10 Things That Happen When You Get Engaged

A few months ago, I got engaged.

Exciting for sure, but also a little bit terrifying.

Because with my shiny new accessory, I was thrust into the weird and wonderful world of wedding planning – a veritable parallel universe where words like “charmeuse” and “pave” abound, and everything is made from precious unicorn hair and costs $10 thousand dollars.

For a girl who has spent more time envisioning her ideal rap name  than her dream wedding (“DJ Breezy Beatz”, in case you were interested), this was completely overwhelming.

So to save you from the same shock I experienced, here are 10 things that happened to me- and will very likely happen to you- after getting engaged.

1. You Will Have To Use The Word “Fiancé

2. You Will Join The Pinterest Army

Even if you’ve never considered joining the visual bookmarking site; even if- to borrow a phrase from Lena Dunham- you think you’re “not that kind of girl”, within weeks of getting engaged, chances are you’ll be pinning your little heart out- perusing photos of elaborate centerpieces and DIY crocheted ring pillows until your eyes cross. You will feel a new-found sense of social media validation every time someone follows your carefully curated “Rustic-Modern-Victorian-Tropical-East-Meets-West Wedding” board. You will question what this says about you, but you won’t be able to stop. Before you know it you will be down a rabbit hole of mason jar snow globes and  mini lights; seriously contemplating giving your guests live Maltipoo puppies as wedding favors.

RESIST the urge, ladies.

3. You Will Watch Wedding Shows with a new-found purpose and enthusiasm.

Because staying in on Friday night to watch Say Yes To The Dress is no longer sad.. it’s productive.  (Ok, it’s actually still just sad).

4. You Lean More Than You Ever Wanted To Know About Flowers

If you’re a horticultural rookie like I was, prepare to be SCHOOLED in the art of wedding flowers. Hydrangeas, Calla Lillies, Amarylis, Briar Rose, Gladiolus, Sage Moonblood.

(Ok, so at least two of those are actually celebrity baby names. But god help you if you can guess which ones).

By the time you’re finished visiting with florists and decorators you will feel like you’ve received an unofficial Bachelor’s Degree in botany. And, incidentally, the perfect name for the protagonist in that Victorian Romance Novel you’ve been working on.

5. You Will Discover “The Wedding Premium”

The bridal industry is one giant racket. Like the world’s suckiest magic, whenever you attach the word “wedding” to a good or service, the price skyrockets 300%.  No matter your budget, chances are you’re probably going to blow through it. Hope you like eating Campbell’s soup for every meal!

6.  You Will Become an Expert At Telling Your Proposal Story

Like an unofficial ToastMasters class, getting engaged teaches you the art of telling the same damn story 17,000 times over- condensed, edited, and maybe even hyperbolized to its pithy, climactic perfection. Which is great, because for a while, it’s all you’ll want to talk about.

But  no matter how amazing your story is, you will eventually begin to feel a simultaneous sense of dread and validation every time someone asks you about it. It’s how I imagine Tony Bennett must feel every time he gets on stage with Lady Gaga.

7. You Will Realize How Horrible and Sexist Most Wedding Publications Are.

Guys, I’m convinced the target audience for wedding magazines is solely Aspiring Disney Princesses and contestants on The Bachelor.  

With their glossy-paged depictions of elaborate, $100,000 celebrations, and articles like: How to Lose 6 Pounds in 6 Days!” and “Choosing the perfect scent for your big day!“, these publications seem to suggest that if you’re not absolutely losing your sh*t about your wedding 24 hours a day and dreaming of giant Kim-and-Kanye-inspired flower walls, well then my friend, you’re doing it wrong.

This is totally reasonable, right?

8.  You Will Surrender All Privacy

Wearing a ring on your left hand is like an unofficial beacon that screams “Please, come ask me detailed questions about my personal life!” Before you know it you will be awkwardly navigating questions with near complete strangers about whether you’re going to change your last name, when you are planning to have kids, and- in the case of your Great Aunt Martha- if you’re nervous for the “big night”.

9. You’re Going to Think You Lost Your Ring… Like All The Time

76% of brides-to-be suffer from (<— made up statistic) Hyper Ring Awareness- a manic, irrational condition where you constantly check your left hand to make sure you haven’t somehow lost your ring (Spoiler Alert- You didn’t. You’re just crazy.)

10. You Will Feel A Compelling Desire To Use The Bride Emoji Gratuitously

Fight this compulsion at all costs.

Question of the Day: If you’re engaged -any tips?

