I'm apparently still a little too upset about some of the people and some of the events at the wedding to be very positive about it, so I'm going to write about other things instead and then show you some pretty pictures from the wedding reception (the ceremony was lovely, but most of our photos are crap). Deal?

For the wedding I got to try out my Chi hair straightener, which Paul and my sister and brother bought me for Birthday/Christmas, and which I love. By the time Melly had finished straightening my hair I was ready to shout from the rooftops "Chis are the best!" Fortunately, I realized in time that anyone who heard me would think that either I felt really strongly about dairy products or that I had terrible grammar (this is half true, I will let you decide which half). (If you don't get it, try saying it out loud.) Perhaps a T-shirt or sandwich board would be more effective.

Choir weddings are an amazing thing, if not for anything else then for the sheer number of people who meet in choir and marry. I'm sure that we number in the hundreds if not thousands. Choir is not a dating service, I promise it's not; I think it's just that you are guaranteed to have a larger number of things in common because you, by default:
a) Love music (or at least like it a lot)
b) Love to sing (if you didn't love it, you wouldn't get up for the ten o'clock saturday morning rehearsals)
c) Enjoy learning at least a bit (it's a university choir)
d) Have some shared history and many in jokes
e) Go to a lot of the same parties

This wedding, Brad and Liz's wedding, was a bit exceptional in a couple of ways:
a) They have been dating for ten years (TEN!)
b) An Alto married a Tenor (Choir marriages tend to be Alto-Bass or Soprano-Tenor, no one really knows why. Brad and Liz just wrecked our average).
c) It managed to make me not want to take any pictures again ever (between Paul and I on our two cameras we took roughly 700). Don't worry, the desire is growing back, it just may take a while.








Table number one of choir folk.













Table number two of choir folk.













Table number three of choir folk (and Emily).













Paul and I all dressed up (he cleans up nice, doesn't he?)












Baby Erica. Ain't she sweet? She really liked our new flash.








All Ethan wanted to do all night was dance with Julia (and Liz), if Julia said no he would ask to dance with "Julia's Mommy".
















Two of my favoritest people in the whole universe.















I thought this was a nice effect (the first dance through the centrepiece.)



















The first dance.


















Look at them go.






































Line dancing.











iHOP (The international House Of Party) together for the last time.













To Happy Endings.

Earlier this year Paul’s Jurassic Truck died. We had been having trouble with it and we knew it needed a new engine and suddenly one day it turned a corner downtown, made terrible noises and died a smoky death. Paul towed it home to sit in our parking stall as our “outdoor storage” (it currently contains an entertainment centre, three CD racks, and a bottle of raspberry sourpuss). He went out to the farm and resurrected Stuart, his little white tempo, who had been languishing at the farm for two years waiting to be sold.

Since then we have been limping along. My Stanley (a Volvo station wagon) is 26 years old, and while being extremely low maintenance this year it is still kind of a wonder that he runs at all. Paul’s tempo turned out to need quite a bit of work and was painfully unreliable in the last couple of months. Finally we came to the conclusion that we really needed a new vehicle; one that was reliable and didn’t cost us a fortune in repairs. Perhaps even a vehicle that was made in this century (gasp!)

Last Thursday we made arrangements to meet with the husband of a co-worker who worked at a Ford dealership. He was actually off on sick leave, which we didn’t realize, and came in especially for us. (Please note: when buying a vehicle, do not start off feeling guilty). He had a good deal on a 2005 Escape that we very seriously considered, until we discovered that, in the long run, it was actually cheaper to get a 2006 (!) We ended up test driving the vehicle overnight but it turns out that I just couldn’t get comfortable in it. Either my foot was all crunched up by the bump under the carpet by the gas pedal or my arms were stretched out so far forward that my back cramped. By the time I had finished all of my driving, my ankle hurt, my back was cramping, and I felt like I’d done 50 sit-ups. Based on this, we ended up not getting the vehicle, but only with considerable angst and guilt.

