother. Anyway, whilst sitting through possibly the most boring assignment EVER (good CHRIST it was bad) I shot him a text to firm up plans and whatnot, but I didn’t hear anything. Later that night, I logged into Facebook.

Now, for those who aren’t on Facebook, it takes users to a “home” page when they log in that tells what their friends are up to in terms of who’s friended who and whatever apps they’re using and stuff. Most people go straight to their profiles; I usually get sidetracked by words—it’s a habit, one so ingrained that TOG used to hand me reading material wherever we were because I would just find it and start reading anyway—so as I’m reading I notice he has plans for the High Holiday. I click on it, and it’s an out-of-town pub crawl celebration starting Saturday and ending Sunday.

[I’m going to sidebar here for a moment to reveal the one pet peeve I have that will do serious collateral damage to, if not downright destroy, any relationship of mine: Making plans that fall through without a legitimate reason or breaking plans without at least two days’ notice—especially more than once, mmmmmmmaybe twice if I’m feeling charitable. Been seriously burned one too many times to just let that roll.]

That said, he and I weren’t set in stone, so it didn’t bother me. Besides, I had other things to do (like laundry, which I didn’t, but other cool things).

Friday, I’m wrapping up my story for the day and getting ready to head out the door to drink on the company’s dime when he texts me back telling me he’s out of town.

Visiting his grandparents.

(blinks) Um.

My first thought was, “(snerk) Uh, Baby? Do you not know how Facebook works?” but then I thought nah, why be an ass when it’s so darn cute that he evidently thought I’d be pissed at him for doing what 20-somethings do. Or maybe he was going to the pub crawl as an incidental to visiting his grandparents. I don’t know, whatever. I just thought it was funny in a precious kind of way.