Friday, February 29, 2008


Ok, there are tons more things that I hate, among them:

going grocery shopping late at night so that all that's left is the reject-produce,
people who walk slowly (particularly in tight areas such as hallways or anywhere if they're fat),
parents who give their children 'interesting' names,
people with interesting names who get upset when you mispronounce them,
poor tippers,
everyone in my Phil 100 class except for the girl who sits on my left,
light purple,
old coffee,
coming out of a Subway smelling like Subway,
A Million Little Pieces,
high-pitched voices that get even higher when they're upset/excited/talking,
and the Philadelphia Flyers.

I have to catch the greyhound now (which is filed under 'Things that stress me out a little' and gets moved over to 'Things I hate' pretty often), so I don't have time to reel you out of that hate-spiral myself. Instead, go check out this list of stuff that, because I'm white, I like. If you, too, are white, then you, too, will like them. I'm not even joking.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Keepin the streak alive

Alright, Jane, here's another thing I hate.

I have this one prof who has, on a previous occasion, given assignment instructions on the day the assignment is due. By which I mean, as we were going to hand it it, she says, 'Now look yours over and make sure that you did such and such.' And if we didn't? 'Well, then just go ahead and add it in.'


This, apparently, is more a teaching style than a one-time mistake. We had a midterm today, part take-home and part in-class (quick aside: worst possible scenario. Not only do I have to put in out-of-class time pulling something together, but I ALSO have to study, and THEN I have to engage my brain during class time as well). She decides she's going to lecture first, and then have us write our in-class part last so that people who finish early can leave early, which is fine. Except that everything she's lecturing on has major ramifications for the take-home part that we all have typed and printed and ready to go on our desks. One girl finally says, 'Are you going to cut us some slack on our take-homes since you didn't lecture on this until today?' to which the prof replies, 'Well, as long as you did such and such and such, you'll be fine.' Another guy (probably speaking for the whole class) pipes up with, 'And if we didn't?'

'Oh, go ahead and add it in now.'


This is a fairly heavily-researched, extensively thought-through and carefully organized report. You aren't just asking me to replace all the 'the's with 'racecar,' or to turn all my semi-colons into smiley faces. I can't restructure my whole argument with a few pen strokes.

And no, I didn't raise a stink because I am, how you say, l'exhausted, but if ANYthing comes back all 'You have made an incorrect assumption here' or whatever, I'm sticking it to the (wo)man. Trust.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Fake gymmers

Ok, I was going to put an end to this 'things I hate' stretch because who needs that kind of negativity when it's raining like it is? But then I went to the gym today, and there was this girl in thick eyeliner, a tight, LOW-cut tank top and these spandy-pants that were a whisper away from showing off her ladybits, and that reminded me of another thing that I hate.

Because, see, I'm a serious gymmer. I go to the gym to work out, and I would happily work out in a t-shirt and sweats but then I overheat and my nose bleeds. So I wear a tank top and shorts, but my goal is comfort and ease of movement and MAN do I look it. I am not trying to catch myself a beefcake. All I want to do is shrink my muffin tops and go home.

And it's fine by me if you come to the gym straight from class or work or whatever in full make-up (which is, incidentally, why you're breaking out so much, because sweating causes your pores to open up and then make-up falls into them), and if you're more comfortable in your spandy shorts or your lululemon pants, that's cool too. I'm not one to judge, and I don't mind that you look good.

But I doubt that those giant hoop earrings are helping your performance, and I doubt that skate shoes are comfortable to run in, and I doubt that your girls feel secure, spilling out of your top like they do. I mean, you look hot. You really do. And that's fine. I just want you to get off my damn treadmill, because I am here for reals.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Sticks and stones

Ok, while we're talking about things that I hate, let me just bring this up. One of my profs last week called us all 'dummies,' and not in a funny, jokey kind of way, but in an aggressive, 'What do the rest of you dummies think' kind of way.

SO not appropriate.