Featured post

My Real-Life Elizabeth Taylor Moment

A couple of months ago, I turned 29. I didn’t make a big fuss about it because, who celebrates turning 29? It’s one year closer to 30 and, let’s be honest: 

 I figured I’d just pour myself a big glass of red wine, slather my face with anti-wrinkle cream and spend the day flipping through old Facebook photos, lamenting the dewy, uncorrupted skin of BreezyK past. 

My boyfriend however, had other plans for me.  He suggested we both take the day off work and hang out, which sounded good to me, because shameless self-pity isn’t really my best “office look”. 

I knew we had dinner reservations at 9pm, so I figured we would just kick until then. We were watching old SNL reruns when he turned to me and said “I have a surprise for you, but you have to pack an overnight bag”.

 “What is this, a Bachelor Fantasy Date?” I asked “Where are we going? And (more importantly) “how much time do I have to get ready?” 


“You’ll see” he said, “Just pack something to wear to dinner tonight, and some comfy clothes. We’re leaving in an hour”

Suspiciously, I began to pack. I am a notorious overpacker at the best of times, but with few parameters, this reached new extremes. I literally packed everything I own; including my passport (in case we were going to Paris), 6 pairs of socks (in case it got cold in Paris), and two different hair straighteners (in case one didn’t match the Parisian outlets).

“Whoa, it’s not like we’re going to Paris,” he said, correctly reading my crazy. “We’re staying at the Drake Hotel overnight.”

The Drake, if you’re not familiar, is a boutique hotel, restaurant, concert venue and general Toronto institution. I’ve been there many times to eat and drink, and have often said, “wouldn’t it be cool to stay here for a night?”

So I was really disappointed it wasn’t Paris pumped we were going there! (No really, I was. I don’t even look good in berets anyway.)

 Our room wasn’t ready when we arrived, so the concierge offered us complimentary cocktails at the hotel Bar. We sipped our Moscow mules and pretended we were fabulous people who regularly drink cocktails in hotel lobbies at 3pm.  

“Sorry for the wait,” said the concierge after we had finished, “we upgraded you to our nicest suite, and were just getting it ready. Looks like you have just enough time to change before your couples massage”.

Couples massage?


Our room had a very retro, mid-century modern feel with low light, teak wood furniture, and a big, sprawling chaise lounge. A bottle of champagne was chilling on ice. He must have mentioned it’s my birthday, I thought, adding two points to the mental tally I was already beginning to lose track of.

After our massages, he suggested we start getting ready for dinner early. “That way we’ll have time to drink champagne before we leave”, he said.

I was like,


He changed into his suit and I began the arduous process of getting ready. Two hours An hour later, with my smokey eye perfected, I emerged from the bathroom in my plush Drake Hotel monogrammed bathrobe. “I think I’m just going to wear this while we have our champagne,” I announced. “Then I can sit on that chaise in my robe and get lipstick on my champagne glass. It will be a very Elizabeth Taylor moment”.

Ok so she’s wearing a ball gown here. Whatever, you get the idea.

“Ok,” he responded, not missing a beat. After knowing me for nearly 5 years, he is used to my delusions of grandeur.

I sauntered over to the chaise lounge, folded my legs up under me in my best “White Diamonds Commercial” impression, and held out my champagne flute in front of me.

He smiled and poured us both a glass, raising his for a toast.

“Cheers,” he said, “I am so happy to be spending your birthday with you this year”.  

“Cheers!” I responded, clinking my glass against his and proceeding to down half of it in one fell swoop.

“Wait,” he said, “I’m not done yet”.

Something about the way he said it stopped me dead in my tracks. I slowly lowered the glass from my lips, dribblig the offending champagne back in. 

He reached behind the champagne bucket, and pulled out a jewelry box. Before I knew it, was down on one knee. He said a few sweet things, all of which I’m sure were carefully planned but now are a complete blur, before hitting the punchline:

“Will you marry me?” 

And how did I respond? Did I jump up and down? Cry beautiful, heartfelt, mascara-stained tears as Liz Taylor undoubtedly would have done? 


I laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed. To say I was surprised was an understatement.  After about 30 seconds of solid giggling, I caught a glimpse of his face, which was registering pure terror, and I realized I still hadn’t actually SAID anything.

“Oh my god yes!!” I responded “Yes of course!! Sorry, it’s not funny, I’m just happy!”

 We decided to keep it just between us for the night, and to let our friends and families know the next morning. We went for a lovely dinner where we were so distracted by the enormity of what had just happened that we could hardly enjoy the delicious food. Just a note to newly engaged couples- TELL EVERYONE. Seriously, MILK that sh*t. We stupidly didn’t mention it until after our meal was over and had paid, and the chef literally ran out of the restaurant after us saying “Why didn’t you tell us! We would have given you free champagne and treats!”

