The term starts and I go MIA, naturally.  The BBQ is in three days.  Right now I’m positively ill.  I let my guard down and bam! My mother  swooped in to find the most innocuous, harmless detail and made it a huge effing deal.  And of course, I responded in kind despite my best efforts not to, and then John got involved, and now we’re going to hear about how we ruined the wedding–her only daughter’s wedding, and not even the real one because she didn’t get to go to the real one–for the next twenty years.

I can’t even get more into it because my stomach lining might just dissolve completely in the vat of battery acid that has become my GI.  Luckily, other friends and family are being awesome, and John is more than awesome, so hopefully I can lean back on them and coast through this without, you know, breaking a handle of liquor and waving it at anyone in particular.

I had the best intentions of blogging all this, but it’s just not funny to me now.  It’s just crappy.