Feces Face
Mark and I are Roxy-sitting. I’ve been bugging Mark for more one-on-one romantic time together, so Mark says, “Why don’t we take Roxy for a walk?” (He knows walks are romantic). Of course, I excitedly agree.
So we start walking.
Suddenly, Roxy is chewing on something hard. Mark has seen it in the instant before it entered her mouth. It is a piece of hard shit.
Mark is absolutely disgusted!
“ROXY!” He races toward her, obviously hoping she’ll just drop it. She continues to chew away intently with the turd in her mouth. Now if a dog eats something ELSE (anything else really) that she shouldn’t, a good owner will stick his or her hand into the dog’s mouth to retrieve it. It’s kind of grimy, but that’s what is done. I could see the thought cross Mark’s mind. Then he decided that although he clearly didn't want Roxy to eat the poop, there was NO way he was fishing after it with his hand.
He put his hand on her and she looked up at him (almost smiling) and continued to chew happily.
He lifted her up.
She kept chewing (let’s face it, by now she was almost done).
Then he kind of tried to turn her upside down and shake her, obviously hoping she’d drop it out of her mouth.
Roxy swallowed.
I was practically in tears I was laughing so hard at Mark’s horrified expression.
On the way home, Mark began to reconsider everything in his pre-existing dog-owning schema, “I might not be ready for a dog yet, Melissa.”
“I understand, Sweetie.”
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Marvellous Misunderstandings
Mark’s staff party last June had an added twist. There was a surprise component in which his staff presented Mark and I with a wedding gift certificate. In addition, they dressed him up in bows and a parasol and gave him gag gifts (see earlier blog). One such gift, which was the obvious crowd-pleaser, was The Idiot’s Guide to Kama Sutra. A scary, older co-worker of Mark’s, (we’ll call her Nanna), who has a strange, eery and unwelcome flirtatious air about her, was very VERY entranced with this book. She pored over it for hours during the festivities.
Upon returning to school this past week, Mark ran into Nanna. The following conversation ensued.
Nanna says with a sideways smile, “You were funny at the party.”
Mark smiles awkwardly back, “It was fun.” (Because what else do you say to creepy old lady who has ulterior motives?)
“Have you taken a good look at that book yet?” She is obviously referring to the Kama Sutra book. Mark thinks she is talking about When Kids Can’t Read by Kylene Boers.
“Uh, I hadn’t really thought about it much.”
“Finding it useful?”
“I guess” Mark says, wondering where this conversation is going. She doesn’t usually show so much interest in pedagogy so early into the school year.
“Did you already know all that stuff in it?” She asks slyly.
“Uh……some of it.”
She grins at him and winks, “I knew ALL of it.”
The conversation ends. Nanna thinks she has firmly planted a sexual proposition into a cute young (albeit newly MARRIED) teacher’s mind. Mark thinks Nanna must be very serious about student learning.
Mark’s staff party last June had an added twist. There was a surprise component in which his staff presented Mark and I with a wedding gift certificate. In addition, they dressed him up in bows and a parasol and gave him gag gifts (see earlier blog). One such gift, which was the obvious crowd-pleaser, was The Idiot’s Guide to Kama Sutra. A scary, older co-worker of Mark’s, (we’ll call her Nanna), who has a strange, eery and unwelcome flirtatious air about her, was very VERY entranced with this book. She pored over it for hours during the festivities.
Upon returning to school this past week, Mark ran into Nanna. The following conversation ensued.
Nanna says with a sideways smile, “You were funny at the party.”
Mark smiles awkwardly back, “It was fun.” (Because what else do you say to creepy old lady who has ulterior motives?)
“Have you taken a good look at that book yet?” She is obviously referring to the Kama Sutra book. Mark thinks she is talking about When Kids Can’t Read by Kylene Boers.
“Uh, I hadn’t really thought about it much.”
“Finding it useful?”
“I guess” Mark says, wondering where this conversation is going. She doesn’t usually show so much interest in pedagogy so early into the school year.
“Did you already know all that stuff in it?” She asks slyly.
“Uh……some of it.”
She grins at him and winks, “I knew ALL of it.”
The conversation ends. Nanna thinks she has firmly planted a sexual proposition into a cute young (albeit newly MARRIED) teacher’s mind. Mark thinks Nanna must be very serious about student learning.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Mr. Gray Briefs
(No appropriate picture)
Mark and I went to view a house in Burlington the other night. It was kind of funny because we wanted to seem like we weren’t complete newbys, so I had a clipboard to write things down on and we were trying not to just get caught up in the loveliness of the hardwood, but also to be critical of countertops and to look for foundation cracks and all that jazz. We wanted to be very thorough. We brought a digital camera to take pictures, even though it remained stuffed deep in my pocket the whole time.
When the lady of the house opened the door, we could hear a screaming child in the background. Not just crying but SCREAMING. Apparently he had pooped himself and there’d been some disagreement about whether the soiled diaper should be removed and a clean one re-applied. So she said they’d just be in the basement while we wandered around the house. We carefully wandered through the living room, sunroom, dining room and kitchen. We oohed and aahed over the back porch and the french doors. We envisioned having friends over for barbecues there. Then we carefully climbed the beautiful wooden staircase and marveled over the newly renovated bathrooms. We took our time to look out each window and examine the view. I even made note of which direction each window was facing. When we were in the master suite, we could hear voices in the back yard – the family had moved out there and they were eating popsicles and, I imagined, trying to stay out of our way. So we went downstairs, then continued to the finished basement, imagining ourselves to be the only people inside at this point.
In the basement, we immediately noticed how the Mr of the house had installed a screen and an LCD projector as well as surround-sound in order to have the full movie/sports experience. And off the main room was a laundry room and storage, as well as another small room which had been decorated as a child’s playroom. There were little colourful stools and small built-in shelves filled with toys and a small television perched on a dresser. It was on. We wandered into the room to examine the storage cupboards and I turned to my left and was stopped dead in my tracks by a chunky little half-naked boy lounging quietly on a small foam sofa in front of the t.v. He’d been around a corner, so we hadn’t seen him right away when we’d entered. He was certainly tubby, about four years old, and wearing only little gray briefs. He was slouched down on his little pint-size sofa with one arm slung over his head. I had clapped my hand to my chest in surprise and I said to him, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did we scare you?”
He looked at me calmly and just shook his head and went on watching his cartoons.
But of course, it puts a strange kind of tension on the close examination of a play room when there is a nearly-nude little boy lying in the room with you. So we just took a token look-around and then said, “Well. It looks very nice in here. Thanks.” to which he just nodded a casual farewell.
(No appropriate picture)
Mark and I went to view a house in Burlington the other night. It was kind of funny because we wanted to seem like we weren’t complete newbys, so I had a clipboard to write things down on and we were trying not to just get caught up in the loveliness of the hardwood, but also to be critical of countertops and to look for foundation cracks and all that jazz. We wanted to be very thorough. We brought a digital camera to take pictures, even though it remained stuffed deep in my pocket the whole time.
