On the way to the diamond store AKA Cops & your tax dollars at work...

So, in what certainly had nothing to do with the gnawing teeth and bobbing head of a zany puppy for the past year, we took my engagement ring in for it's yearly inspection and cleaning (per their warranty agreement).

Reasonable facsimile-ish.

At said inspection, under the glimmery diamond-shiny pot lighting, at the fancy-pantsy minimalist office space (where I always feel like they are going to launch into an interview and/or interrogation), the man simply hovered his tweezers over one of the side stones in my ring, and that baby wiggled and bobbed much like I did at my bachelorette party.

Wait, not like that. I didn't mean BOBBED like that. I meant, like, stumbled and was all sloppy drunk.

Jeez, you guys and your perverted minds make it really hard to tell a story here. (Stop snickering at "really hard". I mean, seriously? C'mon. Oh stop laughing at the "come" in "come on"! You people are just impossible, really.)

*ahem*
Moving on.

So as the diamondologist/sales guy/Captain Obvious stated, the diamond was loose and it was recommended that we agree to let my baby (the ring, I don't actually have a baby - seriously, dammit, stop it with the sex stuff!) be sent away for repair.

Kind of like Dr. Suess' Grinch. I imagined them "taking it to Santa's workshop" and then never returning it. You know, 'cause if he really returned while hurling himself down a mountain slopeside at high speeds, my luck would result in the ring flying out of the sleigh, right before the avalanche struck.

Okay, what was I talking about again?

What my ring would have looked like with one more solid face-mash from the puppy dog.

Right, so, anyway, ring gets repaired.
My aversion to leaving the house, along with my fear that they wouldn't let me pick up the jewelry without the original buyer with me (aka The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™), TRIPLED with the fact I was worried they would try to charge some crazy fee for repairs, caused me to delay the trip for a few weeks.

So I got over hurtle #1. Made it out of the house, presentable, but with lioness-like hair. Drive my ass all the way in to Mississauga. Pull into the diamond store parking lot... and.. oh f_ck.

TWO COP CARS are parked near the doors.

**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**

**SOMEONE.BROKE.INTO.THE.SAFE**SOMEONE.BROKE.INTO.THE.SAFE**SOMEONE.BROKE.INTO.THE.SAFE**

**SHOULD'VE.COME.SOONER**DAMN.YOU.ANXIETY!**

Deep breath.

Walk to doors, see cops walking around inside the store with a sales guy. No large vault doors appeared to be open.

The sales guy seemed pretty calm. Happy, even.

My sensory-threat level of DEFCON BAJILLION began to settle.

After I waited about 15 minutes and was finally reunited with my love fancy ring. There were no problems, no fees, no issue. But then, I realized that the police had been called because of a premature alarm of some sort (Stop it! All I said was premature). But, you know, they got there before me.

AND THEY WERE BROWSING THE MOTHEREFFING STORE. The two of them were wandering about with the sales guy, looking at prototype rings. For at least 15 minutes.

Approximation.

And they were still there when I left. Had I not had the most obvious, loud-snapping-when-taking-a-photo-phone, I would have documented that shit for you. They were clearly ON DUTY and IN FULL UNIFORM, just browsing about the diamond store.

Jeez, guys, at least pretend you are inspecting some alarm shit or something.

And you KNOW one of 'em is gonna try to get a "badge"-influenced discount.

So, there you go. My ring wasn't stolen, but I am pretty sure that part of your tax dollars were if you live in Peel Region. You know, inadvertently.


Then again, I could be all wrong.

But that usually never happens.



Happy Friday.
______

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I had Mike Weir for Valentine's Day

Yup, that's right.

I got to TASTE HIM. He was surprisingly dry. But I drank him all in.


Oh, you guys are disgusting. I meant his sparkling wine,  jizz  jeez.

He fizzed all in my mouth. Also? The dim lighting made me look better to the New Husband. Probably.

When we saw the sign for this Italian restaurant (highly recommended by a fellow in the Williams Sonoma store), we expected shag carpeting and beads onto the doors in the washroom.

Surprisingly swanky. You didn't make the table cut if you were forced to sit at the bar or pizza bar. Just FYI.

It was surprisingly elegant, and we managed to score a table at 6pm on a Friday night with no reservations.

We must have looked mistakenly classy.