Still, we are on the hunt for a new vehicle. We made a list of things that we liked about the Escape that we wanted in our new car. It gives you a bit of a picture of the state of our vehicles when our list included things like: “wipers that work” and “a good heater” and “accelerates”. We want a vehicle with 4X4, preferably with a manual transmission, and probably an SUV so next on the list is the Honda CR-V. Hopefully we will manage to find something that is comfortable for both of us.

I guess my parents had this in mind when they clipped out the article about a contest from Chevrolet where the company gave away a car to the couple that had the greatest height differential. The couple that won had a 2’2” height differential and were 6’6” and 4’4” respectively. Well, if they can find a vehicle that works, so can we.

Brad's birthday is a traditional post-Christmas drunken celebration which I have attended almost every year for the past ten or so. Due to timing constraints and the very logical thought that it was a bad idea to be drunk out of your mind two days in a row two days before your wedding, his birthday was combined with his stag this year. Since the boys were out at the stag, the girls went out to Julio's for margaritas before meeting the boys at Sapphire. Liz, the bride, who isn't really into the bar thing came out to hang with us for a bit at Julio's.

Being the way we are, the girls set out to find out what specifically was stressing out the bride and what we could do to help. Soon she had run through her to-so list, which we casually decimated. She was left with a very short list and most of us ended up with an assignment of some kind. Go us!

This very much made me think back to the week before my wedding. I'm a bit of a control freak and I have a lot of trouble asking for help. The main person that I wanted to help me was Paul and he was pretty darn busy too. To top it all off I was horribly sick the week before the wedding (and actually for a couple of weeks after, too).

My friends did the same thing as we did for Liz. Sarah would force me to list what I still needed to do and then she would calmly identify things that I didn't actually need to do myself and assign them to herself or others of our friends. Not only that but I was able to put together a sizeable set-up crew, tear-down crew, and a few volunteers to get up early on the morning after the wedding to help my mom so that she didn't have a breakdown preparing for the open house. I was moved beyond words at the warm hearted helpfulness of my friends, who not only did everything I asked for help with, but did it perfectly and cheerfully and then turned around and gave us amazing wedding gifts on top of it all, when just their assistance was gift enough.

It's times like this that make me realize what an amazing group we are; not all groups of friends are like this. My bridesmaids and the groomsmen (and groomsmaid and bridesguy) helped but none of them were driven to exhaustion or near bankruptcy by the tasks given (or at least I'm pretty sure they were fine, we were very careful about this.) While I can get cranky with almost any of them, I realize that I am so lucky and very blessed to have such amazing friends, and I hope to never take them for granted.

Driving from the farm to my parent's place on Christmas day was a dreary affair. We had anything but a white Christmas this year and I was feeling a bit out of the spirit. It started to rain as we drove, melting the last of the scant covering of snow.

As we sped up the highway, we could see a little red convertible on the horizon. As we approached we could see that the top was down and wondered why the driver wouldn't pull over and put the top up to get out of the rain. Was it sheer vanity keeping the cover off?

It turns out that they were being generous rather than vain: the little red convertible contained a Santa and Mrs. Claus bringing Christmas cheer to Edmontonians.































































With a smile and a wave as they drove out of sight,
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

I have figured out why Boxing Day is called Boxing Day. I always thought that it was because the day after Christmas is when you clean up all of the boxes from the Christmas booty and you put away all of the Christmas ornaments in boxes, or you would if you were not in my family of procrastinators where the tree goes up on Christmas Eve and stays up until the snow melts (this year the tree went up on Christmas day at 3 p.m. We suck.) No, Boxing Day must be named for all the boxing style fights that go on during Boxing Day shopping when people are battling toward their favorite deal and find that someone else has his hot little hands on the last coveted item and something goes 'snap' in their brain. Or I suppose when people get overwhelmed by hearing "BOXING DAY SALE" eleventy billion times and contract BOXING DAY MADNESS and run through the streets fighting with people over their purchases.