When the lady of the house opened the door, we could hear a screaming child in the background. Not just crying but SCREAMING. Apparently he had pooped himself and there’d been some disagreement about whether the soiled diaper should be removed and a clean one re-applied. So she said they’d just be in the basement while we wandered around the house. We carefully wandered through the living room, sunroom, dining room and kitchen. We oohed and aahed over the back porch and the french doors. We envisioned having friends over for barbecues there. Then we carefully climbed the beautiful wooden staircase and marveled over the newly renovated bathrooms. We took our time to look out each window and examine the view. I even made note of which direction each window was facing. When we were in the master suite, we could hear voices in the back yard – the family had moved out there and they were eating popsicles and, I imagined, trying to stay out of our way. So we went downstairs, then continued to the finished basement, imagining ourselves to be the only people inside at this point.
In the basement, we immediately noticed how the Mr of the house had installed a screen and an LCD projector as well as surround-sound in order to have the full movie/sports experience. And off the main room was a laundry room and storage, as well as another small room which had been decorated as a child’s playroom. There were little colourful stools and small built-in shelves filled with toys and a small television perched on a dresser. It was on. We wandered into the room to examine the storage cupboards and I turned to my left and was stopped dead in my tracks by a chunky little half-naked boy lounging quietly on a small foam sofa in front of the t.v. He’d been around a corner, so we hadn’t seen him right away when we’d entered. He was certainly tubby, about four years old, and wearing only little gray briefs. He was slouched down on his little pint-size sofa with one arm slung over his head. I had clapped my hand to my chest in surprise and I said to him, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did we scare you?”
He looked at me calmly and just shook his head and went on watching his cartoons.
But of course, it puts a strange kind of tension on the close examination of a play room when there is a nearly-nude little boy lying in the room with you. So we just took a token look-around and then said, “Well. It looks very nice in here. Thanks.” to which he just nodded a casual farewell.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Rizo-smile
I am always quoting random bits of science-geeko-trivia only half-expecting that anyone is interested or listening or internalizing the useful information to any extent. My poor husband, although we've only known each other for five years, has obviously been subject to a high density of these quirky comments.
For instance, I spent all of the third year of my University degree in a Human Anatomy class learning all the skeletal muscles of the body. In this class, we learned about a wee little muscle called Rizorius (or Risorius) that is located in your mid-cheek and pulls the corners of your mouth out horizontally. When studying Rizorius, our professor pointed out that this little guy creates the fake smile we've all been subjected to at some point in their lives. So sometime years ago, when my husband gave me an obviously fake smile, I told him about Rizorius.
Today, I realized that all this time, all the random bits of uber-geeky-trivia, he has been internalizing, when he flashed me his exagerrated faker smile and said, "Rizorius!"
Note:
Wikipedia says, "The risorius retracts the angle of the mouth to produce a smile, albeit an insincere-looking one that does not involve the skin around the eyes. Compare with a real smile, which raises the lips with the action of zygomaticus major and zygomaticus minor muscles and causes "crow's feet" around the eyes using the orbicularis oculi muscles.
See diagram above.
Wedding Harlot
Abby and I have the best conversations.
We were playing Dora the Princess together on her living room floor and I asked her, "Where is your pink sash?" (The one she wore around her waist when she was a flower girl at our wedding).
She saddened and said, "I lost it."
Then her eyes lit up and she said, "But I had it at your WEDDING!"
Then she began to recount the key details of the day, "Do you remember there were cupcakes?"
"Yes, I do, Abby."
"Do you remember how you wore a big dress?"
"Yes. I did."
"And Mark was there?"
"Yes, Abby."
"And you had no shirt on!" she added gleefully.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Face-what?
I have held off on doing the facebook-dissing blog for several reasons. First of all, it makes me seem old and uncool to not just be lapping up these “social tools” and ways to waste my time (for the record, I have a Neopet named Gazuntheit and I LOVE wasting time earning Neopoints in Neoworld!). Secondly, I think it’s probably been done – you know – the whole rant-against-facebook and my-space and what-is-this-world-coming-to bit.
Anyway, my blog is less about distaste or dislike for facebook and more about awe and wonder. I understood the premise at first – we look up people we haven’t seen in a long time (and sometimes share no similarities with any more) and we drop a message of sheer delight OH-MY-GOD-HOW-HAVE-YOU-BEEEEEEEEEEN? And spend a few more messages gossiping about who’s married and who has kids and who’s already divorced and who finally got out of that god-foresaken town and who didn’t, then go back to mostly unrelated parallel existences.
THEN, I discovered that people share pictures on facebook. Well, THAT seems like a pretty good reason to sign up. You get to see friends’ pictures and their lives. Then you can see friends of friends through pictures and see who’s gotten fat and who’s finally cleaned himself up and who’s got a ring on her finger etc. You can see who is traveling the world. And you can be reminded, through tagged pictures, of people you once were friends with and then add THEM to your friends list. Then you get more and more friends added to your facebook friends list and you start to feel a lot more popular than you ever were in high school.
Now, I never became completely adept at navigating the facebook webpage. I kind of understand posting stuff on a friend’s wall and sending them messages, but the part where I get confused is when people start to send me gifts. They send me free gifts like noodle bowls and pictures of cups of tea. That’s nice. Getting a gift is always nice. But I’m not completely sure what I DO with the gifts except that maybe I just accumulate and display them on my profile page along with my plethora of friends. Then I began to receive plants that start off just looking like a mysterious pot but later bloom into flowers. This is quite fun. This social tool of making each other feel loved with virtual houseplants.
And there are games too! There are quizzes to see if you’re similar to someone else based on whether you prefer to go wind surfing in the Carribean or bungee jump from a skyscraper or gnaw your own leg off at the knee or sit at home and pick your nose on a Saturday night. People share songs with me and they tell me their favourite movies and write book reports on facebook. They can do anything through facebook. Why would you even leave the house any more?
And today, I even received a strawberry daiquiri through facebook.
It was virtually delicious!
I have held off on doing the facebook-dissing blog for several reasons. First of all, it makes me seem old and uncool to not just be lapping up these “social tools” and ways to waste my time (for the record, I have a Neopet named Gazuntheit and I LOVE wasting time earning Neopoints in Neoworld!). Secondly, I think it’s probably been done – you know – the whole rant-against-facebook and my-space and what-is-this-world-coming-to bit.
Anyway, my blog is less about distaste or dislike for facebook and more about awe and wonder. I understood the premise at first – we look up people we haven’t seen in a long time (and sometimes share no similarities with any more) and we drop a message of sheer delight OH-MY-GOD-HOW-HAVE-YOU-BEEEEEEEEEEN? And spend a few more messages gossiping about who’s married and who has kids and who’s already divorced and who finally got out of that god-foresaken town and who didn’t, then go back to mostly unrelated parallel existences.
