Sometimes the week gets away from me, in terms of this website. When that happens, when a huge week goes by and I haven’t been writing about it, the thought of trying to catch up can seem quite daunting. I’m having one of those weeks when I wonder why we have this relationship, you and I, where I talk about what’s going on and you sometimes write back to tell me you agree or don’t agree or hate me or think I’m funny, or that one guy who constantly asks me to send him pictures of my calves.

I could go day-by-day, summing up the huge events of the past week, including some of the things that I’ll never forget, but it feels like I’m doing a disservice to those memories, by rehashing them here in a slightly dulled way because I can’t explain to you how amazing it was to sit at a giant table of friends who all traveled for hours to have dinner, drinks, and shower me with inappropriate gifts. I could wait for the pictures, but I don’t think that would be enough, either.

But there’s the continuing saga of my quest to get into the Aspen Comedy Festival. The show went well last week and we’re still waiting to hear. We should know next week. Ditto on the Oxygen show — the pilot is going to focus groups on Monday. I really wish I could sit in on that one. I’d love to be on the other side of the one-way mirror, watching someone screw up her face and then complain, “I don’t get it.” It’s a kind of painful pleasure only someone who gets notes from agents, editors and executives all day could ever truly appreciate.

The couch is here, four days late, but I don’t care because I can sit on it and that’s the best kind of couch in the world. I can sit on it and my feet touch the floor, which never happens on a futon. The house is coming together. I organized my side of the office, and while I do look like a crazy person sitting underneath all these books, scripts and letters, it’s still my little space and it’s much better than the sewage-soaked basement we used to call our home office. It took three days, but this week I cleaned my desk and my inbox. I have answered all my email. If you ever wrote to me and I never wrote you back, it is because I never got your letter. I have answered all of you. Wait. I don’t write back the guy asking for pictures of my calves. He lives in Norway, and the whole thing kind of freaks me out.

There’s no way to say this without coming off as some kind of asshole, but I am starting to get a little sick of myself. It’s partly why I haven’t wanted to update here. But there’s an incredible amount of attention thrown on us lately, and while I love the fact that people are excited about our wedding, or we’re having housewarming parties and bachelor parties and fun, fun, fun, there’s the flip side to all of this. There are florists to call (and man, do I find this to be the most tedious part of all. A bouquet. I do not care about the flowers, particularly the tiny flower pinned to every boy’s lapel. I know other people care, but I do not, and I’m trying my best to drum up some happiness about visiting florists tomorrow. I know I will ultimately pick something kind of dumb because I know nothing about flowers. I’m bringing Dan, some pictures from magazines and a color sample and then I’m hoping for the best.), plans to secure, people to check on, RSVP’s to track down, and all the wonderful things that make sure our wedding will run smoothly. That’s not even what I’m sick of, even though some of it — like deciding if I’m going to try and find a stylist, when the only people who have ever touched my hair in my life are my mom, AB, and whichever random person I get at Rudy’s — makes me want to take a long nap. Some of the more princess-y stuff makes me feel uncomfortable, but when I think about skipping it (and doing my own makeup, because the only two times I had someone do my makeup my face was sweating from too much makeup), then I worry that I’ll be making a huge mistake I’ll regret on New Year’s Eve, when my hair looks scary and my face is covered in red dots of stress and there’s a weird bruise on my arm and…

I keep telling myself that I’m not actually freaking out about all of this, but people at this point are expecting me to, and assuming I am, so part of me wonders if this is me freaking out. But now that sounds stupid, this navel-gazing I’m currently doing, trying to figure out what kind of bride I am because I don’t think I’ve gotten the hang out of all of this. It’s just a party, and we’re both actors, and in many ways I know we think of this as putting on a show. But when I don’t get hung up in the wedding aspect of it all, I then think I might be cheating myself out of embracing this “magical time,” blah, blah, blah.

We bought a house. That was much more work than planning this wedding. Our friends are awesome and totally here for us when we need them and that makes all the plans go very smoothly. Everybody offers to help, even when we haven’t asked, and when I really didn’t want to find someone to do my flowers, Liz got the ball rolling by making phone calls, and Dan made more phone calls, and tomorrow we go see four florists. When I didn’t really know what to do about my hair, Shannon made suggestions and gave me names. Jessica drove me to the bridal shop where I forgot my dayplanner on our way to my bachelorette party. Man, if there’s someone good at keeping her cool, it’s Jessica. Because if I had gone to pick up my friend to take her to the giant party I was throwing her in San Diego, and she had no idea she was even leaving town so she decided to make a few phone calls, make some food and run a couple of errands while waiting on a couch delivery, I’d be like, “Bitch, get in the car. Everybody’s waiting for you.” But I had no idea, and it wasn’t until we were leaving the bridal shop in the dark of the afternoon that she turned to me and said, “Well, it’s five, now. We’ll be in the car for about four hours, I’m sure.” How can a maid of honor keep her cool like that? I’d have been pushing her into my car.