 When we arrived back at the hotel, a long line was snaked outside of the Drake for their annual Halloween costume bash. We walked right to the front with our room card, and told the bouncer we were guests of the hotel. “Of course,” he said, lifting the velvet rope.

 “You know,” he said, once we were back in our room, “with our reservation, we have access to everything in the hotel, including the party. I think we should go- but we need some costumes.

 …….. Good thing I brought some!” to my utter disbelief, he pulled two costumes out of his seemingly endless bag of tricks- for him, a Mountie, for me, a Chef. (which was a relief, because I worried for a split second I was going to be The Pioneer Woman).

 Laughing, we switched into our costumes and made our way downstairs where we danced to 90’s hits and partied with kids too young to remember them. Although I had never imagined the night I got engaged to end like this, it was, strangely, perfect.

 So, in the end I guess I did get my Elizabeth Taylor moment-just not quite the way I had planned it.


Question of the Day: Are you engaged? Tell me your proposal story!

Featured post

Love In The Time Of Shoe Racks

I  moved in with my boyfriend recently, and for the most part, it’s been great. Not only have the number of nights I’ve spent watching Teen Mom and crying into my Haagen Dazs drastically decreased, he’s also teaching me how to be more of a real-life adult. He cooks, he cleans, he flosses…. he even uses that fancy glass Tupperware that only grown-up people use.

I know, back off ladies.

Cohabiting in a 500 square foot space has not been, however, without its challenges. There was that time, for example, when I used the “special TV cloth” to wipe down the counters (SHAME). Or his continued refusal to accept the fact that books are like my children; they cannot simply be “given away”.

The biggest issue hands down, however, has been storage. Specifically, our shoes. As per my birthright as a female, I’ve got a lot of them. Surprisingly, he’s got even more (I try not to be too concerned about this). In an effort to get ahead of this problem and save our neighbors from experiencing the wrath of a full-on domestic, we purchased this over-the-door shoe rack from Bed Bath and Beyond.

The installation couldn’t have been easier- we hung the rack over the door, loaded all of our shoes on it, and did a little high five/victory dance.

We were feeling pretty smug- until we realized the fatal flaw in our design. The rack was not fully secured to door, which meant that every time we opened and closed it, one or more shoes would fall out onto the floor- or worse, our waiting heads. After a solid two days of being pelted by rogue Nikes, we were both beginning to see stars – Sylvester and Tweety styles.

Obviously we needed a solution.

Luckily, we discovered some tiny holes where you could insert screws to secure the rack to the door, so my boyfriend immediately ran out to the hardware store to pick some up. (He literally ran. To Canadian Tire.  Between periods of a Montreal Canadiens game. This story would only be more Canadian if he’d snowshoed there.)

He came home, sweaty but determined, only to realize the screws he had purchased were too big. Dejected, he settled in to watch Coach’s Corner, vowing to tackle the problem the next day.

Since I’m generally content to let household chores linger, I thought little of it, carefully sidestepping the pile of shoes on the ground, telling myself he would take care of it. I even used the discarded shoes as inspiration for this impromptu photo shoot of my Nikes.


But then, I received this fateful e-mail:

Hey babe I’m pretty sure Canadian Tire won’t have the screws we need. Any chance you could  hit up Home Depot on the way home? It closes at 7. You know what we need – a really narrow screw that’s long enough go through the plastic space and into the door. No worries obviously if you can’t swing it.

I took a long, hard look at the the screen. A hardware store? He wanted me, to go to a hardware store? Well, I guess this is my life now, I thought. Home Depot. Shoe racks. Maybe we’ll hit up Bed Bath and Beyond this weekend.  Have a nice little Saturday.

The last time I had been in a hardware store was in grade 6, and I have been trying to repress it ever since. My parents were building a new house and insisted on dragging my ass around for every piece of the torturous process. I remember sneaking off to a quiet corner in the light fixtures department to read my book, while my mom and dad debated extensively between two identical pieces of crown moulding in the background.

Needless to say, I was less than thrilled about the idea of returning.

Since I was late leaving work, Home Depot was already closed- so I googled around and found another independent hardware store in the area that kept late hours. Let’s just call it “Studleys”.

The bell jingled as I walked in the door, and I was immediately overwhelmed by the labrynthian aisles and 10 foot high ceilings- each filled with implements I couldn’t identify if my life depended on it. I worried I’d missed a turn and somehow ended up in Diagon Alley (<— lame Harry Potter reference).I jiggled a few screwdrivers, just to make sure they weren’t trap doors.