THEN, I discovered that people share pictures on facebook. Well, THAT seems like a pretty good reason to sign up. You get to see friends’ pictures and their lives. Then you can see friends of friends through pictures and see who’s gotten fat and who’s finally cleaned himself up and who’s got a ring on her finger etc. You can see who is traveling the world. And you can be reminded, through tagged pictures, of people you once were friends with and then add THEM to your friends list. Then you get more and more friends added to your facebook friends list and you start to feel a lot more popular than you ever were in high school.
Now, I never became completely adept at navigating the facebook webpage. I kind of understand posting stuff on a friend’s wall and sending them messages, but the part where I get confused is when people start to send me gifts. They send me free gifts like noodle bowls and pictures of cups of tea. That’s nice. Getting a gift is always nice. But I’m not completely sure what I DO with the gifts except that maybe I just accumulate and display them on my profile page along with my plethora of friends. Then I began to receive plants that start off just looking like a mysterious pot but later bloom into flowers. This is quite fun. This social tool of making each other feel loved with virtual houseplants.
And there are games too! There are quizzes to see if you’re similar to someone else based on whether you prefer to go wind surfing in the Carribean or bungee jump from a skyscraper or gnaw your own leg off at the knee or sit at home and pick your nose on a Saturday night. People share songs with me and they tell me their favourite movies and write book reports on facebook. They can do anything through facebook. Why would you even leave the house any more?
And today, I even received a strawberry daiquiri through facebook.
It was virtually delicious!
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Too much time on one's hands
Disclaimer: Non-teaching readers may find the following blog entry offensive and ridiculous
You know you have too much time on your hands when....
1. You find yourself visiting www.brainfall.com to see which Peanuts character you are most similar to
2. You have seen so many episodes of 90210 that you and your husband recite mini-Brenda-Brandon-dialogues without error
3. You check your e-mail so often that your computer has gone from saying "No new messages" to "Get a frickin' life!"
4. You have been contemplating the design and creation of a trophy for your frequent Settlers of Catan tournaments. It would be the Catan Cup.
5. You made curtains for a car the other day.
6. You have seen all the Law and Order episodes ever made.
7. You lost your watch a month ago and haven't missed it.
8. You are begging your stepmom to let you help her plan her upcoming wedding.
9. You have no idea what day of the week it is any more.
10. You have no NEED to know what day of the week it is.
Long Live the Summer!
Disclaimer: Non-teaching readers may find the following blog entry offensive and ridiculous
You know you have too much time on your hands when....
1. You find yourself visiting www.brainfall.com to see which Peanuts character you are most similar to
2. You have seen so many episodes of 90210 that you and your husband recite mini-Brenda-Brandon-dialogues without error
3. You check your e-mail so often that your computer has gone from saying "No new messages" to "Get a frickin' life!"
4. You have been contemplating the design and creation of a trophy for your frequent Settlers of Catan tournaments. It would be the Catan Cup.
5. You made curtains for a car the other day.
6. You have seen all the Law and Order episodes ever made.
7. You lost your watch a month ago and haven't missed it.
8. You are begging your stepmom to let you help her plan her upcoming wedding.
9. You have no idea what day of the week it is any more.
10. You have no NEED to know what day of the week it is.
Long Live the Summer!
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Dean and its wrath
A month ago, I am so very ashamed to say, I did not know where the Yucatan Peninsula was. But two weeks ago, I got on a plane and flew there to spend a lavish and gluttanous week on the Riviera Maya, swimming and eating and Iguana-spying and Mayan ruin-siting. We got to know the people who live there locally and who work on the resorts and the tours. We saw how people can live much more simply than we live, with far fewer material possessions. So what a strange feeling it is, to watch the news, and see that Hurrican Dean is about to devastate our good friends on the Yuc. I won’t lie to you, it’s also quite sobering to realize that if we’d gone a week later, our honeymoon could have turned out quite differently. We have a lot to be thankful for.
A month ago, I am so very ashamed to say, I did not know where the Yucatan Peninsula was. But two weeks ago, I got on a plane and flew there to spend a lavish and gluttanous week on the Riviera Maya, swimming and eating and Iguana-spying and Mayan ruin-siting. We got to know the people who live there locally and who work on the resorts and the tours. We saw how people can live much more simply than we live, with far fewer material possessions. So what a strange feeling it is, to watch the news, and see that Hurrican Dean is about to devastate our good friends on the Yuc. I won’t lie to you, it’s also quite sobering to realize that if we’d gone a week later, our honeymoon could have turned out quite differently. We have a lot to be thankful for.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Big Orange Aprons
I hate Home Depot. I guess I don’t hate the idea of Home Depot, just the store itself. I hate the false promises of the commercials – that I will walk into the store with little expertise and big dreams (that’s kind of true) and that I will be instantly flocked to by helpful, smiley Home Depot employees proudly sporting orange aprons and wanting nothing more than to teach me all there is to know about (insert current home improvement project here).
Well, I remember when Mark and I decided to build our first wood-working project together – the record shelf – and we went to Home Depot to get supplies. We wandered aimlessly up and down aisles, not only not finding what we needed, but kind of uncertain what it was we were searching for and with no one to help us anywhere. Finally, after at least an hour of the torture, we abandoned our half-filled shopping cart and went to a good old local Home Hardware store where we were served and assisted instantly.
I always took that experience with a grain of salt. It could happen at one store (in Peterborough) for one project on any given day. But that’s no reason to shun a whole corporation who does make home renovations look extremely gratifying and fun in the commercials.
So I went to Home Depot yesterday. And I wandered for a bit on my own, determined to not NEED help. I soon realized that I wasn’t supposed to be pushing a shopping cart – what I actually needed was an orange trolley for wood. So I pushed THAT around for a while, and I found about a quarter of the wood I needed for the project I wanted to tackle from the book “The Complete Guide to Easy Woodworking Projects”. Then I realized I needed assistance. So I went to a cashier and asked if there was anyone who could help me. She paged someone and told me he’d be there soon. I waited. And waited. And waited. I could feel my pulse speeding up. I felt my blood pressure rising. I began to feel anxious. I stared at the project instructions in the book and became more and more confused. I tried to figure out the cost of the raw materials for the project, crunching numbers I didn’t have because I couldn’t locate them in the store. The cashier saw I was agitated. She paged the orange apron-ed helper again. I waited some more. I began to curse Home Depot under my breath (hence the first beginnings of this very blog entry).