Also, holyshitandallthingsnotaffordable, have you people ever been in Williams Sonoma? The New Husband spent $36 on a whisk. A WHISK!

We spent $20 on PEPPERCORNS, people.

PK, you have got some mighty classy taste. I felt so out of place in that store.

So here's to tasting Canadian golfers like Mike Weir, while your husband watches, on Valentine's Day!!

*clinks glass in right hand to glass in left hand*

_____________

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Letter to my then-Feyoncé™, now The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™

As a start to our wedding ceremony, the wedding officiant asked me and The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ to secretly write letters to each other, and not share them, and she would read them aloud.

I want everyone to know how I feel about him, so dammit, I'm posting it on the blog.

I need some love and positivity right now, so here it is:

~~~~~~~~

Dearest [Name Redacted to Protect The Innocent], aka “[Redacted Variation on Previously Redacted Name]”, aka “Babe”, aka “My husband-to-be”,

I don’t even know how to start this letter. How can I express the love and appreciation I have for you in words? I simply cannot do it justice with words. I can look into your eyes, and smile, and know that you will know how I am feeling or what I may be thinking by the tilt of my head or the look in my eyes.

I love that understanding, and the connection we have. I love our mutual sense of humour, and ability to laugh at things. I love our “fit”. I love YOU, and I love us.

But how do I tell you how important you are in my life? How very fortunate I feel to have met you, and to have the honour of being the woman you are choosing to spend the rest of your life with?

From the very moment we met, I felt you exuded honesty and sincerity. I was charmed by your laugh and your sense of humour. And you were handsome (YOWSA! AND STILL ARE! Look at you!). And the more I got to know you, the more incredible you became to me. You amaze me every day with your intelligence, kindness, patience, understanding, and determination. Our bond has grown, deepened and strengthened as time has moved on. Each day I love you more.

You have let me see that what I thought, or can think, is a broken, flawed, embarrassment, is actually the woman you love with all your heart, and believe in more often than I believe in myself.

You’ve shown me that I am a lovable partner (unless it’s time to do the dishes or walk the dogs). You give me purpose (in explaining song lyrics), keep me on my toes (always seeking out the cutlery that doesn’t hurt your hands), and we work together with our strange quirks (like needing the car window cleaned, or never turning left into a gas station).

We have traveled together, and I have had opportunities to see things I never would have had the courage to try without you in my life. Like seeing the gorillas in Rwanda. And seeing the huge rhinoceros in front of our vehicle… in that crazy trek we took to the far-reaching African Lion Safari!

[Redacted], you ARE my life. You have given me courage, strength and comfort when I thought there was no strength left. You have cheered me on, and encouraged me to fight for the things that are worth fighting for. We have stood together through the rough waters and the playful waves and the calm stillness. And your support means more than any vows, or words, could say.

You mean everything to me. I can’t truly articulate how much love my heart holds for you. You are brightness, sunshine, warmth, and safety. You are wonderful.

I promise to do my best to be a good wife, and eventually a good mother to our not-yet-conceived children.

I am the luckiest girl in the world to be standing here, with you, the man who holds my heart, who makes me whole, who loves me unconditionally, who works alongside me, who challenges me, who makes me smile, whose hugs can make the world seem kinder, who can turn my mood and my day around. I love you so much, Babe, and I am so happy we are standing here today. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I love you more than any words could ever say.

I hope I keep making you as happy as you make me.

Stephanie

Oh, YES I DID!!!

p.s. To the people who didn't like the centrepieces: Really? Seriously?  I liked 'em, and we made a decent donation to an organization in my home town with the money we saved.

______

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Luggage Carousel Gold Mine

I was so desperately wishing that:

• This would have been tagged with a fluorescent orange Air Canada "priority baggage" tag, stuck somewhere. Anywhere.
• Someone came running back to the luggage carousel, out of breath, exclaiming "THERE they are!!"
• That I could have temporarily ignored my disdain for germs and run to the carousel, shouting back at The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™, "Honey, honey! I got them! Don't worry, the carousel didn't put a hole in 'em!"