“Can I help you?”  asked a skinny, 40-ish man with serial killer glasses and a non-ironic moustache. He wore high-waisted pants and a polo shirt; and bore a striking resemblance to Kip from Napoleon Dynamite, only slightly creepier.

“Oh, I was just looking for some screws” I replied, instantly regretting the “that’s what she said” opportunity. Kip remained unphased. “What kind of screws are we talking?” he asked.

He listened intently as I explained my problem, stroking his chin, and lisping “Yes, Yesss” at random intervals.

Hollow door. Miniscule screws. I could tell from his furrowed brow we had a real doozy on our hands here.

“Well, I do have these small screws, but you probably won’t have the right screwdriver for them.” he mused,  furrowing his brow even deeper. Actually,” he said, a proverbial light bulb going off above his head, “What about double sided tape? Have you tried that?”

“No,” I said, surprised, “You think that would work?”

“Oh sure,” he said, “That stuff is like superglue. We have some here I can sell you”

“No, that’s ok,I uh…. have some at home,” I replied,  failing to mention that it was the “Hollywood” variety, used it to guard against “wardrobe malfunctions”.

“Thanks so much!” I exclaimed “You’ve really been a big help”

“No problem,” he said, interlacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back on his heels. “I just love problem solving, you know? That’s kind of my thing. I just want to help people.” I noticed that Kip was moving precariously close to my personal space zone.

“Yeah….ok” I replied awkwardly, backing out of the store. “Well, thanks again!”

I walked home feeling satisfied with myself. Not only had I successfully entered a hardware store, I had also found a cheap and easy solution. With the exception of eavesdropping on my neighbours, never before had I invested so much energy in a domestic project.

I put my boyfriend to work as soon as he got home, double-sided taping the hell out of that thing. Kip had advised us to let the tape cure overnight, and we awoke the next morning like two kids on Christmas- anxious to check if our experiment worked. We jiggled it a little, and it seemed solid.

Cue second high-fiving sequence.

Double sided tape! It was so simple! WHY had we not thought of this before! Thank you, Kip!

Back went all of our shoes, and for a few days, everything worked fine.

………….Until it didn’t.

Slowly the  illustrious tape began to give way, releasing its tenous hold on our footwear. Soon I was seeing stars again, and found myself defeated, standing amongst a pile of discarded pumps, sandals and golf shoes.

In a curious case of life imitating art, mine was beginning to resemble a prolonged scene from the movie “GroundHog Day”.

Damn you Kip and your “problem solving!”

I began to worry that this delinquent shoe rack was some sort of cautionary metaphor for our relationship. Were we, too, destined to fail? To come unglued, to fall apart, no matter what we tried?

No, I decided. I am not going to go down that easy.

So I marched my ass back to Studley’s- this time with a purpose. I blew through the door, past the walls of unfamiliar tools, and slammed my roll of Hollywood tape down on the counter.

“This? I asked? THIS was your solution?”

“I….I don’t know what that is?” replied Kip, staring confused at the roll of pink and purple adhesive.

“Uh, double sided tape?” I spat “your big solution to my shoe rack problem? Well, it didn’t work at all, and now I’m back to square one. How you gonna solve this one, problem solver?”

Kip looked taken aback. It had probably been some time since he had seen this much female aggression inside the walls of Studley’s. A part of me felt badly; but in my mind, he and his dusty little shop of horrors had become the sole authors of my misfortune. There was no turning back now.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter.” I continued, “Just give me those tiny screws and the screwdriver I need for them. How much is it?”

Flustered, he grabbed the necessary implement “Uh… three fifty” he said.

“Three hundred and fifty dollars?” I choked, trying not to lose my cool.

“No, three dollars and 50 cents?”  He replied, looking at me like I had three heads.

“Oh ok,” I sighed. “That I can do”.

I walked out feeling like I had won a small victory. Ordinarily, I would have given up on the whole thing; tossed the errant piece of plastic down the garbage chute and lived out the remainder of my existence in a sea of disorganized footwear. Not this time, though. The new, domesticated BreezyK was triumphant.

I took home my bounty, and together, we nailed the rack into the door until it was as secure (and by “we” and “together”, I mean I ate FroYo and provided colour commentary while he did all the work).

Although our relationship with the shoe rack is in a state of détente right now, we’re well aware that this could change at any moment. There are one or two screws struggling to come loose, and every few days we have to nail their delinquent asses back in.

If I were a contestant on The Bachelor, I would draw some sort of analogy here between our shoe rack debacle and the continued effort it takes to maintain a stable and loving relationship… But I’m not. So I won’t… but… you get the picture.