FINALLY, a skinny fifteen year old in an orange apron appeared magically in front of me. I showed him the pieces I needed and asked if they had them. He took me to the place where I’d been searching. He asked me if I needed “actual” sizes or “nominal” sizes. I said I didn’t know what he’d just said. He just stared at me blankly and said he didn’t think they had the sizes I needed. I pointed to the bottom of my instructions where it said, “sizes commonly stocked by most wood supply stores”. He shrugged and said I should go to a REAL lumber store. I asked, “Do you know of any?” He said, “Nope. Just go home and look it up in a phone book or on the Internet.”
I went home fuming mad. I looked up “lumber stores” on the Internet.
What do you think came up?
Home Depot.
I hate Home Depot. I guess I don’t hate the idea of Home Depot, just the store itself. I hate the false promises of the commercials – that I will walk into the store with little expertise and big dreams (that’s kind of true) and that I will be instantly flocked to by helpful, smiley Home Depot employees proudly sporting orange aprons and wanting nothing more than to teach me all there is to know about (insert current home improvement project here).
Well, I remember when Mark and I decided to build our first wood-working project together – the record shelf – and we went to Home Depot to get supplies. We wandered aimlessly up and down aisles, not only not finding what we needed, but kind of uncertain what it was we were searching for and with no one to help us anywhere. Finally, after at least an hour of the torture, we abandoned our half-filled shopping cart and went to a good old local Home Hardware store where we were served and assisted instantly.
I always took that experience with a grain of salt. It could happen at one store (in Peterborough) for one project on any given day. But that’s no reason to shun a whole corporation who does make home renovations look extremely gratifying and fun in the commercials.
So I went to Home Depot yesterday. And I wandered for a bit on my own, determined to not NEED help. I soon realized that I wasn’t supposed to be pushing a shopping cart – what I actually needed was an orange trolley for wood. So I pushed THAT around for a while, and I found about a quarter of the wood I needed for the project I wanted to tackle from the book “The Complete Guide to Easy Woodworking Projects”. Then I realized I needed assistance. So I went to a cashier and asked if there was anyone who could help me. She paged someone and told me he’d be there soon. I waited. And waited. And waited. I could feel my pulse speeding up. I felt my blood pressure rising. I began to feel anxious. I stared at the project instructions in the book and became more and more confused. I tried to figure out the cost of the raw materials for the project, crunching numbers I didn’t have because I couldn’t locate them in the store. The cashier saw I was agitated. She paged the orange apron-ed helper again. I waited some more. I began to curse Home Depot under my breath (hence the first beginnings of this very blog entry).
FINALLY, a skinny fifteen year old in an orange apron appeared magically in front of me. I showed him the pieces I needed and asked if they had them. He took me to the place where I’d been searching. He asked me if I needed “actual” sizes or “nominal” sizes. I said I didn’t know what he’d just said. He just stared at me blankly and said he didn’t think they had the sizes I needed. I pointed to the bottom of my instructions where it said, “sizes commonly stocked by most wood supply stores”. He shrugged and said I should go to a REAL lumber store. I asked, “Do you know of any?” He said, “Nope. Just go home and look it up in a phone book or on the Internet.”
I went home fuming mad. I looked up “lumber stores” on the Internet.
What do you think came up?
Home Depot.
The Secret
This is a blog about a secret. A secret that I tried VERY hard to keep. A secret that I was doing a fairly good job of not telling (I didn’t tell it SEVERAL times) until yesterday. And then keeping the secret not only got difficult, it nearly became a DISASTER.
The difficult thing about the secret is that it is not MY secret. It is a secret that belongs to my friend, G. A friend’s secret is a true honour to be told, so you must cherish it. I was truly cherishing G’s secret. Our mutual friend, K, didn’t know G’s secret. And I wasn’t about to be the one to tell her (No, I thought, I must CHERISH this secret that G has told me).
But then yesterday something happened. K just guessed the secret! She just blurted it out in a matter-of-fact way to me. And then she asked me if it was true. And I am a terrible liar. I usually have the truth written all over my face. And I couldn’t help but smile and I tried to look away. But I had just blown G’s secret.
I felt awful. So I asked K to not tell G that she knew G’s secret.
But I am a terrible liar. (I think I might have mentioned that.)
So, I had to tell G that I had blown her secret. And it was fairly late at night, so I decided to write G an e-mail telling the story (perhaps she would find it comical if I told it right?). I sent it that night.
And I waited for her response.
The next evening, G was coming over for a visit. She phoned me to confirm. I said, “Have you checked your e-mail?”
She said, “No.”
I said, “Um……I think you’d better check your e-mail.”
She began to laugh (I think she knew that I was silly and she had an idea of what had happened). She said, “I’ll check my e-mail and then I’ll come over.”
So we hung up.
And a few minutes later, she was knocking on my door (Oh good, she still wants to be friends, I thought).
But she looked at me and said, “I didn’t get any e-mail from you.”
I got a very bad feeling in my stomach. I knew I had a sent an e-mail confessing the evening’s blunder. And I was pretty sure I’d send it to G. But what if….. what if I’d sent it to someone else? Impossible, you say? If you’re keeping tabs on my ridiculous life or my blog, you’ll know that I wrote a love e-mail to my now-husband and accidentally sent it to his dad a few months back. I envisioned accidentally sending this e-mail with G’s secret to EVERYONE.
Oh god. What have I done?
I finally had a chance to check my “Sent Mail” and I discovered that the e-mail I thought I’d sent G was actually, in fact, sent to G’s correct e-mail address. Perhaps the server is slow. The point is, I only blew the secret to K. And right now that feels like a small success.
(If you think I’m going to tell YOU the secret, you’re out of your MIND!)
This is a blog about a secret. A secret that I tried VERY hard to keep. A secret that I was doing a fairly good job of not telling (I didn’t tell it SEVERAL times) until yesterday. And then keeping the secret not only got difficult, it nearly became a DISASTER.
The difficult thing about the secret is that it is not MY secret. It is a secret that belongs to my friend, G. A friend’s secret is a true honour to be told, so you must cherish it. I was truly cherishing G’s secret. Our mutual friend, K, didn’t know G’s secret. And I wasn’t about to be the one to tell her (No, I thought, I must CHERISH this secret that G has told me).
But then yesterday something happened. K just guessed the secret! She just blurted it out in a matter-of-fact way to me. And then she asked me if it was true. And I am a terrible liar. I usually have the truth written all over my face. And I couldn’t help but smile and I tried to look away. But I had just blown G’s secret.
I felt awful. So I asked K to not tell G that she knew G’s secret.
But I am a terrible liar. (I think I might have mentioned that.)
So, I had to tell G that I had blown her secret. And it was fairly late at night, so I decided to write G an e-mail telling the story (perhaps she would find it comical if I told it right?). I sent it that night.
And I waited for her response.
The next evening, G was coming over for a visit. She phoned me to confirm. I said, “Have you checked your e-mail?”
She said, “No.”
I said, “Um……I think you’d better check your e-mail.”
She began to laugh (I think she knew that I was silly and she had an idea of what had happened). She said, “I’ll check my e-mail and then I’ll come over.”