And the reason he called us all 'dummies' was because no one was participating in the discussion, which was totally true, but also totally his fault. Some classes are chatty on their own and all you have to do is throw out a topic and they'll jump on it like hounds on steak. But some classes need to be encouraged to chat, and this guy actively discourages class participation.

I have this other totally amazing prof who kind of looks like a less-rough-living Janitor from Scrubs (sorry, Tim, but you totally do), who will toss out questions and ideas and then say things like 'I'm very interested to hear your thoughts on this,' and then when you offer up your thoughts, he'll say things like 'Yes, yes I'm very moved by that' or 'Yes, I think that statement is very helpful,' both of which mean 'You haven't spoken my thoughts verbatim, but thanks for your input and keep trying.' EVERYONE talks in this class. Talking is positively reinforced.

My 'dummies' prof will also toss out questions, but with that tone - you know when you're trying to lead someone down a very obvious path of reasoning, like 'Ok, how many hands do you have? And how many bowling balls can you carry in each hand? So how many bowling balls can you carry?' - that's the tone, all the time, like the answer is right in front of us, only his questions will be so vague and so abstract that there's NO way you could know what he wants to hear. And there's no point in trying, because if your answer isn't his thoughts verbatim he'll shut you down flat. You'll be like, 'Is it...A?' And he'll turn to the class so they and he can share in your idiocy, and say 'Well, it's B, isn't it?' Like, come on guys, how did you not get this? Only this is ENGLISH, not science. There are right-ish answers and wrong-ish answers, but most answers fall somewhere in the middle.

Ok, so in a class full of people who like to hear their own voices anyways, this might not make much of a dent, but my class is full of shy, rabbity people, and for most of them, they don't even need to be shut down personally. They can see someone else being put in their place (usually me, because I just can't take the silence and the gaping stare of disbelief that no one is offering their opinion so that it can be pummelled, and also because I like to hear my own voice), and solemnly vow never to open their own mouths.

Because you're damned if you do, and dummies if you don't.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Because I need to get this off my chest

Dear Malaspina University-College,

Firstly, I didn’t know that there were any other university-colleges. I thought it was something the University College of the Fraser Valley had made up so that they wouldn’t feel quite so bad about not being a real university. And I would feel some sort of solidarity with you over this if I didn’t hate you so much.

Because, see, here’s the thing , I totally do.

I had to hang out with you all weekend, and you know what they say familiarity breeds (hint, because you don’t, because you’re an idiot: it's contempt). There are so many things about you that are terrible. You have the tiniest, darkest cesspool of a gym in all of BC. Granted, it used to be an aircraft hangar, which is historically awesome and kind of aesthetically interesting, but as a gymnasium it’s an impractical mess. And I know you know this. You know that you’re on the lower socio-economic scale of gymnasiums, because you’ve played in other gyms, and you know that they have things like lights, and seats. You can only seat, like, a dozen people, which is fine, really, because that's about the number of people that want to be there.

You know that no one wants to come to your gym anyways, let alone pay you eight dollars (four if they lie by omission and let you believe they’re still in high school) to sit on your hard, splintery bleachers just so they can watch their husband play the last damn volleyball games of his career. Where do you get off, then, cordoning half of your seats and labeling them ‘Mal-U Students Only’? This is like me inviting you to my house (under duress) and then dropping ‘Kruegers only' signs on all my couches, and then making you walk around until you find a seat that isn’t reserved. You think that’s good hosting? Making the first thing I see a giant ‘You Can’t Sit Here’ sign? Since you obviously do have to block off your students due to their douche-baggery (this is, honest, the reason we were given for the designated section), why not put them in the second set of bleachers? You can see from there just fine, and that way the first thing I’ll see when I walk in is a place to sit, and the second thing I’ll see is a sign indicating that I’ll be spared sitting with your reprehensible student body.