Question of the Day: Have you had any household projects from hell?


Featured post

Love Lessons From My Childhood Pen Pal

I got a letter in the mail the other day. It was a bit of an unexpected thrill, considering my mailbox is usually filled with nothing but Domino’s pizza flyers. (Which, don’t get me wrong, I still appreciate.) 


While reading it, I was reminded of a time in my life when letters weren’t quite so infrequent.

………. Cue the flashback (you knew it was coming)


The year was 1995: I was 9 years old, bookish, and heavy into Blossom Hats and The Babysitter’s Club. I was teetering on the verge of what would soon become my five-year “awkward phase”, but didn’t know it yet. Life was good.

It was also the year I made my first Pen Pal.

*Not me or my dog.
*Not me or my dog.

I acquired my Pen Pal through somewhat unusual circumstances. My father, the son of Croatian immigrants, liked to keep ties with his Eastern European heritage. This manifested itself mostly in three ways: cooking obscene amounts of cabbage, hoarding things, and subscribing to a Croatian newsletter called  Zajedničar. 

Zajedničar, as I recall it, was a bizarre publication filled with ads for life insurance, way too many consonants, and people in weird costumes playing Tamburitzas.


 I never paid much attention to it until one day, my dad showed me an ad offering a PenPal service connecting Croatian children across North America.  

Now this was something I could get down with. The opportunity to correspond with a real live girl in another country? Sign me up!

I immediately submitted my information to the magazine, and a few weeks later, received my first letter.  It was from a girl named Jessica in Erie, Pennsylvania. She was 10 years old, and loved Barbies, gymnastics and stickers- in that order.  She even sent me her school photo, in which she was wearing one of those Western bolo shirts that were popular at the time.

This was the best I could do on Google images. In reality, she looked nothing like this.
This was the best I could do on Google images. She actually looked nothing like this.

Her long, sandy blond hair was tied into a side braid with a fluffy white scrunchie on the end, and she accessorized with dangly troll earrings, gummy bracelets and a toothpaste-commercial smile.


To me, she was impossibly cool.

I immediately began crafting my response. Besides just telling her my entire life story, I also spent hours researching her hobbies and interests in order to prove what a thoughtful and conscientious Pen Pal I could be. I even had my dad pull out the atlas to show me where Erie was on the map. 


I was certain she would be impressed by such informational gems as:

Did you know your town is named after a lake??!”; and 

I heard toothpaste is great for removing sticker residue!” 

We corresponded for the next few months, sending letters as well as other totems of our respective 90’s childhoods: stickers, colorful erasers, POGS, temporary tattoos.We never spoke a single word about Croatia, but that was OK. 

Eventually, things kind of fizzled out. Ok, I’m lying. Jessica just straight-up stopped writing to me. I don’t really know what happened. I mean, maybe I was a little overzealous in my pursuits- spending hours drafting elaborate letters, consulting atlases and whatnot. And maybe I should’ve seen this one coming when my 10-page anthologies met with only a few measly paragraphs in response. “Maybe she’s busy practicing her tumbling,” my mother would say. But deep down, I knew the score. 

While being blown-off so coldly hurt at the time, in a way I’m thankful, because it probably prevented me from becoming a full-on stage 5 clinger in future romantic relationships.  


Now I’m just incredibly closed-off and distant. I think it’s working out pretty well for me.


So thank you, Jessica, for teaching me that there is such a thing as coming on way too strong. I  hope you finally found that Sailor Moon sticker sheet you were looking for, and that somewhere, out there, you and your side braid are tumbling off into the sunset.

Question of the Day: Did You Have A Pen Pal Growing Up?

The Mystery of the Long Stem Roses

It all started innocently enough: I was struggling to fit an oversize bag of garbage down the chute in my condo building when I noticed a bouquet of a dozen, long stem red roses, still in their original packaging, sitting on floor beside the chute.

My immediate reaction was one of intense curiosity. Whose roses were these? And why had they thrown them away? Perhaps there had been a lover’s quarrel? (Red, of course, being the universal colour of love). I needed more information.

I opened the flap of the packaging and found that no note had been included. This only added to my intrigue. Had the recipient removed the note prior to disposing with the flowers? And if so, why? Or maybe there had never been a note at all. Maybe this was a secret-admirer type situation. Or a stalking one.

I briefly considered taking theses roses myself- rescuing them from the metal clutches of certain death and bringing them back to my apartment where they could live a happy (albeit brief) life on my coffee table beside all of my US Weeklys and old Wal-Mart candles. But ultimately, I decided against it.