So we hung up.
And a few minutes later, she was knocking on my door (Oh good, she still wants to be friends, I thought).
But she looked at me and said, “I didn’t get any e-mail from you.”
I got a very bad feeling in my stomach. I knew I had a sent an e-mail confessing the evening’s blunder. And I was pretty sure I’d send it to G. But what if….. what if I’d sent it to someone else? Impossible, you say? If you’re keeping tabs on my ridiculous life or my blog, you’ll know that I wrote a love e-mail to my now-husband and accidentally sent it to his dad a few months back. I envisioned accidentally sending this e-mail with G’s secret to EVERYONE.
Oh god. What have I done?
I finally had a chance to check my “Sent Mail” and I discovered that the e-mail I thought I’d sent G was actually, in fact, sent to G’s correct e-mail address. Perhaps the server is slow. The point is, I only blew the secret to K. And right now that feels like a small success.
(If you think I’m going to tell YOU the secret, you’re out of your MIND!)
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
S is a Woman of Iron
I have a story about a friend of mine. We’ll call her S.
She ran her first Half-Ironman just recently. For those of you who aren’t sure, a Half-Ironman consists of a 2 k swim, a 90 k bike followed by a half marathon (21.1 k run). It is called a half-ironman, but it requires all of the iron in a person. It is an incredibly difficult distance (I imagine, I’ve never attempted it but I have volunteered at a race and it LOOKS hard) with participants finishing anywhere between 3 hours and 8 hours. A half marathon alone takes me at least 2 hours and 11 minutes, and I have never run it after swimming 2 k and biking 90 k.
Anyway, S has been training very hard. She’d invested hours and hours of sweat and energy and time and will into this race (not to mention a fairly steep registration fee). So it was a terrible disappointment when, at the very end of the 90 k ride, she fell off the bike going at a fairly good speed (about 30kph) and broke her finger as well as dislocating it completely from the socket.
Other racers know that sometimes people need a little push, so as they passed the downed cyclist, they started yelling, “Get up! You can DO it! You’re only two kilometres from the transition point!”
So she did. S got up and got back on her bike and biked to the transition zone. She went straight to the medic who bandaged up her hand and said, “We need to get you to the doctor.” To which, S replied, “I have a race to finish.”
She then ran the last 21.1 kilometres to finish in a respectable 6 hours and change. A doctor was waiting for her at the finish line.
In the pictures of her lying in a hospital bed with her hand bandaged to the elbow, she is wearing all her racing gear and a pop and smiling proudly. Some people say “That’s what adrenaline can do”, but I don’t buy it. I’ve done half marathons and adrenaline doesn’t last 21 k or 2 hours plus.
No, I say, that is what DETERMINATION can do. That is what stubbornness can do. And that is what a teensy bit of crazy can do.
I have a story about a friend of mine. We’ll call her S.
She ran her first Half-Ironman just recently. For those of you who aren’t sure, a Half-Ironman consists of a 2 k swim, a 90 k bike followed by a half marathon (21.1 k run). It is called a half-ironman, but it requires all of the iron in a person. It is an incredibly difficult distance (I imagine, I’ve never attempted it but I have volunteered at a race and it LOOKS hard) with participants finishing anywhere between 3 hours and 8 hours. A half marathon alone takes me at least 2 hours and 11 minutes, and I have never run it after swimming 2 k and biking 90 k.
Anyway, S has been training very hard. She’d invested hours and hours of sweat and energy and time and will into this race (not to mention a fairly steep registration fee). So it was a terrible disappointment when, at the very end of the 90 k ride, she fell off the bike going at a fairly good speed (about 30kph) and broke her finger as well as dislocating it completely from the socket.
Other racers know that sometimes people need a little push, so as they passed the downed cyclist, they started yelling, “Get up! You can DO it! You’re only two kilometres from the transition point!”
So she did. S got up and got back on her bike and biked to the transition zone. She went straight to the medic who bandaged up her hand and said, “We need to get you to the doctor.” To which, S replied, “I have a race to finish.”
She then ran the last 21.1 kilometres to finish in a respectable 6 hours and change. A doctor was waiting for her at the finish line.
In the pictures of her lying in a hospital bed with her hand bandaged to the elbow, she is wearing all her racing gear and a pop and smiling proudly. Some people say “That’s what adrenaline can do”, but I don’t buy it. I’ve done half marathons and adrenaline doesn’t last 21 k or 2 hours plus.
No, I say, that is what DETERMINATION can do. That is what stubbornness can do. And that is what a teensy bit of crazy can do.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Running is Hard
Running is really hard these days. Each step is a struggle. It's almost as if I just spent a week at an all-inclusive all-you-can-drink resort in the Riviera Maya eating fried foods, meat and sweet pastries for every meal and drinking litres of strawberry daiquiris whilst lounging by the poolside or on the beach.
Running is really hard these days. Each step is a struggle. It's almost as if I just spent a week at an all-inclusive all-you-can-drink resort in the Riviera Maya eating fried foods, meat and sweet pastries for every meal and drinking litres of strawberry daiquiris whilst lounging by the poolside or on the beach.
Name Limbo
I'm currently in name-limbo. I got married on July 28th and decided to assume my new husband's last name. However, it takes 12 weeks for a marriage to be registered with the Ontario government and only THEN can you actually apply for a marriage certificate. Most businesses and institutions require the marriage certificate as proof of your new name.
Since 12 weeks has not yet passed, all of my legal documents and credit cards and stuff still say Melissa L, but in the spirit of being newly married, I keep trying to remember to tell people my NEW name, but every time I do, it makes me feel kind of giggly, as if I'm kind of pretending. Because I'm not really Melissa P, I'm Melissa L (I've got the driver's license to prove it), but I'm saying I'm Melissa P (just like I've been practicing writing my name as Melissa P in my spare time to see how my new signature will look - just like in grade school when I had a crush on someone).
Even referring to Mark, I keep saying "boyfriend...oh wait, NO, he's my husband now actually" which sounds VERY unsophisticated. (I think part of me still thinks I'm 21 and too young to be married, when in actuality I am WELL old enough to be married).
It will be more real, I imagine, when kids start to call me Mme P at school. That too, will be sort of strange because I teach grade 8, which means that MOST of those kids knew me last year when they were in grade 7, as Mlle L. They will be giggly or feel strange saying Mme P and I probably will feel strange too. It makes me feel strange to say "Bonjour, je m'appelle Mme P". giggle giggle
But if it's written on your classroom door on a small bronze plaque, then it must be true.
I'm currently in name-limbo. I got married on July 28th and decided to assume my new husband's last name. However, it takes 12 weeks for a marriage to be registered with the Ontario government and only THEN can you actually apply for a marriage certificate. Most businesses and institutions require the marriage certificate as proof of your new name.
