I hadn't yet looked into honeymoon options -- not even so much as a Google search -- when I was dumbfounded, left completely speechless and then suddenly frazzled by what I'm about to tell you.

Let me provide some background info straight from my personal honeymoon file. There's only ever been one destination that's come to mind. In the two years we've been together, both before we even got engaged (just for fun) and post engagement, BK and I have discussed our shared desire to possibly honeymoon on an island in Greece. It's all very preliminary, but Greece is the only location we've even thrown out there at this point.

A sucker for the romantic Santorini scenes in "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (2005)," I've had thoughts of a honeymoon in Greece before I even met my fiance, and I know I'd mentioned it at least once to my mom. When "Mama Mia" hit the big screen I didn't care if the bright blues were digitaly enhanced -- I was someday going to a place just like that. Why not for my honeymoon, I thought.

I was home visiting my parents recently when my mom, sitting at her laptop and surfing the Net, said (with a level of excitement that seemed completely unreasonable to me), "I'm going hiking in Greece! We're doing a Rick Steves tour! We leave the day after your wedding!"

WHAT?!

I know I don't own Greece or any of its islands, and any of my family members are obviously free to travel there whenever they want. I also know my trip wasn't even close to booked. So who was I to be bothered by this? I guess I just did not expect my parents to crash my honeymoon.

My mom insisted these would be two totally different trips and we'd be vacationing nowhere near each other. There are several tours offered throughout the year and the one that best suited my parents' schedules happened to depart the day after my wedding, she said. She even pulled up a map and tried to find the stops on their tour, to prove how far the region they'd visit was from Santorini.

I hate maps. This only irritated me more.

I should probably mention this is the trip my parents plan to take for their 30th wedding anniversary, which is actually in August but my mom said she'll be too occupied with my wedding plans to go on a 2011 vacation before Sept. 30.

As my whining escalated, she offered to push up their departure. I'm not sure what's worse: sharing an airplane with my parents on the way to our honeymoon or being bombarded with my mom's 5,097 photos of my parents' anniversary trip to Greece, a mere few months before BK and I would leave for our once-in-a-lifetime trip.

OK I'll be logical for a minute. I realize I sound like a brat, and there are far more important things to worry about. I'd be so lucky to travel anywhere for my honeymoon. And I'm so fortunate to have parents who are still married after nearly 30 years, and who want to celebrate their relationship with such a nice trip.

But why, I ask, does that trip have to be to Greece, the same place I've dreamed of escaping to after all of the wedding madness?

Our engagement photo session was canceled today due to the rain. It was probably for the best, because Bentley woke us up in the wee hours of the morning, ready to start a new day, and since then I haven’t been totally with it. As BK put it this morning: "I miss my full-nights’ sleep."

The nerd in me typically likes to reflect on the day’s events as I’m wrapping up at work. I usually assess (in my head) what I’ve accomplished and then make a list (my fave!) for what I’ll need to do the next day.

Just a few minutes ago I caught myself looking up to the ceiling with an obviously thoughtful expression on my face as I reviewed the day’s tasks. Somehow, my wandering mind instantly brought me to a scene from "Clueless."

While sitting at the dinner table Cher’s father asks her, "So, what did you do in school today?" She looks up to the ceiling, pauses for a contemplative look and with a goofy, dreamy smirk on her face answers, "Well, I broke in my purple clogs."

That’s kinda how I feel today. And that's how I felt like I was answering my own question of "What did I do today?"

Good thing it rained. It probably wasn’t the best day for me to be frozen in time in images that will become the face of my save-the-dates, the memories we’ll keep forever and show our children.

So it all worked out for the best. Hopefully in two weeks little Bentley will sleep through the night and I’ll look fresher, more "on" for our rescheduled session.

Having checked off some major to-do's quite early in the process, my wedding plans have been at a bit of a standstill lately. I can dutifully report that on Saturday I ordered my gown and veil — major! — and also paged through 17 three-ring binders jam-packed with invitation samples. It was overwhelming at first, but my mom and I got a system moving and eventually narrowed it down to eight possible choices.