Like the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, these roses seemed too good to be true. What if I took them and it opened up a Pandora’s box of heartache and unhappiness?

Don’t do it, Pandy!

I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with a friend recently, where she told me about a plant she had agreed to inherit from a woman at work who was leaving. “You better make sure you think long and hard about that decision,” I told her. “Like what are the circumstances of her departure, for one thing? What if she was miserable and hated her life? Do you really want to bring a plant into your office that had to live with that woman’s unhappiness for years?”

Eventually, I was satisfied when my friend assured me that the woman was, in fact, retiring after a very happy and successful 30 year career, and planned to travel the world with her husband – and thus was in need of a good home for the plant.

I could get no similar comfort, however, with these roses. Whatever the circumstances surrounding their disposal, it didn’t seem positive. And I didn’t want any of that bad energy messing up my apartment chi.

And so I left the roses untouched, and instead focused on solving the mystery of who left them there in the first place.

Everyone I encountered in my building became a suspect. Could it have been the punk-rock clad university student sharing an elevator with me? Judging from her heavy eyeliner and spiked backpack, she seemed no stranger to misery. Or perhaps it was the middle-aged man, picking up his Amazon package from the concierge. His eyes held a profound sense of sadness.

There was no way of knowing for sure.

The whole thing began to depress me, and I began wracking my brain for other, less distressing explanations. Maybe there had been no lover’s quarrel at all, I thought. Maybe the recipient was simply allergic to roses.

This seemed plausible. I once received lilies from an ex-boyfriend and had to throw them away due to my severe allergies. I tried to live with it, but in the end, I just couldn’t stand it.

A metaphor, you might say, for how the relationship itself eventually became.

Unfortunately, a quick google search confirmed that roses are among the least common of all allergies. Foiled again.

I have since resigned myself to the fact that I may never get the answers I’m looking for… and just like that damn movie Inception, I may never fully understand what went on that day. Whatever the case, I hope that the recipient of those fateful roses has since found peace. And to the person who gave them in the first place: I’m rooting for you, buddy.

Question of the Day: Would you have taken the roses?

6 Reasons Why You Probably Shouldn’t Invite Me to Your Wedding

This past weekend I flew home to Halifax, Nova Scotia to attended the wedding of my good friends Alison and Kevin.

The ceremony, which took place at a yacht club overlooking the Halifax Harbour, was truly gorgeous, and I was so happy to have been included in their special day. At the risk of getting all sentimental and spoiling my jaded, sarcastic persona, I have to admit that I really do love weddings. There’s just such a sense of occasion about them: getting dressed up, catching up with old friends, throwing rice around. (I mean come on.. who throws rice around?)

It’s wedding season!

But despite all of my enthusiasm, I actually get invited to relatively few of them. This wedding was the only one in my roster for all of 2012.  This hardly seems proportional, given that I am almost 27, and for all intents and purposes should be right at the apex of my wedding-attending career.

In an effort to identify why I keep getting left off the “A” list, I started thinking back to my previous history as a wedding guest. Yeah, there were probably a few missteps along the way…. like that time I slow danced inappropriately with the groom, assaulted the bride and pushed a pregnant lady. Awwwkard. (just kidding. That was her)

I decided that after all the antics I had pulled in my time, I probably wouldn’t invite me to my own wedding either. And to be honest, neither should you. Here’s why:

1. I’ll probably be late for it.

Although I have no problem making my bi-weekly nail appointment, or rushing home in time to catch the Season Premiere of Bachelor Pad, for some reason it’s the one time, monumental events that I just can’t manage to be on time for. This past wedding was no exception. After getting lost en route to the ceremony and arriving 15 minutes late, I saw from the parking lot that the bridal procession had already started. Since the actual ceremony was still about 400m away, and down a steep grass hill, I decided to do what any self-respecting girl would do: whip off my 4 inch heels and pull a Usain Bolt straight down the hill in my cocktail dress, in direct view of the entire audience.  I think even the bridesmaid walking down the aisle turned to see the crazy woman barreling down the hill at 100 km/hour.

I finally made it to my seat (after almost taking out the photographer, the flower girl and more than a few pew markers along the way) just in time to see my friend walk down the aisle. Can’t say I don’t know how to make an entrance.

2. I’ll make you rue the day you ever decided to have an open bar.

Free booze is a saucy temptress. Despite my best efforts to act like a responsible, 26-year-old woman in the face of unlimited free alcohol, instead I usually end up behaving more like a contestant on “cash grab”, attempting to beat the clock by imbibing as much as possible in the limited time I have. So word to the wise: Unless you want 80 bottles of grey goose and 145 sour puss shots* on your bar tab at the end of the night, maybe consider leaving my name off the invite list.