The entire bachelorette party weekend was a surreal experience for me. Not just because Allison and Evany came, which means they spent almost as many hours in an airport as they did in San Diego. Or that Sara and Dan drove in just for the six hours that was the big dinner and dancing, only to drive back out in the middle of the night because they both had work to do. What was truly unique about the weekend was that I had absolutely no obligations. I didn’t have a to-do list or a computer. I wasn’t in charge of anything. When I answered the phone, the front desk clerk would ask if I was Pamela, and then would tell me to put anyone else on the phone. I didn’t know who was coming, or where they were staying, or how they were getting from one place to the other, and the one thing Hilary and Jessica made sure was that I knew absolutely nothing. I wasn’t in charge. When there were problems with the room or a bill, other people swooped in and led me out of the room so I knew nothing. When there was some confusion with the taxis taking us to dinner, someone distracted me with conversation so I didn’t try and fix anything. At first it was frustrating, feeling like everyone knew what was going on but me, like maybe it was all a huge trick. But then, once I realized how glorious it could be to have absolutely no responsibilities, I embraced it. I loved it. I realized how great flakey people have it, when they don’t bother to call or show up when they say they will. They don’t offer to drive you to the airport or send flowers or offer to make up the difference when the table doesn’t tip enough (which never happened the entire weekend. Fourteen people all pitched in on every meal (including dropping a couple of extra dollars for me), and the bill apparently came out even every single time. This, they didn’t mind letting me know, as they found it to be the absolute proof that I have great friends.)). I wondered how long I could get away with doing nothing, with being led around, getting told where I’d go next, what I should wear, who I’d see, and what we’d be eating. There was something truly liberating about it all.

And then when it got very weird, as we were dancing at the appropriately named The Bitter End, and suddenly it turned into a scary, dark, strobe-lit trance-hall filled with sweaty, unattractive people, I saw the confusion and fear in all of my friends’ faces (in a hilarious slow-motion effect due to the strobe), and I saw the sweaty people clutching each other in parts they shouldn’t have been touching, and I saw Sara Morrison scream, “I’m going to have a seizure!” and Dan scream, “I’m scared!” and Liz scream, “What the hell happened?” and Allison, tall and lovely, commanding the room with her eyes closed and her hands in the air, totally oblivious to the meltdown happening to the rest of the party around her… and I just was so incredibly happy. I couldn’t stop laughing, not just at the absurdity of it all (it would have been my third or fourth time ever dancing in a club), but that all of these people were dancing in this tiny shithole because I was getting married. I don’t know. It really made me happy to be right there, in the weirdest moment, listening to a trance version of Van Halen’s “Jump” while everybody tried to figure out how to dance to it. Seeing all of those other people, watching my friends gather up their coats and purses and decide we’d had enough and it was time to go back to the hotel and drink in our pajamas — it made me really, really happy I was getting married, and that these were the people sharing these days up until the wedding with me.

There’s something about this time that tests relationships. People begin to question how they feel about us, both individually and as a couple. We had to go through the same thing a few months ago, when due to our budget and fire codes we couldn’t invite everyone we wanted to. We had to think about some of the people in our lives and decide if they’d want to be there that night. And now, some of them are taking some time out to think about where we fit in their lives. It’s a little weird, the confrontations that can arise, the questions and insecurities we all feel about each other now that we’re adults and aren’t forced to see each other every day because of fifth period or that’s what “the gang” does on Saturday nights. But I’m glad it’s happening now, in this year where my life is changing constantly. It’s making me think about the people in my past and present that have brought me to this edge of my future. It’s making me truly appreciate what I have.

It’s also making me sick of talking about myself. The Hollywood part of my life has been very Hollywood indeed this week — I’ve been pitching a project to studios that I’ve been involved with for two years. This week I also got dropped from a project I had worked very hard on all year. One of the only definites in this town is the word “No.” I’m currently waiting to hear on a number of projects (including Aspen and Oxygen, as well as notes on the manuscript, and if anyone wants to buy this pitch), and a “They’re still thinking about it” can be the closest you ever get to hearing the elusive Hollywood “Yes.” Sometimes the “No” comes with a hopeful, “But.” I have a hopeful but. Heh.

In a completely unrelated story, but one I would have told you today if I didn’t get all conflicted about why I talk about myself every day: we bought an iPod (for the wedding, because all things are for the wedding. Even the couch, somehow.) because we aren’t going to have a DJ. We’re way too music snobby and Type-A to let someone with a microphone call out what we’re going to listen to at the reception, so we’re playing DJ ourselves, asking one of our friends to occasionally flip a playlist for us. Anyway. Stee and I have been coveting everyone else’s iPod and had a discussion before buying this one that in order to keep our new marriage happy, we’d probably need to buy two iPods. His would be for the car and mine would be used more for when I went running. So when we bought the iPod, I decided that one should be stee’s. It’s the older sister in me, letting the other one have the toy first (Stee was the younger sibling in his family, and therefore had no problem with my martyr-like sacrifice). So he’s had it for a week and I haven’t even touched it, not wanting to get attached or interested in the toy that is not mine. Well. This morning as I was getting ready to go run, stee asked if I wanted to take his iPod with me. He even loaded up a playlist. I was nervous, as I thought of it as his and not mine, and this means no matter what, I will somehow break it. I have broken every glass that means something, ruined every shirt he’s ever truly liked, and somehow damaged anything that’s his in my clumsy, yet well-meaning way. I went for the run, enjoying the mix he had made me. I got to the bottom of the stairs, fifty feet from our house, and the iPod froze. Really, truly froze. Couldn’t get it to do anything, no matter which button I pushed. Hey, there’s no Off button. Stee calmly packed up the box and handed me the warranty info, promising that he wasn’t upset, asking me to stop beating myself up about it. I called the Apple support desk, and wouldn’t you know it? They told me how to fix it. We plugged the Firewire directly into the iPod and tried to do a software update. That restarted the thing, and now it works. But seriously, I’m the kiss of death for other people’s property. Don’t let me be down with OPP.

And because everybody cares about my skin thing, today I went down to a lower dose of antibiotics. Dude, isn’t it weird that I write about all of these things? I know normally I don’t think about it, but today it seems very strange indeed. You guys care about my staph. Thanks.

Stephen and I both got rejected on the same day by the same studio. We are about to celebrate with beer and several hours of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.

I’m going to marry that man.