Since 12 weeks has not yet passed, all of my legal documents and credit cards and stuff still say Melissa L, but in the spirit of being newly married, I keep trying to remember to tell people my NEW name, but every time I do, it makes me feel kind of giggly, as if I'm kind of pretending. Because I'm not really Melissa P, I'm Melissa L (I've got the driver's license to prove it), but I'm saying I'm Melissa P (just like I've been practicing writing my name as Melissa P in my spare time to see how my new signature will look - just like in grade school when I had a crush on someone).
Even referring to Mark, I keep saying "boyfriend...oh wait, NO, he's my husband now actually" which sounds VERY unsophisticated. (I think part of me still thinks I'm 21 and too young to be married, when in actuality I am WELL old enough to be married).
It will be more real, I imagine, when kids start to call me Mme P at school. That too, will be sort of strange because I teach grade 8, which means that MOST of those kids knew me last year when they were in grade 7, as Mlle L. They will be giggly or feel strange saying Mme P and I probably will feel strange too. It makes me feel strange to say "Bonjour, je m'appelle Mme P". giggle giggle
But if it's written on your classroom door on a small bronze plaque, then it must be true.
Shout Out to Thousands of Monkeys
I've been enjoying my good friend, Mattie-O's new blog entitled: Thousands of Monkeys. A link can be found in the right margin of my blog. I think you'll find, after having read a few of his entires, that Mattie-O is incredibly intelligent and witty and sometimes funny without seeming to mean to be. He has a lot of opinions about Religion and Morality and Politics and Tim Hortons' drive-thrus and the Marineland theme song and he expresses them eloquently and in a very entertaining way. He is also a very excellent wedding MC and has read several books on the subject.
I've been enjoying my good friend, Mattie-O's new blog entitled: Thousands of Monkeys. A link can be found in the right margin of my blog. I think you'll find, after having read a few of his entires, that Mattie-O is incredibly intelligent and witty and sometimes funny without seeming to mean to be. He has a lot of opinions about Religion and Morality and Politics and Tim Hortons' drive-thrus and the Marineland theme song and he expresses them eloquently and in a very entertaining way. He is also a very excellent wedding MC and has read several books on the subject.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Our Friends in Mexico
No, we’re not talking about real native Mexicans or Mayans, but the other fellow tourists that we acquainted ourselves with on our trip. I guess the word “friend” wouldn’t quite be accurate, but there were people who came and went in parallel with us at the resort and on day trips, that in some way or another, touched our lives.
Let’s begin with Vin Deisel. He was a jackass. We didn’t know him well. But the entire trip to Mexico, he sat across the aisle from me in his Dolce and Gabanna jeans and his sleeve-less t-shirt wearing designer sunglasses (yes, on the plane it’s VERY sunny) and ear plugs and a bright turquoise neck pillow that said “I (heart) N.Y.” He also wore a straw cowboy hat over his bald head. He got up to stretch for a good five minutes, blocking everyone from being able to see the television, but he is the kind of guy who doesn’t notice these things. For a while, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him that made me think he was such a jerk – it kind of seemed unfair of me to make such an assumption – he probably didn’t know we were watching the t.v., right? Well, on our return trip to the Cancun airport from the resort, I saw him look at one of the women he was traveling with, asleep in the seat next to him. He saw that she was using his bright turquoise neck pillow and so he just reefed it out from under her sleeping head. AWESOME! What a gentleman. And at the airport, when everyone was walking (albeit a bit hurriedly) towards the check-in windows – he actually sprinted, and I mean RAN at full speed to be first in line. However, he did not beat everyone because a small line had already begun. That is no obstacle for Vin Deisel, he simply raced to the first check-in window and by-passed the line.
There was a Brooklyn couple on our Coba Mayan Village tour. They asked stupid questions and complained when people weren’t passing the pictures fast enough. They remarked out loud all of the fleeting thoughts that entered their minds. And at the cenote (water hole) when we all went swimming to refresh ourselves, they planted themselves next to a poor British family and forced a political conversation about George Bush onto them.
We had a quiet silent hero asian couple (I thought they were Japanese, but Mark says they’re Chinese). As we came off the airplane when we first arrived in Mexico, we looked quite dumb-founded as we wandered looking for our Transat Vacations representative. I began wandering toward two uniform-clad men who seemed quite friendly and who were holding clip boards. “No, No” the couple saw us wandering that way and came to rescue us, “Unless you’re interested in a time share…..you’ll want to avoid those guys.” That was the last we saw of the quiet asian couple.
Joyce and Ting were from Toronto and they were our outgoing asian couple. Joyce talked in bubbly excitement to everyone. We went swimming with sea turtles and in the cenote with Joyce and Ting. Also, they were at our same resort. So we kept seeing them everywhere. They had a room near us. They were in the buffet when we were there. They were living parallel lives to us. Mark could always remember Ting’s name, but he kept forgetting Joyce’s.
Then there was the French family with two kids that also went on the snorkeling tour with us. In fact, Mark and I figure we were, throughout the majority of the trip, in the MINORITY language-wise. Nearly all the tourists on the resort spoke Spanish. There were a lot of Mexicans who were vacationing in our resort. And a lot of Americans or maybe Europeans, who spoke Spanish fluently. There were also quite a number of French-speaking families. So the snorkeling tour was done in French primarily, and in English as an after thought. There were only about three people on that tour who didn’t speak French. Anyway, we ended up sitting at the back of the van with these two children, who seemed so quiet and well-behaved for the first half of the trip. Then, they came out of their shells for the return trip to the hotel. They started to be silly with each other. They began to try to talk to us. They said the only English words they knew “CAT!” they exclaimed, “DOG!”. They recited the numbers from one to ten to us. Then they tried to tell us jokes, with minimal success. The result was the four of us giggling a lot and their parents looking back at them and telling them not to bother us. Then they started to tickle each other. THEN they started to tickle Mark! Mind you, he’s wearing a bathing suit and no shirt, so they’re sticking their little hands right into his arm pits and along the back of his neck. He looked at me nervously, “I think I need my t-shirt, Melissa.” As we got out of the van at the hotel lobby, the little girl took my hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
There were other people….like the card-playing family. Every evening, they would sit at the same table in the lower lobby and play cards together. There was the boy who was always hogging the computers in the Business Centre where we checked our e-mail. And there was the very sweet waitress who said, would you like “a little milk in your coffee” but didn’t seem to really know what “a little” meant.
All the people who worked on the resort, probably mostly Maya, were so very friendly. They offered an “Hola!” every time we walked past them. Mark didn’t want to “hola” back, for fear that it would be obvious that he was trying too hard to seem like a Spanish speaker when he really wasn’t. But I wasn’t afraid. I had to get all my Holas out while I could. I got so good (or so I interpret it) that people would then say the next thing they wanted to say to me in Spanish too (which I could usually understand if it was a short sentence). And if the answer was just a nod or a head-shake answer, the conversation could go on for quite some time before they noticed that I couldn’t say more than “hola”.