At five a.m. on Boxing Day I heard a strange noise, tinny music playing off in the distance. Somewhat intrigued, I reluctantly swam towards consciousness and Paul whispering in my ear "Time to get up". What on earth would cause me to climb out of bed at five in the a.m., since the phrase "not a morning person" is not strong enough to describe me? Is it watching the sunrise? Surely not, the sun will still be up whatever time I crawl out of bed. Is it to catch a Boxing Day sale, a new printer on cheap cheap cheap while our printer has recently become problematic? I think not, you know how much money I would pay for extra sleep, especially when I had none the night before. Is it the guilt that my new husband would probably go and brave the crowds all by himself to bring said printer triumphantly home? You got it! As I later muttered grumpily at Paul, there is no one else that I would get up at five in the morning for.

We dressed quickly, brushed teeth, grabbed a bottle of Yop to share and headed out to South Common. Both of us were relieved to find that yesterdays rain, which had frozen on walks and roads had not frozen on the car. There are few experiences more aggravating than attempting to scrape off the frozen-on freezing rain that has shellacked your vehicle overnight, and the resulting associated strained muscles and skinned-bloody knuckles.

On our drive, we passed another eletronics- and media-based store where insanity reigned. Throngs of anxious patrons mobbed the sidewalk and parking lot around the doors, each hoping for that super deal that would make getting up too early worth the sacrifice. Soon we pulled into view of the blue and yellow building that was our destination. The base of the building couldn't even be seen through the throng of humanity that surrounded it, and we were approaching from the back side. We quickly found a parking spot and, after a fall by Paul on the slippery sidewalk, joined the line.

I was becoming relatively certain, based on the length of the line, that the object of our quest would have vanished into thin air by the time we got inside. Surely a good printer at less than half price would be a popular item and all we would find would be a sad sign hanging and perhaps some dust bunnies or tumbleweed to mark the deserted location.

At five to six the line shuffled cautiously forward on the icy walks, each person yearning hopefully, if blearily, after the deals contained therein. Soon we were accepting our free gum and chocolate bar samples as we swept though the entrance and into chaos.

Paul forged ahead and I followed in his wake as he strode toward the Holy Grail (a.k.a. the cheap printer). We found it within moments and stared in awe at the stack that was left. We quickly staked our claim and set off in search of discount ink supplies and paper (not to mention a quick run through 'TV on DVD', our not-so-secret vice). Our quest thus completed we joined the trek to salavation, otherwise known as the cashier. The line snaked through the store along a bright yellow rope that followed the main aisle, lined with attractive bargains.

We floated merrily along our path, avoiding dangerous side streams and staying with the main flow. Oh, no! What's that up ahead? A logjam! The blue-shirted employee smoothly directed us into the smallest side stream of all: in line behind a family of six with an overflowing cart waiting on a single cashier-in-training. Ages after we should have been out the door we were scrounging for change because the trainee's credit card machine had stopped working.

Finally we surged toward the door, clutching our prize triumphantly. It was only seven a.m. and we had survived Boxing Day shopping. Eight o'clock found us snuggled on our couch watching Serenity DVD bloopers and we were back abed by nine, dreaming dreams of new photo printers with separate ink cartridges.

Since this was our first Christmas together living in the same house as a married couple, I wanted to establish some traditions together. I had visions, not of sugarplums, but of decorating the tree together, romantically, in front of a roaring fire. I had bought a few new decorations, since most of what we have is uninspired, and I wanted to begin establishing all of the memories that we could look back on each year as we decorated the tree. I dreamed of waking up together under our fluffy duvet and crawling out of bed on Christmas morning to open up our stockings (he had filled mine and I had filled his, each of us playing santa for the other) while huddled together under a blanket on our new couch. In my head we opened our Dutch chocolate letters and ate the oranges from the toes of our stockings (my family's tradition) and poured our miniature bottles of Bailey's Irish Cream (his family’s tradition) into his morning coffee and my hot chocolate.

I’m not sure where all of these crazy expectations came from. For some reason the first year of marriage has a ridiculous amount of pressure. Each tiny action feels like you are establishing ‘the way it will be for time without end’, which is far too stressful, really, for what should be a relaxing and happy time. So, of course, reality didn't even bear a passing resemblance to my foolish fantasies.