Your students are total ass-hats. Again, I know you know this. When we threw down the gauntlet and insisted on sitting in the Mal-U section, because to hell with your signs, we were politely but firmly informed that we should move, because every Mal student worth his or her salt was currently at the pub (it was 2:30 in the afternoon) and would be arriving at 3:00 for the Mal – Douglas game, and that that section would become rather R-rated. And I know that college students have a right, almost an obligation, to get falling-down drunk in the middle of the afternoon and then come out and support their fellow students. Fine. Most schools have a few who go above and beyond the usual call of enthusiasm (read: boozery), but your school has more than their fare share. By which I mean, all of them. And it’s one thing to support your own team, but to relentlessly abuse your opponents and the officials? Do you not have enough faith in your team to win on their own, you have to go pounding your drums every time we hit the ball? You have to yell things I can’t even repeat on my blog, they’re too rude? You should! Your men's and women's teams are both really, really good. Let them win on their own, without making total fools of yourselves. Although, I can’t begin to express the deep psychological pleasure I got from having a guy ask me which school I was from so I could say UCFV so he could say where? So I could say oh, we’re the team that beat you guys out last weekend and took your number-one spot in the league. Yes? Remember us now? Eat it.

And another thing I hate about your gym – it’s too damn hot! Open a wall or something! Every other gym keeps their temperature at a healthy -30° so that the players are comfortable and the fans can all sit huddling in their winter jacket. That’s how we like it. All I brought was sweaters! Who are you to change the heating rules?

And another thing, why is one of your ball-boys nine years old? I’m not even joking, he could not have broken double digits. This is the provincial championships, not some mickey mouse operation. If your event staff can’t drink, they should at least be old enough to drive.

Oh yeah, and your gym is too damn far from the parking lot. What the hell? Why should I have to walk for ten minutes in the pouring rain (alright, it was a beautiful sunny day and I rather enjoyed the walk, but last year when you hosted Nationals [again, what the hell?] it poured rain and I got soaked and had to sit in your hot, dark, stinking hole of a gym with damp jeans).

Oh, and your concession stand sucks. Why would you pop your popcorn and then just let it sit there, getting cold and greasy? Why not leave it in the popper until someone wants some, and then fill a bag and butter it? And also, I’m not paying $4 for a bowl of your crap chili.

Oh, and in the half-dozen games that I watched, play had to be stopped eight times because your score-keepers couldn't get their shit together. And if your announcer can't pronounce a simple name like 'Togeretz' then he should be fired.

In short, everything about you sucks. You are the bottom-feeder of university-colleges. I hope your mom at least thinks you’re cool.

PS: I have spent the entire weekend drenched in college sports. My language will clean itself up directly.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

My baby's first trip

Joel has spent approximately half of the weekends between here and last October (excluding Christmas) on volleyball road trips, which is fine. Since we're never home at the same time anyways, I'm used to puttering around by myself, and the only real trouble comes when it's time to go to bed, because I don't know when that is. That's one of those things I can only now decide in a collective.

For the most part, I usually go out with friends when Joel's gone, or go hang out upstairs with my landlords, and then I come home and spend some time with my laptop (whom I love) before picking up a book and a bag of chips and heading to bed, because I can eat in bed, because I'm the only one in it.

This weekend, though, Joel asked if he could borrow my laptop and bring it with him to Provincials, since they'll be gone from the afternoon today until the morning Sunday and he has more than a few things coming up due. I said no.

- You need it to take notes in class?

- ...Actually, no. I don't use it for my afternoon class today nor my evening class tomorrow, and the class I have tomorrow morning where I would usually use it has been cancelled.

- So I can bring it?

- Well, crap. Yes.

But it makes me so nervous, see. I have no problem lending my laptop out to people, and this fact has probably contributed to the overwhelming number of viruses I've contracted over the years, but for it to take the ferry and go all the way over to the Island by itself, without me to look out for it? What if it gets stolen? Or someone spills a Slushee on Joel's duffel bag? Because obviously that sort of thing wouldn't happen if I was there to keep an eye out.