No, we’re not talking about real native Mexicans or Mayans, but the other fellow tourists that we acquainted ourselves with on our trip. I guess the word “friend” wouldn’t quite be accurate, but there were people who came and went in parallel with us at the resort and on day trips, that in some way or another, touched our lives.
Let’s begin with Vin Deisel. He was a jackass. We didn’t know him well. But the entire trip to Mexico, he sat across the aisle from me in his Dolce and Gabanna jeans and his sleeve-less t-shirt wearing designer sunglasses (yes, on the plane it’s VERY sunny) and ear plugs and a bright turquoise neck pillow that said “I (heart) N.Y.” He also wore a straw cowboy hat over his bald head. He got up to stretch for a good five minutes, blocking everyone from being able to see the television, but he is the kind of guy who doesn’t notice these things. For a while, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him that made me think he was such a jerk – it kind of seemed unfair of me to make such an assumption – he probably didn’t know we were watching the t.v., right? Well, on our return trip to the Cancun airport from the resort, I saw him look at one of the women he was traveling with, asleep in the seat next to him. He saw that she was using his bright turquoise neck pillow and so he just reefed it out from under her sleeping head. AWESOME! What a gentleman. And at the airport, when everyone was walking (albeit a bit hurriedly) towards the check-in windows – he actually sprinted, and I mean RAN at full speed to be first in line. However, he did not beat everyone because a small line had already begun. That is no obstacle for Vin Deisel, he simply raced to the first check-in window and by-passed the line.
There was a Brooklyn couple on our Coba Mayan Village tour. They asked stupid questions and complained when people weren’t passing the pictures fast enough. They remarked out loud all of the fleeting thoughts that entered their minds. And at the cenote (water hole) when we all went swimming to refresh ourselves, they planted themselves next to a poor British family and forced a political conversation about George Bush onto them.
We had a quiet silent hero asian couple (I thought they were Japanese, but Mark says they’re Chinese). As we came off the airplane when we first arrived in Mexico, we looked quite dumb-founded as we wandered looking for our Transat Vacations representative. I began wandering toward two uniform-clad men who seemed quite friendly and who were holding clip boards. “No, No” the couple saw us wandering that way and came to rescue us, “Unless you’re interested in a time share…..you’ll want to avoid those guys.” That was the last we saw of the quiet asian couple.
Joyce and Ting were from Toronto and they were our outgoing asian couple. Joyce talked in bubbly excitement to everyone. We went swimming with sea turtles and in the cenote with Joyce and Ting. Also, they were at our same resort. So we kept seeing them everywhere. They had a room near us. They were in the buffet when we were there. They were living parallel lives to us. Mark could always remember Ting’s name, but he kept forgetting Joyce’s.
Then there was the French family with two kids that also went on the snorkeling tour with us. In fact, Mark and I figure we were, throughout the majority of the trip, in the MINORITY language-wise. Nearly all the tourists on the resort spoke Spanish. There were a lot of Mexicans who were vacationing in our resort. And a lot of Americans or maybe Europeans, who spoke Spanish fluently. There were also quite a number of French-speaking families. So the snorkeling tour was done in French primarily, and in English as an after thought. There were only about three people on that tour who didn’t speak French. Anyway, we ended up sitting at the back of the van with these two children, who seemed so quiet and well-behaved for the first half of the trip. Then, they came out of their shells for the return trip to the hotel. They started to be silly with each other. They began to try to talk to us. They said the only English words they knew “CAT!” they exclaimed, “DOG!”. They recited the numbers from one to ten to us. Then they tried to tell us jokes, with minimal success. The result was the four of us giggling a lot and their parents looking back at them and telling them not to bother us. Then they started to tickle each other. THEN they started to tickle Mark! Mind you, he’s wearing a bathing suit and no shirt, so they’re sticking their little hands right into his arm pits and along the back of his neck. He looked at me nervously, “I think I need my t-shirt, Melissa.” As we got out of the van at the hotel lobby, the little girl took my hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
There were other people….like the card-playing family. Every evening, they would sit at the same table in the lower lobby and play cards together. There was the boy who was always hogging the computers in the Business Centre where we checked our e-mail. And there was the very sweet waitress who said, would you like “a little milk in your coffee” but didn’t seem to really know what “a little” meant.
All the people who worked on the resort, probably mostly Maya, were so very friendly. They offered an “Hola!” every time we walked past them. Mark didn’t want to “hola” back, for fear that it would be obvious that he was trying too hard to seem like a Spanish speaker when he really wasn’t. But I wasn’t afraid. I had to get all my Holas out while I could. I got so good (or so I interpret it) that people would then say the next thing they wanted to say to me in Spanish too (which I could usually understand if it was a short sentence). And if the answer was just a nod or a head-shake answer, the conversation could go on for quite some time before they noticed that I couldn’t say more than “hola”.
And of course, Mark loved Mexico so much, he brought a few Mexican bugs home….in his ear. Like a souvenir really, of our lovely honeymoon in the Riviera Maya.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Change of Name
I got married six days ago (as I'm sure most of you are tired of hearing about). And I plan to assume my new husband's last name.
Today, I happened to check my work e-mail for the first time in several weeks. Ironically, a woman named Ms. Joyce, from Human Resources, has been troubled by an inconsistency in my documents involving me sometimes going by "Melissa" even though it is actually my middle name and sometimes going by "Alison" because it is my first name and occasionally going by "A." to which she firmly stated "one cannot use an initial for a NAME". She said I would need to fill out a Name Change Form to clarify.
She attached one to the e-mail.
Funny, I was just wondering how I go about doing that....
I got married six days ago (as I'm sure most of you are tired of hearing about). And I plan to assume my new husband's last name.
Today, I happened to check my work e-mail for the first time in several weeks. Ironically, a woman named Ms. Joyce, from Human Resources, has been troubled by an inconsistency in my documents involving me sometimes going by "Melissa" even though it is actually my middle name and sometimes going by "Alison" because it is my first name and occasionally going by "A." to which she firmly stated "one cannot use an initial for a NAME". She said I would need to fill out a Name Change Form to clarify.
She attached one to the e-mail.
Funny, I was just wondering how I go about doing that....
Rogers and Surrounding Areas
I’m feeling agitated and angry.
My cable internet and phone service have been inconsistent (to say the least) for the past month and nearly non-existent for the past week. This makes it hard to book a honeymoon, transfer money from account to account to pay for a wedding, and just plain correspond with the outside world.
The good folks at Rogers have come to see us several times each week for the past month – we’ve phoned more than twenty times and spoken with supervisors about a quarter of those times. We’ve threatened to switch service providers (although I’m not convinced that Bell is a nobler cause).
