Tomorrow the beau is delivering the contract and cheques (yeah, I’m temporarily Canadian) to the venue. He would have done this today, on his lunch break, but it turns out the Santa Barbara Historical Museum is closed on Mondays. Lazy non-history-having bastards.

Tonight, we delivered the contract and the deposit check (ooh! back to being an American) to our caterer. Our caterer is fabulous. He lives a block down the street. If my life was a sitcom, he’d live next door and would saunter in to make snarky remarks every hour. Also, if my life was a sitcom, I’d have a miniature train with a set of tracks snaking through the living room, but now I’m just channeling Silver Spoons.

Yesterday, the beau and I were out running and, as per usual, decided to run past our venue. Usually we stop for a couple of minutes and stare into the courtyards through the gate, but this time we went inside. Because we are total nerds, we walked around for a while trying to picture where we’d have the ceremony, where the dance floor would go, etc. I did some triceps work on the edge of the big fountain while we enthusiastically chatted about lighting options. Later on at home, while looking the contract over, I found out you are pretty much barred from sitting on, touching, gazing at directly, or daydreaming about the fountains — or anything resembling a fountain — because they are historic. Ha ha! My bad.

When we left the museum, the docent — an elderly lady — asked us what day we were getting married. “Ohh, September,” she nodded approvingly. “That’s the best time of year.” Then she leaned over toward the beau conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “You know, I always tell the groom. I’ve got lots of room under this desk here — perfect for hiding away on the big day. Remember that.”

Oh, I will.