Joel came to kiss be goodbye before he left to meet up with the rest of the team, and after I told him to drive safe and play hard and earn my love, I bent down and whispered 'Godspeed, little laptop. Godspeed.'

Monday, February 18, 2008


Have you ever been BINGO-ing?

You need to go.

I tell you, there is no better way to spend five dollars and two-and-a-half hours (they just flew by) than with a roomful of old people and their bingo-dabbers. I went last night with a dozen or so friends, and you could tell the regulars were just seething, especially when Dan won the first round. He was the only one of us to win anything, but that detracts nothing from the awesome, soothing/stressful joy of seeking out letter-number combinations and dabbing them.

For me, it was all the fun of competition without any of the bother of trying. For some other people, that's what drove them nuts. You have that same sense of need-to-win but there's nothing you can DO to win. If your card sucks, it sucks, and that's that.

One of the ladies circling the tables was quite adept at dealing with newbies. She'd come over between games and tell us what was going to happen next, what we were expected to do, whether it was a 'special' round (those cards cost an extra 50 cents, but the pots were higher) and how to play. Bingo is hard, people. You're not just getting a line, and then going to see who can get blackout. It'll be, like, any three lines but not counting your free squares, or any blocks of six but they can't overlap, and that's the most stressful part, the taking a second to look around your 9-card square to see if you're even getting close, because you're not sure you'd recognize a 'half-card' when you saw it.

The other most stressful part was the other lady toddling around the tables. She was quite a bit older, and clearly had no experience dealing with non-bingo-savvy guests. She'd come up to my elbow in the middle of the game while I'm frantically searching out all my B-9's and be like 'Do you want a blue card?'

Me: *dab, dab* What's it for?

Her: It's to win a prize.

Me: *dab, dab dab* How do I play?

Her: You have to get it stamped.

Me: *dab* What was that last number? 0-68? do I get it stamped? *dab dab*

Her: By one of the employees.

Me:...Serious? I have no B-4's on any of my cards? Um...I don't follow. The employees stamp it, and then I win a prize? Do I have to get...I-18 or 19? 19? Do I have to get all the employees to stamp it? Is it like a scavenger hunt?

Her: *shocked* No! You get one stamp every time you come.

Me: *dab DAB dab* Oh, it's like a frequent bingo-er card. No thanks, *dab* I don't bingo that often.

Her: Ok. *moves on to Dan beside me* Do you want a blue card?

Dan: What's it for?

Her: It's to win a prize.

So Dan won $30 and the rest of us spent around $7, which is not a bad deal for an evening's entertainment. I can see how the bingo hall draws in so many people, night after night. It's pretty addictive. Luckily, there are pamphlets for the Time Out Voluntary Self-Exclusion Program strategically placed at all the tables. So you can kick yourself out.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Meal replacements

I've been trying to eat more salads lately, because they're good for you, and because if I eat a salad, I feel more justified in eating a box of Valentine's chocolates later. But I don't like them. They're full of vegetables, and vegetables are gross, and I'm always starving twenty minutes later. But I realized that if you add chick peas to them, they taste better and you're fuller longer. And then I realized that if you add black beans to them, they taste better still, and you're fuller even longer. Eventually, when I go to eat a 'salad' I'll really just be indulging in a sort of cold chili. With dressing.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Return of the Camera, Pt. I

Alright, liebchens, I am back. I have written two midterms, one essay, and several short assignments, AND I fixed my camera. Now I can share with you all those lovely pictures I took of my brother's wedding.

In a recent email, my aunt called Bekah and I 'trouble making shit disturbing 'back of the church' rehearsal rebels,' which is not all true. We started the wedding rehersal (as the pictures will clearly show) at the front of the church, and then were sent to the back because of all the trouble-making and shit-disturbing we were doing. But we couldn't help it, because look how hilarious we are.

I know, hilarious, right? And really, we tried to keep it together and amuse ourselves quietly, but then this happened.

Look at this picture. No, really look at it. Look at Bekah's eyes. They point in opposite directions! Not like this:

Anyone can do that. They point in the other opposite directions! Look closer!!!!!!!!