We were far to busy to get our tree trimmed any earlier than the week before Christmas so on a night that we were both home, our friends basically staged an intervention. Roscoe was staying with us and Melly, Chnaners and Kristy came over and we all decorated the tree together. We had ‘Barenaked for the Holidays’ playing on the stereo and we joked and laughed and goofed around and generally had a great time. They all made sure to let us put up the few decorations that were special to us, but our tree was decorated in record time.

The next fantasy was about Christmas morning. Of course I already knew what our plans for Chrismas Morning were, long before I dreamed up “Christmas morning for Karen and Paul in an alternate dimension.” Every year we go to church with Paul’s family on Christmas Eve, play games all night, and sleep over at the farm. We wake up to the voice of a small child whispering “Mewy Cwistmas”, listen to Papa read from the bible by candlelight, meditate on what we are grateful for, sing happy Birthday to Jesus and blow out the candles, then tear open the brightly wrapped packages in a frenzy of gift opening joy. We then travel to my parent’s place for an intimate Christmas dinner for twenty, followed by a slew relatives arriving and cheerful Christmas chaos. We generally hang out and clean up with my brother while my sister sleeps and we gripe about her not helping. We come home to our snug little beds and smile that we have survived another Christmas with our families.

As we left the farm, Paul’s mom gave him a last little gift. Paul’s Grandma died last summer and when Mama was going through her belongings she found a Christmas ornament in a little box. The box was labeled “Baby boy Chrismas, 1977”, which means that his Grandma bought it when he was born, the first grandchild. I couldn’t have dreamed it, but that ornament will now be a sweet part of our Christmas traditions.

Now every year I can look back at our first Christmas as a married couple and remember how our friends came over and we had so much fun decorating the tree all together, and Paul can hang the ornament passed down from his grandma to his mom to him and add years of history to the first year of our tree.

Sometimes you don’t get what you want for Christmas, you get what you need.








Trimming the tree.












Giving Doug horns (which sounds dirty but isn't.)












Kristy with Paul's stocking.















Our temporary tree topper.
















New ornaments.











A pile of fun on our couch.















The Grinch couldn't steal our tree (he's too tiny.)















Paul and spidey.












Me and Kermie.














Our paper bag angel from Amanda.
















After the tree is done.















Santa Pants.
















Our attempted Christmas card photo for next year.

















Melly told us to battle with our antlers...








...but I got poked in the eye. (It's true: it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.)

This picture actually typifies our relationship quite well.

Merry Christmas!

On Christmas Eve I went to church with Paul’s family. In the row ahead of me was a little girl of about age three. She was obviously dressed in her Christmas finest; a little fur-ruffed red jacket, a matching dress with a little pocket in the skirt, white tights, and shiny little black shoes. Initially her father was holding her in his arms, facing me and back to the priest, and we played peek-a-boo around her dad’s shoulders. When she giggled a little too hard Daddy put her down and she played peek-a-boo through his legs for a while. Eventually the parents tired of this game and dug around in her little pink backpack for a few sheets of blank paper and a baggie full of crayons.

As I watched, she started by coloring a wide swath of purple across the page. She then added orange highlights, some green shading, and balls of pink scattered around the page but still connected by a thin trail. Each mark was made with deliberation rather than randomness. She knew exactly what she was creating and every stroke had to be just so. Occasionally she would pause, study her creation, point to various areas of the page as if counting up to make sure that she got all of the important parts in, and only then would she carefully select a new crayon and add some subtle stripes to one of the busier areas of the page.

Each time she paused to point and mutter to herself about the various portions of her art I was immediately tempted to ask her what she was drawing. With difficulty I managed to restrain myself. It occurred to me that perhaps she was not drawing anything in particular, but rather creating modern art or a symphony of colour on her scrap page. I didn’t want to fetter her creativity by requiring her to be drawing something specific just so that she could give some nosy adult a label.