On the day before our wedding, a day when I had booked nothing but being serene and calm, I had to wait for a visit from the Rogers technician. Our cable internet and phone went out again this week on Monday (then a technician came to fix it), and it went out again on Tuesday (a technician came on Wednesday to fix it), and again today (Thursday) (and a few technicians came and worked all day to bury a new line in the sweltering heat only for us to discover that we still have no service). It’s a clown show. That’s the best way to describe this ridiculous series of events.
Mark’s gone over to Delia’s to use her phone to talk to the good people at Rogers and probably at Bell after that.
As I sat here stewing on the couch, the news came on.
A bridge collapsed during rush hour yesterday in Minneapolis, killing four people and leaving at least 30 more missing. A little girl has disappeared in Quebec. A police officer was fatally run over in Unionville while on duty. A dangerous man was arrested after having killed a 70-year-old couple a few weeks ago. A senior citizen was mugged in broad day light.
I’d have to sheepishly admit that even without cable internet and phone, we’re still in pretty good shape.
I’m feeling agitated and angry.
My cable internet and phone service have been inconsistent (to say the least) for the past month and nearly non-existent for the past week. This makes it hard to book a honeymoon, transfer money from account to account to pay for a wedding, and just plain correspond with the outside world.
The good folks at Rogers have come to see us several times each week for the past month – we’ve phoned more than twenty times and spoken with supervisors about a quarter of those times. We’ve threatened to switch service providers (although I’m not convinced that Bell is a nobler cause).
On the day before our wedding, a day when I had booked nothing but being serene and calm, I had to wait for a visit from the Rogers technician. Our cable internet and phone went out again this week on Monday (then a technician came to fix it), and it went out again on Tuesday (a technician came on Wednesday to fix it), and again today (Thursday) (and a few technicians came and worked all day to bury a new line in the sweltering heat only for us to discover that we still have no service). It’s a clown show. That’s the best way to describe this ridiculous series of events.
Mark’s gone over to Delia’s to use her phone to talk to the good people at Rogers and probably at Bell after that.
As I sat here stewing on the couch, the news came on.
A bridge collapsed during rush hour yesterday in Minneapolis, killing four people and leaving at least 30 more missing. A little girl has disappeared in Quebec. A police officer was fatally run over in Unionville while on duty. A dangerous man was arrested after having killed a 70-year-old couple a few weeks ago. A senior citizen was mugged in broad day light.
I’d have to sheepishly admit that even without cable internet and phone, we’re still in pretty good shape.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Unsung Wedding Moments
Everyone saw the hallmark good moments of our wedding: The reading that almost made Mark and I cry, The first kiss as husband and wife, The first dance, etc. Not to take away from those incredibly poignant moments, but there were so many other little moments that made last Saturday special to me. And a lot of these moments were witnessed by a lot fewer people.
Here are some of them:
My bridesmaids and I were dressed and ready nearly an hour too soon. So we sat around playing cards (the game “31” actually) at my kitchen table in our gowns to try to stay calm.
My bridesmaids were obviously still hungry after three pizzas had been cooked and consumed, so my brother-in-law, Ben, offered to run to the store and get us another one. I gave him my debit card, but he tried to refuse. I insisted, but suspected he would take it but not use it, so I was quite stern and don’t-mess-with-me-like when I said that he was instructed that he MUST use the card. When he returned with the pizza, he had asked the cashier to write on the receipt “paid for with Melissa’s debit card”.
Riding around on a golf cart after the ceremony with Mark and Maryann and Matt Peron. All the golfers waved at us as if we were celebrities.
Sydney and Alison were entranced with my veil, so I gave it to them to share. Alison then helped herself to some of my mashed potatoes when my head was turned, and a piece of bread from my plate. She ran her hands all over my dress (including the bust area) and asked if she could have it when she was bigger. Then she and Sydney danced with Mark and Jim in the middle of the dance floor. When the girls asked to switch partners, Mark and Jim (knowing full well what the girls had meant) said, “Sure”, then proceeded to dance with each other while the girls watched in wonder.
Mark and Chillly rapped Ice Ice Baby.
Mark and Chilly did a little routine to Thriller.
Chilly and my mother having WAY too much fun dancing together.
Jay and Mom doing the twist.
Rob with his tie on his head.
Jim did “The Worm” even though his chin suffered a bit and he suspects he’s getting “too old” for this.
My father and Carmen (in conjunction with Jay and Michelle) were our “escape” vehicle at the end of the night.
Melanie and Hilary had put in our honeymoon suite, a bottle of champagne, two champagne flutes, some chocolates, biscuits, and two candles for our romantic tendancies.
Oh, and of course, there was Uncle Fred – the dancing MACHINE! Who can forget that!
Everyone saw the hallmark good moments of our wedding: The reading that almost made Mark and I cry, The first kiss as husband and wife, The first dance, etc. Not to take away from those incredibly poignant moments, but there were so many other little moments that made last Saturday special to me. And a lot of these moments were witnessed by a lot fewer people.
Here are some of them:
My bridesmaids and I were dressed and ready nearly an hour too soon. So we sat around playing cards (the game “31” actually) at my kitchen table in our gowns to try to stay calm.
My bridesmaids were obviously still hungry after three pizzas had been cooked and consumed, so my brother-in-law, Ben, offered to run to the store and get us another one. I gave him my debit card, but he tried to refuse. I insisted, but suspected he would take it but not use it, so I was quite stern and don’t-mess-with-me-like when I said that he was instructed that he MUST use the card. When he returned with the pizza, he had asked the cashier to write on the receipt “paid for with Melissa’s debit card”.
Riding around on a golf cart after the ceremony with Mark and Maryann and Matt Peron. All the golfers waved at us as if we were celebrities.
Sydney and Alison were entranced with my veil, so I gave it to them to share. Alison then helped herself to some of my mashed potatoes when my head was turned, and a piece of bread from my plate. She ran her hands all over my dress (including the bust area) and asked if she could have it when she was bigger. Then she and Sydney danced with Mark and Jim in the middle of the dance floor. When the girls asked to switch partners, Mark and Jim (knowing full well what the girls had meant) said, “Sure”, then proceeded to dance with each other while the girls watched in wonder.
Mark and Chillly rapped Ice Ice Baby.
Mark and Chilly did a little routine to Thriller.
Chilly and my mother having WAY too much fun dancing together.
Jay and Mom doing the twist.
Rob with his tie on his head.
Jim did “The Worm” even though his chin suffered a bit and he suspects he’s getting “too old” for this.
My father and Carmen (in conjunction with Jay and Michelle) were our “escape” vehicle at the end of the night.
Melanie and Hilary had put in our honeymoon suite, a bottle of champagne, two champagne flutes, some chocolates, biscuits, and two candles for our romantic tendancies.
Oh, and of course, there was Uncle Fred – the dancing MACHINE! Who can forget that!
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