Well I’m going home to kick off my "purple clogs" and call it a day.

It's been nearly a week and the little guy is totally settling in, making our house a home A.K.A making it way messier than my compulsive Monica Geller-style scrubbing and Danny Tanner-esque vacuuming would ever before allow. But it's alright.

I'm sleep deprived, yet blissful. I'm exhausted but fine with a less-than-perfect kitchen and living room and a hamper full of dirty clothes. I could care less if for the past week I've been wearing old jeans, ones I thought were soon headed to the Salvy. We haven't gotten to the grocery store and basically have no food. I haven't made it to the gym -- which can't be good for the Babbling Bride's goal to get in tip top wedding shape -- but it's OK. Bentley needs me to show him the ropes.

I came downstairs the other night to find BK and Bentley sitting on the couch, both looking at me. I hardly had time to blink an eye before I noticed Bentley suddenly had a Hallmark card clenched in his teeth. BK was encouraging the pup to give the card to his mommy. It was a "thank you" for bringing him into our home and making him part of our family. It was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen, my little Cavalier with the corner of an envelope hanging out of his mouth. Even sweeter was the gesture from my fiancé.

BK didn't grow up with a dog -- he did have a cat that was bigger than all of my family dogs -- but he's really doing a good job. He almost always manages to stay positive in everything he does, and that attitude has transferred to this new adventure.

In fact, he even sees a bright side in picking up dog poo. Just the other day after coming in from cleaning up the yard BK told me, "At least this will prepare me for changing baby diapers," as he had just reportedly "gagged three times" while handling Bentley's business.

I haven't gotten much sleep this first week, and there's been a lot of crap, but the payoff is definitely worth it.

I’m a shoe girl. Like the kind of addict who sees a pair of Michael Kors strappy, high-heel sandals in a department store and stops dead in her tracks. It’s love at first sight — again and again.

"Hello, lovely," I’ll say, picking one up and gently petting its straps, smelling the intoxicating aroma of new leather and moving my hand inside to feel the inner sole. It usually goes like this in my head: "Me likey; me want." Hence the closet full of leather, suede, satin and patent leather lovers.

During the week I wear nothing but flats, sneakers and UGG boots, depending on the weather and also my mood. I have to save myself for the weekends, when I go out to dinner with BK or meet friends for drinks, times I’ll almost never choose to adorn my feet with a shoe designed for comfort.

I danced classical ballet under the instruction of retired Russian dancers for a decade: I have no problem killing my feet for the right look. And a good heel always improves an outfit.

Some brides boogie down at their receptions in bedazzled sneakers. Others choose to walk down the aisle in fancy flats. For me, it’s a no-brainer that I must wear fabulous heels on my wedding day.

I also know the agony I’ve endured some nights as I galavant around the city in stylish Steve Maddens and fierce BCBG footwear, trekking it block after block, from dinner to drinks, scuffing those beauties and wearing down their heels. They’re all very pretty but at times painful to walk in — and sometimes even to just stand in.

For my wedding day, I obviously can’t have that. While I am willing to put up with a lot, I do have my limits. I crave the magnificence of a good stiletto, platform or ankle bootie. But I don’t need the blisters.

During a curious Internet search I came across a pair of stunning Badgley Mischka heels and thought they could be the perfect accent to my gown, and also my something blue. They looked elegant, with just the right amount of "ooh la la." And they actually didn’t look too high. About 3, maybe 3 ½ inches, I thought. I usually have a good eye for that.

I was about right. I say "about" because I haven’t seen them in person to know for sure, and varying sites have different descriptions, putting them at anywhere from 3 ½ to 4 inches. I cringe as I write this, but I’m thinking 3 inches might have to be my limit.

Normally I have no problem stepping into the big guys. In fact, I welcome a higher heel. Most pairs I own are 3, 3 ½. In my opinion, once you go shorter than 2 ½ they’re just not very attractive. But alas, no one wants to see a limping bride. This is an important — and long — day, one that I need to be able to walk and stand for.