*actual statistics.

3. I’ll probably dance.

Although I am a woman of many talents (writing, running sub 3 hour marathons, generally winning at life), dancing, unfortunately, is not one of them. I think my dancing skills (or, lack thereof) can best be described as a formula of  one part Elaine Benes:


One part Carlton Banks:


Two parts Ron Swanson:


One part Paull Rudd from the 80’s:

Three parts Napoleon Dynamite:


With a few jersey shore fist pumps thrown in there.

But worse.

Although generally self-aware enough to save the world from having to endure this agony, coupled with the effects of the aforementioned grey goose + sour puss shots, I pretty much lose all control of my actions.. and appendages. And let’s face it- nobody wants to see that.

4. I will likely harass your DJ and/or Photographer

Because I live in a universe known as Self-Absorbtion, I think everything is about me. Unfortunately for you, this goes for your wedding too. If I feel like listening to Urrrrsher or Mr. Worldwide Pitbull  instead of  Kool and the Gang, then so help me god, I’m going to. Even if it means harassing, haranguing and/or bribing your DJ along the way. And as for pictures: there better be a lot of them. Of me. I didn’t spend 3 hours doing my hair and makeup for nothing.

5. I don’t understand portion control.

When you decided to order those delicious grilled cheese sandwiches and donuts as a late night snack at your wedding, you probably anticipated each guest having one of them, right? Au contraire bonjour. At least not if I’m one of your guests.

I’m not gonna get into exactly what went down that night… but lets just say there was one very full belly, and more than a few hungry mouths at the end of it.

6. I’ll probably write about it on my blog

When all else fails, you can count on me to exploit our close, personal relationship for shameless blog fodder.

Because after all, what are friends for??

Question of the Day: Do you like weddings? Do you make a good wedding guest?

The Friend Zone

I love you guys. Really, I do. That’s why today, I’m giving you a break from hearing the sound of my own virtual voice (be thankful you never have to hear my actual voice.  I sound like a 6-year-old on coke) and instead, I’m giving it over to the beautiful, funny and talented Miss Karen from The Chronicles.

She wrote a great guest post for me about dating, so check it out below! You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll emotionally eat ice cream….and at the end everyone will be richer from the  experience.  Promise. And make sure to head on over to her blog to read some more when you’re done. If this post wasn’t enough to convince you, well…sometimes she posts pictures of herself.  Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.

K I’ll stop being such a scene stealer now and just let you read it. Here goes!


Hello everyone! So some of you may know me from The Chronicles of a Skinny Jeans wearing Toronto girl and the others may now me as Breezyk’s eternal stalker and not so secret admirer. I’ve known Breezy for a few months now and through numerous brunch dates, major girl crush and hopeless love only begins to scratch the surface.

When Breezyk asked me to write a post for her I got all anxious. Mainly because her blog is amazing (but you already knew that right?) and whatever I wrote would have to be nothing short of perfect. Well, that was an impossible task and after a month of struggling, this is all I came up with. And I’m honored that she wants to feature this J

The Scourge of the Friend Zone

You guys all know how much I like joshing around making fun of people, judging them through my judgmental eyes (in this case, fingers) and such. And so the inspiration for this post came from none other than my favorite josher, Barney Stinson: 

The proverbial friend zone. On one hand, at least you’re friends. On the other hand, Cupid has no more arrows in his nappy for you and friends is all you will ever be. Unless you’re a time-travelling caveman or an asexual plant, all of us at some point will have done our time in this miserable middle ground of hell. Hell as we all know is just another word for unrequited love…and bikini waxes.

Ever since man learnt to walk upright and speak in full sentences, the Friend Zone has basically been understood as a male populated island surrounded by Lake Testosterone.

But while I would absolutely LOVE to sit here forever and spend the next ten thousand words bitching about the stupid bitches that put them there, I’m here for a bigger purpose. Because whether you fellas realise this or not, there IS a female version of the friend zone. It exists and is no more a myth than gravity or the five second rule.

The female friend zone unbeknownst to many is more popularly known as “the mother zone” and in certain circles the “sister zone”. Mother and sister. Important roles in a woman’s life. None of which you want to be playing when you’re seeing a guy you want to knock socks with.

So because I’m a nice girl, I will offer myself as a prime example of how women get a one way ticket to the non erogenous zones of mother and sister.

