I went online yesterday to check our registry and see what gifts people have bought us so far (one of the many fun perks of registering) and on the Crate and Barrel web site, it thoughtfully gives us a countdown to the big day. In huge red letters it said “99 DAYS until your event.” I couldn’t believe it.

Whenever anyone asks how wedding planning is going, I give a no-big-deal shrug and say, “We’ve got nearly everything done.” And I used to believe that when I said it, until I saw that we only have 99 days left! We have to get his ring, pick out the tuxes, finalize the cupcakes with the baker, give the DJ our reception instructions and no-play list, get fitted for my dress, buy shoes and jewelry, and probably about 50 more things that I haven’t even thought of.

Not to mention, my shower is in two weeks at my house and for those of you who have been reading earlier blogs, you know that Fred and I are remodeling the house. It’s not exactly party-ready.

And Fred and I are even closer to moving. We both had really great interviews with prospective employers in New York and could possibly move in September — the month when Crate and Barrel will kindly remind me that we have less than “30 DAYS until your event.”

Even thought I’m not the crazy type and am not near turning into a bridezilla, I’m beginning to realize what all the stress is about…

I watched the finale of the Bachelorette last night. WTF? I didn’t think she had chemistry with either one of them, but what I really don’t understand is how she got engaged to him when she said she was “falling in love” with about 17 other men at the same time. I mean, how did Jesse feel when he had to watch her crying over Graham and Jeremy?

I love bad TV.

But what I would really love to see is what happens right after they get engaged and the cameras go off. Did DeAnna look at Jesse and think, “WHOA. I’m totally engaged to a dude that is kind of a stranger. And he says gnarly a lot.”

I remember the night that Fred and I got engaged. When I was lying next to him in bed, trying to catch glimpses of my new bling in the dark, there was still that tiny part of me that was freaking out. Do I know everything about him? Are we really going to be in love forever? What if that cute little smacking his lips thing he does when he’s hungry is incredibly irritating in 20 years? And I had known him for TWO YEARS.

I can’t imagine getting engaged to somebody that I had known for six weeks. On a national dating show.

I’m sure Jesse and DeAnna will go the way of all the other Bachelor/Bachelorette couples (besides Trista and Ryan) and call it quits in a few months when he realizes that Newnan, Georgia isn’t as exciting as the Bahamas and she realizes that surfer-speak may be “rad” for a few weeks, but really annoying for any serious length of time.

But by that point, we’ll be watching the next poor Bachelor (Jason, perhaps?) select his woman of the moment from a harem of desperate ladies. I’ll gossip about it with my friends (can you believe she said that on national tv??) and then crawl into bed with Fred and hold him tight, thankful that he loves me for all my quirks—even my bad reality tv show addiction.

Colleen is Tango’s weekly engaged love blogger.

I just had a much-needed “girl” weekend with my good friend Blane at my parents’ lake house in Savannah. We drank way too much wine, cooked good food, went skinny dipping late at night and stopped just short of giving each other mud masks during the Bachelorette (not because it was too cliché, just because we had too much to drink and forgot).

At one point she said to me, “You know this is the last weekend we’re going to have like this in a long time.” With me getting married and possibly moving and she and her live-in boyfriend building a house together, we realized that life is about to get pretty hectic and it will be tough to plan “just girl” weekends together.

That kind of sucks.

I love when Fred and I hang out with Blane and her boyfriend, but there’s just something about girl talk (which reminds me–remember that ridiculous board game from the early 90s where the losers had to put red zit stickers on their faces? I digress); the gossip, the giggling, the deeply emotional analyses of life and love that can’t be replicated with a boy.

I know that even with all the craziness of getting married and life with Fred, I will always make room for my girls. He just doesn’t have the same appreciation for the Bachelorette that Blane does.

\I finally found something more fun when planning for a wedding than buying the dress: registering for gifts.

Fred and I had actually been putting it off. It seemed like such an arduous process, picking out every kitchen appliance, china pattern and bed linens we would ever want in our house (and then not getting to take any of it home). It was four hours that we didn’t really have to spare on a weekend, since we’re (still) remodeling Fred’s house (yes, that is bitterness you detect).