I know! It was totally worth her coming with me. For both of us.

Return of the Camera, Pt. II

And then I lost camera privileges because I very obviously wasn't taking any candid shots, like I was supposed to be doing, and so my mom went around snapping pictures of people mid-sentence or from far away and the only really good photos are this one (the bridesmaids were practicing their shoes) and this one (so were the groomsmen). (So were me and boo. Boo says I have the feet of a Texas hooker. But I don't.)

H'anyvays, then me and boo stole the camera back and took unflattering shots of ourselves from beneath

and action shots of us blinking

We manually corrected the flaws in our noses (hers is too long and mine is too blobby)

And tried to capture on film just how much shorter Tom is than Nathan (answer: a lot).

AND we took some candid shots. Check it.

Not totally useless after all.

Return of the Camera, Pt. III

And THEN after all this hoo-hah, we still had a wedding to go to. I'm not going to lie, I got one picture of the bride and groom, and it's not even good.

See? That's Matt's surly face. But see how pretty Gillian is? And see what a winning couple boo and Darren are?

And see how endearing my grandparents are?

And see how patiently my dad explains food to my grandma?

And see how handsome my husband is?

And how gorgeous my neighbor?

And how dashing my brother?

And how beautiful my steak?

Ahh, what a steak. Steak, I will never forget you. Mashed potatoes, you weren't half bad either.

Return of the Camera, Pt. IV

H'anyvays, I totally fixed my camera by accident, but the only reason I started fiddling around with it again was because I wanted to show you something. It all started this all started last night, because I had to work on a paper until 2:00 this morning, and then get up at 7:00 to finish it before class. I was sitting in the office this morning typing away, and I heard a noise in the kitchen that sounded very much like Joel pouring my coffee for me.

'That's sweet,' I thought to myself. 'It's Valentines Day and he's bringing me my coffee.' Several minutes went by, and I began to think I'd been mistaken, and that I should probably get up and get my coffee my ownself before it got that burnt taste from sitting too long on the heating coil.

But then the door opened and Joel walked in, mug in hand. It was like nothing so much as when small children make breakfast in bed for their parents, and then carry it to them with tiny, cautious steps because they're afraid of spilling, except that this was a grown man and all he had was a cup of coffee that he'd accidentally filled to the brim. Rather than pour some out or slurp it off, he'd baby-stepped down the hall to bring it to me. Sweetness.

I had totally let him off the hook, Valentines Day-wise because, whatever, it's a long story and who really cares anyways. Bringing me my coffee and taking me to Taco del Mar tomorrow, when we finally have time, is enough lovin' for me. Except that when I finally peeled myself off of the paper-writing chair to bring my coffee cup back to the kitchen, I saw this.

The note says something nice about him loving me forever, or something. The chocolates are extra-cacao, just how I like them.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

All quiet...

Hey kids, sorry for the silence on this end. Every semester has that week where everything converges, and sleep and proper nutrition sneak off for a weekend in Vegas. This is 'that week' and I had a midterm yesterday and one this morning, and I have a huge paper and several small assignments due Thursday. I know, all I ever do is harp on how busy I am, so I'll shut it now. Just wanted you to know that you were lost, but not forgotten...

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Is there a gene for 'clumsy'?

My dad could cut himself on a cotton ball.

I am his daughter.

Joel and I were chatting with my mom last weekend, and the whole I-got-my-hand-caught-in-a-Kitchen-Aide incident came into play.

'Did you hear about this?' Joel says to my mom.

'Oh, well, she comes by it honestly,' she replies, and then launches into a story of how my dad hurt himself on some seemingly innocuous household tool.

Yesterday, she mentioned in an email that my dad had sprained his ankle, to which I replied, 'How? Chasing Koala? Getting out of bed?' Because he would.