Case Study #1: The Hug-a-bug

Dated this guy for a month and a half. Of the many red flags that were burning holes into my corneas, the biggest and brightest one was that we never kissed. Just hugged all the time. And how did I respond? I made him a bunch of cutesy birthday coupons promising the world (and more hugs).

The Aftermath: He broke up with me, the reason being that “he wasn’t ready to be in a relationship and that I was the sweetest girl ever”. Two weeks later he started dating a close friend of mine and now they’re married.

Moral of the Story: Most guys like to hug their “sweetest girl ever” sisters, not date them.

Ed note: Thank you Karen, for teaching me never to trust this man.

Case Study 2: The best friend.

I walked in to my first lecture of my Humanities class and took a seat next to the cutest boy my eyes could scan. Two weeks later we became inseparable. And obviously by the end of the semester I was hopelessly in love. I could completely be myself around him, argue with him, and even yell at him when he was being a dick.

The Aftermath: I did eventually tell him how I felt. He responded by telling me how he’d always be there for me and how I’m the kind of girl any man would be lucky to settle down with.

Moral of the Story: Maybe the only thing worse than being in the sister zone is being in the mother zone and sister zone at the same time.

Case Study 3: The worker.

Having learnt nothing from Case Study 1 and 2, I moved on to my next male encounter with The Worker. He worked the craziest hours in the world. Sometimes he’d leave at 4am and come home exhausted by 8pm. Sometimes he’d be so tired that he would fall asleep at the wheel. And despite all that, sometimes if I had a bad day, he would still drive all the way to my place just to give me a hug. He made me happy. And I made him elaborately packed lunches so he would save the time it took to pack a lunch to sleep in a few extra minutes.

The Aftermath: Things didn’t work out for the mere fact of it being shitty life circumstances. But he did say that not even his mother took care of him the way I did.

Moral of the Story: You’ll probably need therapy when you realize that perhaps the biggest reason the relationship even lasted as long as it did was because you took care of him like a mother.

Ed note: Listen to the woman and never pack that man a lunch. Especially not this one. Nothing says “mother zone” like a dinosaur shaped, crustless sandwich.

And what did I learn from this all? Nothing. In fact, I never really thought about this till at this very moment at 1:00 in the morning unable to sleep. Over the past three years that I’ve been single, I read all the latest fad books on dating…He’s just on that into you, It’s called a breakup because its broken, Why Men love bitches…you name it.

All of these told me to act the exact opposite of the way I did in my innocent unjaded past. And I listened to them and completely bought into that idea. I drank it all in. I scolded my girlfriends when they came to me with complicated boy problems, telling them to cut it off and be single, telling them not to be so weak (in not so many words). I loved the idea of flirting with guys but could never bring myself to think anything past that. Hence was born my debilitating condition of Dating ADD.

And it was not until this very moment after just going back and reading it again that I found out why I did those things. With each of these guys I became creative, I wasn’t afraid to be myself and most of all, I was happy.

There is a paradox about happiness that holds true for every aspect of life:

In order to be happy, you have to make someone happy.

In order to make someone happy, you have to be happy yourself.

And so from this 2am epiphany, here is what I’m going to try to take from it. Maybe you’ll laugh at me. Maybe you’ll call me naive or just maybe for some crazy reason you may even agree with me but the truth is.:

I didn’t make coupons because I was blissfully unaware of not being kissed. I did it because I wanted to in spite of it.

I didn’t argue and give my two cents on everything because I thought that’s a sure-fire way to a man’s heart. I did it because I was made to feel comfortable enough to do so.

And I certainly didn’t pack a lunch because that’s the motherly thing to do. I did it because I was happy. And when you’re happy, you become creative in finding ways of making someone else happy.

And I know that when I find someone who makes me happy, makes me want to get creative and isn’t scared off when I am myself, I’ll still be jaded. I’ll still panic and remember everything I read in dating books. But you know what? Of all the million things that could go wrong with trusting someone, I’d like to remember that something could go right.

So is this all too idealistic for this world? You bet it is. But I’m not asking you to adopt the same thought process. Perhaps one night when you can’t sleep, you may come up with a formula that works for you better. But maybe consider just one thing out of all this, when you do find someone who brings out a side of you that wants to be unjaded and innocent, throw away those dating books, make those coupons and pack those lunches and risk being in the friend zone. Because in the end, it’s not just him that deserves a fair shot. You do too.

And that`s my two cents on the friend zone. I`m not an award-winning author of a dating book or about to make millions on my late night findings. Just some uncool schlep who’s been stuck in the friend zone since 1986. And you what? For now, I`m okay with that.

Question of the Day: Have you ever found yourself in the Friend Zone?

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