Then my sister sent out bridal shower invitations and she called me three days in a row to remind me that if I wanted gifts from people, I should probably register. So on Sunday Fred and I went to Target, Crate and Barrel, and Bed, Bath & Beyond.

I was in charge of the list of stuff we were supposed to register for from the weddingchannel.com (what the hell is a double old-fashioned glass??) and Fred was in charge of the scanner. Note: Ladies, if your fiancé is anything like mine, this is a BAD idea. We now are registered for a kegerator and the latest version of Guitar Hero.

I forgave these as soon as I saw the cookware at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I rapidly pointed to items for Fred to scan as I patronizingly explained to him why we needed a jumbo crockpot, a Le Creuset dutch oven and a $100 set of knives. I built my dream kitchen in less than an hour and it was a better high than the first (and only, admittedly) time I did cocaine.

At the end of our shopping spree, Fred begrudgingly handed over the scanner. That night, with visions of draft Heinekens dancing in his head, Fred came up with a brilliant plan. That we should register for every holiday: Christmas, his birthday, Labor Day, President’s Day…

I’m afraid I’ve created a monster.

I never take my engagement ring off. I wear it in the shower, to bed, at the swimming pool—everywhere. This past weekend I finally found a place I couldn’t wear it—in the boxing ring. I took a 3-day boxing bootcamp where I had to wrap my hands, don big boxing gloves and hit the crap out of pads and bags (it was very cathartic).

Friday night, I slipped off my ring and put it in its box, nestled next to my future wedding band. All weekend, I kept getting this nagging feeling that something was wrong. What had I forgotten? Each time I realized it was my ring. I couldn’t believe I was so used to wearing it already.

There were 10 other women in the class, and none of them had jewelry on either. It was strange because I had no idea what their relationship status was. It obviously doesn’t matter, but I never knew how cognizant I was of whether people had rings on or not. I think subconsciously when I meet someone, the first thing I do is check their left ring finger to see if they’re single or not.

By the end of the bootcamp on Sunday afternoon, I had become used to being ring-free. So much so, that I forgot to put it back on before I went to a swimming pool with friends. When I got home that night, Fred and I went to dinner.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked me, curious.

“I forgot to put it back on,” I said.

“Oh, cool. As long as it’s not lost,” he joked. “I can’t afford another one.”

It felt freeing, in a strange way not to have it on. I didn’t feel any less engaged, but I felt rebellious in a way. Like I didn’t need a piece of jewelry to scream to the world that I was taken.

The next morning, I pulled the diamond out of the box and slipped it on my finger. It sparkled, and I remembered how much I like the feeling when it screams to me that I’m taken.

When I was at my sister’s house visiting a few weeks ago, I was looking through her wedding albums trying to find poses and pictures that I liked so I could show my photographer. One of the albums was a thick black binder with a cute flowery title “Megan and Matt’s Best Laid Plans.” I held it up.

“What’s this?” I asked my sister.

“It was the binder for our wedding— you know, contracts from all our vendors, business cards, the vows; all the details to keep me organized.”

My mouth fell open. “Am I supposed to have one?”

“Well, you have something, right? A folder or something where you keep everything?”

Um, no.

My mom, who was there visiting as well, balked. “Colleen! Even I have a binder where I’m keeping stuff for your wedding. How are you ever going to know where everything is?”

Now I felt worse than a bad bride— I felt like an idiot bride. How was I supposed to know? Maybe the rule about keeping a binder is in one of those hundreds of wedding magazines I have yet to read. I’ve never exactly been organized, wedding or not. So my first inclination is not to make a fancy binder to keep everything wedding-related.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy,” my mom said, “but you do need to get something where to stuff contracts in so you have them at hand.”

“OK,” I said. That was three weeks ago and I have yet to buy any such thing.

On Sunday night, Fred and I had our engagement photos taken at the park. It was about 101 degrees in the shade. Every time we kissed for the camera, I would leave puddles of sweat and make-up on Fred’s face.

As we were leaving, I asked my photographer if he wanted me to book him a hotel room the night of our wedding. “That would be great,” he said. As Fred and I were walking to the car, I told him to remind me to book the room this week.

“You know, we should really get a folder or notebook or something where we write all this stuff down,” he said.

“That’s a really good idea,” I said, then smiled. “You can be in charge of that.”