She completed the drawing with a flourish and then curled the paper into a tube, crushed the centre of the tube, then curled out the upper edges like a flower. As I watched her switch shamelessly from painter to sculptor, I wondered at the impact of art classes on childhood creativity. This little girl knew nothing of the subtleties of art; she had never been exposed to paintings in museums or structure or perspective. She had never heard of Monet or Van Gogh, Picasso or Renoir. The only tools she had were her instincts and her own inner vision, and yet she was an artist (although probably with less angst than most artists).

I, myself, generally refrain from practicing “art”. My sixth grade art teacher told me that I “shouldn’t draw” because I wasn’t very good at it. While I realized that my line drawings weren’t as accomplished as those of my classmates, I was still willing to learn and thought that I had a lifetime of exploration ahead of me. I was heartbroken that I was actually so terrible at drawing that my teacher, who I respected and adored, had already given up on me. That day I stopped drawing: no doodling while on the phone, no playing pictionary, avoiding art classes and eliminating jobs which required drawing skills in my high school career search.

The little girl unfolded her work of art, flattened it slightly and tugged on her mommy’s sleeve. Mommy glanced down, smiled and whispered, “Very nice.” The little girl shrugged as if the praise didn’t matter, she had just wanted to share her creation with someone she loved, to add some beauty to her life and share her experience.

I wondered what the world would be like if everyone could create art like that little girl did, without worrying about judgment or whether the drawing looked true to life. What a difference it would make if every single person drew what they loved onto a scrap of paper, and someone else loved them enough to hang it on their fridge. What a sense of accomplishment to have your creation so appreciated. What a beautiful way to share love and creation.

As for myself, I restrict my attempts at art to amateur photography and scrapbooking, which no one seems to find offensive enough to openly scorn me for. I have to admit though, that I smile a little inside every time Paul comments on one of my “artsy shots”, since it means to me that someone loves me enough to put my drawings up on the refrigerator.

I decided this year to have an actual official Birthday Party. I turned thirty earlier this month and felt like this milestone event, managing to survive on this planet for thirty years, deserved some form of recognition. I was also feeling a bit ripped off about the dance at my wedding. You see, I didn't really get to dance at the wedding, maybe five songs including the one with my drunked uncle that Paul had to rescue me from. So I decided to rent a hall and have a big ass dance party.

I ended up planning most of the event in a day, which is not the way to do things. The only things done in advance were booking the hall (which resulted in a lot of "Christmas in Killarney" type comments) and arranging to borrow Erin's school's speakers. The afternoon of the party I picked up food and pop and liquor and plates and such. We loaded up the car and set off a bit late to the hall to meet Erin and set up the speakers.

I kept thinking that we must have forgotten something, that this was a bit too easy. Half way there I got a phone call. Erin was too drunk to drive and had the speakers with her at home. It was a bit of chaos, but with a bit of extra driving we managed to pull everything together.

The party worked out well. People danced, some of them drank, we had fun. I danced until my feet were sore; with Paul, with groups, by myself. I chatted with people a bit but when a song came on that I wanted to dance to, instead of feeling obligated to talk, I just went and danced. Despite the fact that the party cost significantly more than I had hoped, I'm glad I did something memorable to celebrate my birthday this year, instead of letting just another year slide by without a mention.









Opening my present.

















Roscoe the Brachiating Bartender.

















Kind of a line dance.

















Paul and I salsa.






















and some more salsa.




















Sarah and Jamie Salsa too!





















Charlie's angels?




















Jo and G swing dance.















Trish and Mama swing dancing.














Paul and Debbie immitating ornamental lawn gnomes.













David gets down.
















Junior high dancing.



















Teaching Paul Irish step dancing.















Melissa, Tara, Steve and Gary hangign out.















Chnaners does her chicken dance.
















Paul shakes it.























Dancing cheek to cheek.






















My goof.




















Kristy and Keith.






















Mama had a bit much rum and apparently it's all Doug's fault.




















Kristy and Amanda (just in from Hamilton).












Pinch.













No matter what, the party always ends up in the kitchen.