Of course I can’t just casually shop for shoes between now and the wedding until I find the perfect pair. The length of my gown depends on the height of my shoe, so the seamstress must rely on me sticking to a height. It also means I can’t change into comfy flats at the reception or I’ll be tripping over my dress. Speaking of my dress, I have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow to order Thee One.

And so, with my undying belief that the higher the heel, the prettier the shoe, I’ll have to soon decide: Will it be nearly four inches of exquisiteness, or will I finally make comfort my top priority?

I’m a mommy!

No, I don’t have to call the bridal shop to have the seamstress adjust my measurements. I’m still going the traditional route of love, marriage, then baby in the baby carriage.

The motherhood of which I speak refers to my role in raising a three-month-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Yes, it’s a mouthful.

I’ve had my eye on this breed for several years and recently, after about a year of talking about getting a dog together, BK and I realized we were finally up to the challenge. It hit us a few weeks ago that this was the right time.

We picked him up Monday night. Two minutes into the car ride home from the breeder’s house Bentley had my heart. Not just a piece of it — the whole thing.

My doe-eyed guy is so well-behaved (check back with me when he starts chewing shoe laces and ruining the toilet paper roll). He slept through his first night home in his very own crate and did not make a peep. I was expecting a sleepless night (or several) of puppy cries. That didn't happen. I didn’t sleep, but it was because I kept myself up, wondering why he wasn’t crying.

When we checked on him early in the morning, his crate was bone dry. No mess. He’s been going potty outside on the grass like a big boy, and so far I have no indoor accidents to report. Our newly finished hardwood floors are very appreciative.

Bentley represents the start of our family, the one we’re building together. And he is the perfect little addition. He'd known me for mere hours and he was softly whimpering for me to pick him up and hold him, cuddle him, love him. He followed me around as I got ready for work and would only eat his food out of my hand.

I wrap him in a blanket and hold him, and we rest on the couch. He burrows deeper into the blanket and nuzzles his cold, wet nose against mine as he gets comfortable. When he wakes up he flops himself on his back and stretches, sometimes hitting me in the face with his chubby paws, and I laugh at the lack of control he currently has over his limbs.

Our new puppy played slip and slide across the kitchen and living room floors as he attempted to explore his new home. He impressed us when he immediately sat on the rug and began watching TV. Bentley cocked his head to the side when I spoke to him in a high-pitched voice for the first time. During his first nap he made those bubbly noises dogs make, the kind that tell you they're having an exciting dream. And the first time he saw his own reflection in a full-length mirror he pounced at it, challenging his "litter mate" to come back at him. When I turned the mirror to face the wall, because I felt bad that the glass was fooling him, Bentley walked behind it, searching for the pup that looked just like him.

It's only a couple of days in, and I think I’ve created a cuddle monster. I watched him knock down my jacket, not to chew on the zipper or the string threaded through the hood, but to curl up on it, because I’d worn it during our three-hour snuggle sesh and it carried my scent.

We haven’t heard Bentley’s bark yet, and we don’t know what his favorite toy will be. We don’t know everything about him and he hasn’t figured out all there is to know about us. But I sure do look forward to all of the big memories, and every little moment in between.

Anyone who thinks I’ve left out some major info, like how BK and I met or how the proposal happened, I’ll get to that later. First, no true telling of my wedding planning adventures would be complete without this story.

It’s the story of a minor setback that now, about two months later, I can already laugh about. Kinda.

At the time it was happening, I seriously thought to myself, if ever I am to assume the role of a Bridezilla, it would be now. Now, I thought, would be the time to stomp on any man, building or portion of the fiscal year that stands in the way of MY day.

So it’s me, BK and my mom sitting with the senior sales manager at Normandy. We’d just taken the official tour and envisioned our guests in the grand ballroom eating filet and dancing under the barn’s cathedral ceiling.

I excused myself to take an important call from my sister. Her home visit had come to an end and we were expecting to hear if she’d caught a military flight back to Guam, to rejoin her husband and two island Chihuahuas.

