Varietals of green with coral accents. The colors, I mean. Slated to be the hues of our vow-taking, that is. You know, in June.

I have eight months but (mostly) everything has already been chosen. Bridesmaids and their dresses. Groomsmen and their tuxes. Colors. Flowers. Photographer. Table center-pieces. Save-the-dates. Invitations. The moment I will undoubtedly lose my collective cool and start hyperventilating because, Great Oden’s Raven!, I forgot my “something blue.” Or something.

Quite ironically, the only two aspects of the impending vow-taking that have yet to be decided remain two that would seem rather essential to the entire event.

The first being: the actual church (I know, right? Rather essential? You see, we had chosen one, and then shortly thereafter walked into another, and through breathless stares to one another said: THIS one. THIS could be the church. And so the Phone-Tag to decipher if dates are still available has begun. And continues, indefinitely, as it were.)

And the second being: my dress.

Now, I have no doubt the church will be chosen by the end of next week. That is, of course dependent upon the Marriage Pastoral Associate actually being in her office when I call her, and/or me actually answering my phone, or more specifically: not being in the bathroom the one time she returns three of my calls. I don’t typically care about such toilet conversational details, but I admittedly felt a bit awkward about the idea of talking to the woman who will make or break our ideal of being married in the oldest and prettiest of all Catholic Churches in Spokane while sitting comfortably on the toilet. But drastic times call for drastic measures. And thus, memo to me: Next time, stop mid-stream and answer that call. Phone-Tag is not nearly so fun as Regular-Tag. Or Freeze-Tag, for that matter.

If I’m being honest, what concerns me more than even the church is my (potential) (in)ability to find a dress suitable and sizable for the occasion. You see, dress shopping has never been my forté. Bra shopping? Can do it in twenty. Shoe shopping? No problem. Grocery shopping? You betcha. But dress shopping? I might as well hand myself two tickets to Vegas, a pair of jeans and a trucker hat. See: Dress shopping makes me want to elope, Britney (Un)Style.

Throughout my life there have been myriad dances. Dances, typically, meant dresses. And dresses meant dress shopping, gah. Or, as I began to more commonly view the task: pick the first dress that fits and isn’t pink, and quickly, for the love of organza, amen.

My (current, to-be-modified at random/when the mood strikes me) solution:

Hold entire conversations with sketches of bridal gowns and those imaginary figures sketchily (heh. get it?) wearing them, in an attempt to distract myself from my personal lack of desire to merely step foot into a store offering the opportunity to simply look at dresses with trains and veils and sequins, OH MY.

Dear One-Eyed Betsy:

I know you only have one eye, and for that I am sorry. I know how pointy and potentially (ugly, yes, and also) dangerous those pesky veils can be. To offset your lack of vision it would appear you have been blessed with one extremely long eyelash, which, in my opinion, is quite effective in drawing attention to (the fact that you are, for all intents and purpose, a cyclops) your (one) eye. It’s a very pretty eyelash, is what I mean to say. I also think your dress is quite pretty. It’s youthful and vibrant, and has a va-va-voom sort of message attached to it. Which leads me to yet another problem, for me, I mean. Catholic weddings don’t typically nicely coincide with va-va-voom. Your cleavage is hot, and my cleavage, well it’s probably inevitable, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have such a stellar hourglass figure, and even if I did, this cut wouldn’t flatter so much as scarily highlight my football player’s shoulders. So, thanks, but no thanks. Oh, and: good luck with that eye.

Bonjourno! Princess Iris:

Forgive me for not courtesying. I never was savvy to the royal treatment. But I do! say (with a mock British accent): you and your princess-type gown are indeed quite lovely. I like the way your hair is pulled back into a loose-looking bun, and the way your hands appear to be large spatulas, because hey! me, too. They are great for pancakes, right? I KNOW. Anyway, I think your train is gorgeous, and mostly what I’m looking for, but again: football player’s shoulders, and inevitable cleavage that doesn’t play well with Strapless. So, sadly and with much royal sadness, I must say (British accent still withstanding): happy! cooking to you, Princess Iris.

Hi! Loraina:

WOW. “Yer sure are purty.” And tan. Did I mention tan? You are tanner than all the others, which I think adds a little something more, don’t you? I mean, Nicole Kidman, she looks great Albino White, sure, but most of us? Not so much. YOU, though. You look like you just took a break from surfing to take some vows, which: TOTALLY the look I’m going for. You know, except the whole “recently surfing” part. No offense or anything. I just don’t look particularly great after having been immersed in salt water and covered in sand. And my after-surfing hair? Too frighteningly nappy to discuss. I really DO like the cut of your dress, and the bow-but-not-really-a-bow in the back is a nice, unexpected touch, I think. Perfect for little tykes to grab ahold of during the reception and tear. Not that you were necessarily inviting any little ones to your ceremony, of course. Oh? Pregnant, huh? Well I see why you chose that particular stomach design. What? Oh, no. I didn’t say anything. Except “Yer sure are purty.” And tan. Did I mention tan?

Dearest Zinnia:

I bought you this Quarter Pounder® with cheese. And these fries. Oh, and this Frosty™, too. You’re welcome.