Twenty minutes later, I was reaching into the washing machine to pull out some wet towels, and then nail on my middle finger bent back, about two millimeters below that line where your nail leaves the nail bed. And stayed that way. I had to stare at it and scream a little bit before I could push it flat again. Now there's a dark red line arcing across my nail bed, and a little bit of sub-nail bleeding. I'd take a picture and show you, but again, broken camera.

Papa, I feel your pain. Let us go and live in a down-feather world, safe from all sharp objects and table legs.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Greyhound - We're...On Our Way? Eventually?

Ok, so, the Greyhound.

I live about a 15-minute walk from the Greyhound, and I usually leave the house at 9:45 to get there by 10 to catch the 10:25 bus, because you're supposed to do that and travel stresses me out and so I like to do things the way there supposed to be done, as though that would lessen some of the stress. So, a number of weeks ago I get to the Greyhound station just before 10, buy my ticket, and settle in to read my book and eat my snacks and wait my half-hour. An hour goes by. A handful of people drift in between 10:25 and 11, when the bus actually shows up.

'Uh, sorry folks,' says the mild-mannered if mildly-dull Greyhound driver. 'I only have room for 11 people.' I rapidly counted heads in front of me, and phew, I'm #11, and sucks to everyone behind me but thems the breaks. Except that he'd miscounted the empty seats, and only had room for 9 people. So sucks to me.

Those of us not lucky enough to board the bus sulk back into the station, and it's only a minute or two before we realize that these are all the faces we'd exchanged courteous smiles with over an hour ago, when we'd bought our tickets. All the johnny-come-lately's, the 10:25-11 drifters who, had the bus been on time, would have missed it entirely - these are the people who grunted and elbowed their way to the front of the line and down to Vancouver. What douches.

And to make matters worse, the next bus isn't until 1:00, and to make matters worse, the lady at the counter is still selling tickets into Vancouver, which means that, should the 1:00 bus be anything but empty, we might miss our boat again. So a dozen or so seniors and I storm the front counter and rant and rail and shake our canes, and the lady phones the Greyhound Big Dogs to tell them that she has a bunch of angry people at her counter.

So they cab us into Vancouver. Which is nice of them, but I still don't get into Burnaby until around 3:00, when I should have been there at 1:00.

One week later, I am again at the Greyhound just before 10:00, waiting in line, buying a ticket, sitting down with my book and snacks. The station is eerily quiet, and I make casual mention of this to the ticket lady.

'Oh yes,' she says, 'the 9:00 bus just came five minutes before you got here, and took everyone.'

Well, rats. So I'm sitting and I'm waiting and I'm snacking and I'm reading, and then I overhear her say quietly into the phone:

'Ok, well, I'm just going to deal with the people in line and then I'll tell them.'

So I check my watch and it's nearly 11:00, so I head to the counter and ask the lady if she's heard from the bus, which is rude because there's still a line-up of people, but I'm a little angry because I know she has and isn't telling us just yet. The bus is stuck out in Hope, the roads are blocked, Chilliwack has no buses to spare, they're not sure when it'll be through, we all just have to wait.

I know, I could go home now, but it's uphill all the way, and then I'd miss the bus for sure, and I have to go to Burnaby because Gillian's shower is that evening, so I hunker down to wait, and the bus finally breaks through and shows up at around noon. I get to Burnaby at around 3:00.

As I mentioned yesterday, I finally managed to beat the Greyhound at their own game, except not really. I always catch the 10:25 bus because I like to go to the gym on Friday mornings, and 9:45 is the earliest I can conceivably finish gymming and showering and packing so I can leave the house on time. Last Friday, however, I managed to catch the 9:00 bus.

Except that I caught it at 10:15!!! I have no idea when the 10:25 bus came (my guess is...about now), but the 9:00 bus was so tardy that I was able to cool my heels for a quarter of an hour, and then climb aboard. Take that, Greyhound. Your inexpressibly bad service moved my arrival up by 10 minutes!

So...about learning to drive...

