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.