When I re-entered the room a couple of minutes later the vibe seemed different from when I’d left. I said with a laugh, "Did I miss anything?" not expecting to hear what I heard next.

My mom and the sales manager both directed their attention to BK, as if prompting him to tell me something. I looked at him and noticed he seemed nervous. I cautiously requested that someone please tell me what the heck was going on. Then my fiancé dropped a bomb.

He revealed that as he was leaving work to get to this very important appointment, his boss asked if we had a date in mind. BK answered yes, Sept. 30. And his boss reminded him that the following Monday would mark the start of quarter end (my translation: a busy period that would not be a great time to take off of work, or go on a honeymoon).

I didn’t hear it clearly at first. My take on it was this: Someone I’d never met was telling me I couldn’t get married on the date I’d chosen, the only date available to have it at this particular venue?

I know, I was acting a bit irrational at that moment. But a lot was at stake, and I felt like I could suddenly lose it--and just as I was about to book it.

Of course I realize people have jobs to do, and in certain fields there are times of the year that are busier than others. I also realize it’s not absolutely vital to take a honeymoon immediately after tying the knot. But the thought of returning to work the following Monday depressed me.

The fact that this information was disclosed while I happened to be out of the room did not help. It was a dramatic turn of events, indeed.

After my 12-hour freak sesh, BK went to work the next day and talked it over with the boss, sharing the details of how crucial this date was to us. He understood. In the end, I didn't have to crush anyone or anything with my newfound Bridezilla strength. Our wedding date and the dates we hoped to honeymoon were safe.

Moral of the story: If your fiancé has a demanding job, don’t be completely distraught if his boss has to sign off on your wedding date. OK it's alright to be a little upset. I totally was.

And the babbling continues. So BK and I became engaged on July 30. A few things have happened between then and now. Please allow me to continue to bring you up to speed.

Because of the aforementioned circumstances — my reception venue was almost entirely booked for the month of September — I was able to get a verbal agreement from the senior sales manager at Normandy that she’d hold Sept. 30, 2011 for us until we were able to book the church. As Catholics, that step is key for us. In fact, it must happen first. It was summer, and of course the priest I needed to speak to was on vacation.

Because I did not spend my girlhood daydreaming of the day I’d walk down the aisle, I can honestly say the one thing — the only thing — I ever envisioned about my wedding was that it would take place in an old, Catholic Church like the one where my parents said their vows. I was after that traditional architecture, and I didn’t intend on having it any other way.

I’d spent some time at St. Patrick’s in Norristown for work and each time I stepped off of DeKalb Street and through the doors, I was in awe. Now this was a church. In speaking with Father Murphy I learned that our desired date was open but one thing was made clear: He had a strict B.Y.O.P. (bring your own priest) policy for non-parishioners.

Meanwhile, with the help of my dad, we tracked down the priest who married my parents and baptized all three Brooks kids, to ask him to perform the wedding Mass. He was, of course, on vacation. So then we waited some more.

When my dad received the phone call we’d been anticipating from Father Welsh, who had blessed me as a baby and would now help me start the next chapter of my life with BK, it was like the volume to the soundtrack in my mind was turned up high, and the current track was "Hallelujah!"

I called Father Murphy to tell him we had secured the priest, and he wrote our names in the Sept. 30, 2011 block of the church’s calendar. It was official. We were set to plan.

From there we were able to check off a couple of major items on our list: We booked our reception. We signed off on our photographer’s lovely services. Things were happening.

When their now future son-in-law asked my parents for permission to get down on one knee and pop the big question, I imagine at some point the thought crossed my mother’s mind that her 26-year-old spitting image wouldn’t be a spinster surrounded by Chihuahuas after all.

I say this not because my mom ever doubted I’d find happiness in a mate as awesome and normal as BK — who wasn’t four-legged, weighing in under 10 pounds and a lover of Nylabone products — but because two years prior to this point I’d often tell my mom I was never getting married and that I’d be content as a Chihuahua lady (I’m not a cat person).

