Now, I've been all schoompy and sappy, and that's all fine and good. But just because I am crazy about Tim and he still wants to get hitched after I puked on him, doesn't mean I'm blind to reality. Let's take this past Thursday. I left the ophthalmologist in a state of full-blown panic, and we came home in a pretty somber state. I settled down on the couch to prepare for a full blown anxiety attack when we noticed a bad smell. Very bad. And the source? Gatwick. Gatwick is terribly handsome, but unfortunately for all of us has about four inches of long white fur surrounding his butt- affectionately referred to in our house as his Gatwickpants. Every once in a while the inevitable happens. This night however, those Gatwickpants had a full eight inch poo attached. It was truly horrifying. I am the usual poo extractor in the family, but in light of my blindness I was relegated to Gatwick-sitter. Tim, frankly just doesn't have to poo touch- but after about half a roll of toilet paper and much meowing and hollering he had managed to get a fair poo chunk out. Now here's where things go terribly wrong. Friday is our trash day, and yet unknown to me Tim takes the huge toilet paper poo mass and flushes it. The trash was headed to the corner in just a matter of minutes and Tim flushes a gigantic paper poo plug down the toilet.

Flash forward about six hours. It's three am, and I'm downstairs sobbing and trying to convince myself I won't be blind or vent-dependent or hit by airplane fuselage while driving to the hospital. I was downstairs because I was trying to hide the full extent of my irrational and overly dramatic crying from Tim, who as the only employed member of the house needs his sleep. So there I am, weeping, terrified and basically having a pretty lousy time of it when I go to the bathroom and... overflow the ticking poo bomb toilet. And that moment, when I was standing in the bathroom half-blind, with my second eye surgery in a week planned in less than six hours with poo water lapping my toes- that I think was one of the worst moments of my life.

The poo bomb part of the story didn't come out until the next morning. I'm marrying my best friend in nine days and I'm the luckiest girl I know. But our life ain't all roses and forehead kisses. Some days there are poo bombs.