Tuesday, February 05, 2008


What's up, kids! I know, it's been ages. But I've been muuy busy. My brother got married, see, and I was making a dress for the wedding because I found this fabulous grey pseudo-wool for super-cheap, on account of it being an 'unknown fiber' and me only guessing about it being pseudo-wool. So I've spent most of my spare seconds of the past week or so plugging away at this dress, leaving fabric shards and thread clippings ALL over the house (Joel, bless his heart, vacuumed yesterday, and then told me I wasn't allowed to do any more sewing, it being hard on both our carpet and my sanity). The dress ended up being lumpy-bumpy all up one side, and in repeated efforts to smooth it out I ended up making it super-mad-tight, and then I affixed the straps a little crooked so that my side-boob spilled all out from the one armpit. I know. You are so horribly crushed that my camera is, how you say, le broke, and I can't get the pictures off of it to show you. You are all dying to see my lumpy grey elephant body, and my side-boob.

Ok, so the dress was made and on Friday morning and I headed off to catch the Greyhound, and I can feel in my bones that this post is going to be a long one so I'll save for later the stories of how the Greyhound's been successively screwing me over, and how I finally beat them at their own game, only sort of. Suffice it to say that I survived the trip to Burnaby, and my sister survived our shoe-shopping adventure even though I'm a picky bitch, and I survived the fact that the world's sassiest pair of shoes only comes in sizes six and eight-and-a-half (for the record, I am a seven).

I made Boo come to the rehearsal with me, because I had to be there because I was reading Scripture in the ceremony (OH my nerves), but I knew I'd be bored silly without her, and we both 'practiced' our heels and then regretted it the next day when we went to slide them on and they fit nicely onto the little grooves and blisters they'd carved the day before. Life and learn.

They made us sit in the back of the church while the rehearsal was going on, because we were being 'disruptive,' and then my mom confiscated my camera because I was supposed to be taking candid pictures of the rehearsal, but all I ended up with was this gem of my sister going wall-eyed. Who knew?

The morning of the wedding dawned horrible and snowy, and so Joel had to bring my grandparents in from Abbotsford, jaws-of-life-ing Irene into the back seat of our little two-door. Joel and I cut quite a dashing figure, he in his well-seasoned wedding suit, and me in my grey wool sausage-casing. My dad's been eating salads for a week to fit back into his wedding suit, and my mom looked like Audrey Hepburn in Breafast at Tiffany's. Bekah wore a dress and heels for the first time since grade school (and the 'heels' she wore then were more what you call 'platforms') and Darren found a suit long enough for his body. As I suppose is appropriate, Matt looked better than any of us, all shiny tux and silver tie.

Again, as is probably appropriate, everyone else's carefully-curled hair and hastily-shined shoes faded into the background when Gillian swept into the room on her father's arm. Oh mercy, I'm getting all misty-eyed just writing this. Looking suddenly very grown-up instead of like my brother's adorable girlfriend, she strode up to take her place by his side. Luckily for her, she and her maid of honor and my brother all had kleenex secreted about their persons. Luckily for me and every woman within a fifty-foot radius, we had our hankies and our sleeves and whatever, it isn't our wedding anyways so go ahead and use your scarf.

So, highlights of the crazy Catholic neighbor called my uncle's fiancee by his ex-wife's name TO HER FACE! Shocking! My mom introduced her mother-of-the-groom speech as 'being brought to you courtesy of the alcohol,' and then went on to admit that, being Mennonite through and through, she struggled between abstinance and a good deal (i.e. the free booze). HA! Tipsy-mom is hilarious-mom. My crazy Catholic neighbor's gorgeous daughter showed up in a flowy 70's muumuu, my cousin and her stunt-man-dentist boyfriend escaped the clutches of their needy dog-child to make an appearance, and the steak was amazing.

And then, as the night was drawing to a close, the crowd clinked their glasses for one last kiss. Instead of sucking faces like they'd been doing, Matt kissed Gillian quickly and sweetly on the lips before pulling her to him, hugging her and grinning like the lucky idiot he knows he is.