Of course I was joking. It was merely a case of me, a bitter singleton, proclaiming my fate during the epilogue to what’s more appropriately referred to as a disaster than a relationship.

In chapter one of said disaster I was 17, and by the time I realized this story wouldn’t have a fairytale ending I was 24 and jaded — and trying to get a rise out of my mom, who’d swoon at babies on TV and then start gushing about the grandchildren who would someday be all hers.

I admit it was somewhat cruel to stubbornly insist the only grandchildren I’d give her would be long-haired Chihuahuas. I didn’t mean it. But now that phase is far behind me, and it’s something for me to laugh about with my mom and sister.

And we did, one night in early August after BK frosted my left ring finger with a promise so beautiful it left me at first speechless and then falling over words of thanks and acceptance. I wasn’t so much stunned by the question of "will you marry me?" as I was by the brilliance of the rock that physically represented the question. I’m just sayin’.

So with more than a year to plan a September 2011 wedding, I figured there was time to sit back and enjoy my sparkly new friend for a bit before jumping into the grueling details. But my wedding-crazed — I mean helpful — sister was visiting from her temporary home on an island in the western Pacific, and knowing I might not see her again until soon before the big day, we got right down to business.

It’s a good thing my M.O.H. (the "M" in my little sister’s very important title stands for matron, not maid — yes, my little sister is already married) was there, pushing me to get started when I did. They say a year is plenty of time to plan a wedding. And it is. But there are other factors that can come into play here.

I wanted post-Labor Day September. Despite my dad’s issues with a fall wedding (he insisted I schedule it when Notre Dame had a bye week), I craved that particular month for its (hopefully) sunny, yet crisp weather, and just the simple feeling of freshness and renewal mid- to late September brings me each year. But of course, a lot of people must feel that way, as the ninth month of the year is one of the most popular times to be wed.

I also had my little bride heart (different from my regular heart, as it wants things I never before cared about) set on an in-demand wedding venue, Normandy Farm in Whitpain Township. And I coveted a Lansdale-based photographer, Jennifer Childress, who’s usually booked well in advance.

So even though most people kept telling me that with 13 months to go I was well ahead of the game just by conducting simple online research, I knew something they didn’t know.

Partyspace.com. That is the website that burst my pink champagne bubble and pushed my bridal butt into gear. I don’t really have the bride gene that’s inherent in some females. I didn’t dream of my wedding as a little girl like people often say little girls do. I was too busy living life as a kid. So here I was engaged and not knowing what to do next. Now, a couple of months into planning, I still kinda don’t.

But this website, a great resource for event planners — or future brides trolling the Internet after hours for possible venues — was what really forced me to do something.

BK actually brought partyspace.com to my attention (talk about an enthusiastic groom — yikes!) and I was excited to discover that when I clicked on Normandy Farm, up came an event calendar supposedly updated by representatives from the venue itself. A quick click of the drop-down arrow to select Sept. 2011 and I was immediately sent into a tizzy. Every Saturday block was occupied with a red X. Translation: "completely booked."

This visual was too much for me to handle. When my head stopped spinning I realized those dates were likely booked by couples who became engaged in 2009, and it was out of my control. I later found out I was right, that those Saturdays in September were snagged well in advance.

From that moment on, I understood I had to move fast to get what I wanted. Considering the panic that set in when it occurred to me that my top contender for reception venue might not even be an option, I realized how much I wanted to throw the biggest party of my life at Normandy, this historic site so close to the places where we both grew up.

Having my wedding on any day but a Saturday was something I didn’t think I’d budge on. But hear this, future brides: When it actually comes time to plan, things happen and you have to go with it.

A couple of Fridays were still open and I started to open up to the idea. Doing this taught me a few things. Being flexible is key to the wedding planning process; being open to alternatives can set you free from stress; and in the end, you get you what you want.

I decided at that moment to adopt this M.O. and carry it with me the rest of the way. BK was on board. Sept. 30, 2011 it would be. Check.