• People wouldn't hear my non-smart-phone's EXTRA LOUD shutter sound whenever I take a photo, thereby completely revealing that I took a shot of this rarely-seen luggage carousel gold mine:

There, in the centre, lies a balled-up pair of men's underwear. So lovely.

Everyone had several snickers at the undies, as they toured around the carousel about 20 times before Air Canada finally started spitting out baggage. I pity the fool whose luggage landed on those underwear, and can only hope they were a CLEAN balled up pair of orphaned underwear.

Once the couple beside me realized I had taken a photo, (you know, and after they accepted the fact that I was very odd), we all made cracked some solid one-liners to each other. I think it is the first and only time another traveller has ever spoken to me at the baggage carousel.

The moral of the story?

ORPHANED UNDERPANTS UNITE.

Also?

The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ is the zipper king.

Bow down before him. Or whatever.

Also?

I was still totally buzzed upon arrival after those 3 triples in the departure lounge. But at least this wasn't an I-remember-seeing-random-underwear-in-the-airport-while-drunk stories with no photographic evidence. I took those photos to share with YOU, dear reader.

Once again, you're welcome.

Or whatever.
________

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Honeymoon Travel From Hell - Part 3

So... if you are new to the blog, or need a refresher, you can find Post #1 here, and then Post #2 here.

The way it was supposed to be:
- Plane #1 Toronto - Heathrow, London, England (Day 1)
- Plane #2 Heathrow - Columbo, Sri Lanka (Day 1-2)
- Plane #3 Columbo, Sri Lanka - Male, Maldives (Day 2)
- Plane #4 Male, Maldives - Maldivian Resort (sea plane ride) (Day 2)

We arrived at Heathrow in London on AC848 (Plane #1, but not actually the plane we were supposed to be on), hungry and having slept a few hours of that light-annoying-I-can-still-hear-the-people-around-me kind of way. I think it was 8:25am in London, but who are we kidding? My body knew it was really 3:25am REALITY (Ontario) TIME.

I was exhausted, and we had yet to figure out what, if any connections we had ahead of us, and which flights we had to try to book then and there in Heathrow.

We took the very, very long walk to the train to get from Terminal 3 to Terminal 4 (where the Sri Lankan air desk was located). After a 13 minute wait for the train to arrive, we trained it for 11 minutes to Terminal 3, where, at the Sri Lankan desk, there was not a soul to be found.

We had never considered that flights with a hub in Columbo, Sri Lanka, might not typically depart around 8am. F_ck. So, no help there.

We tried calling Canadian 800 numbers for assistance. Those bitches were sleeping at 3am, yo.
We tried calling some effed up numbers in Sri Lanka, and we couldn't get any of the calls to work, no matter the country code options.

When we got one to work, the person couldn't understand a goddamn word we said.

We tried the useless as f_ck airport information desk, who also tried dialling the same calls, with the same results. She then advised us to come back about an hour before the next Sri Lankan Air flight was set to depart.

"When would that be?" we asked, trying to be polite, feeling cranky as hell, and hoping the response would be in the range of "now" to "soon".

"Well, I don't know, check the boards" she grunted.

If any of you have ever been in an airport, you might notice they have a shit-ton of flights coming and going. And due to that fact, they only show outbound flights over the course of the next few hours on the monitors.

There was not a single Sri Lankan flight.

We took the long, long trek back down to the train, and returned (via an 11 minute train ride, while hauling our luggage) to Terminal 3. Why? Because there was a Star Alliance "arrivals" lounge, thank the gods, so we could access the bloody internet and attempt to figure out what was going on.

In the Star Alliance Arrivals Lounge:

In all fairness, the British women at the Air Canada Arrivals Lounge were absolutely kind and helpful. They helped us find alternate contact numbers for Sri Lankan Air, and were patient with us when The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ had to use their phone for TWO HOURS to try to get us on Sri Lankan air flights that would get us into Male, Maldives, you know, IDEALLY BEFORE THE END of our honeymoon.

They told us that our entire itinerary was visible on screen to Air Canada agents, including the flights that never connected. Turns out the assholes back in Toronto, Ontario, Canada at Pearson airport just didn't want to take the time to help us out, explain there was a problem, and prevent the mass confusion we endured over the next 20+ hours while trying to rebook.

I ate some wheat and some dairy out of desperation. I had a can of coke. It was about 6am Canada time.

We tried calling our insurance policy, purchased through Expedia.ca, to find out if they would reimburse costs to us for the rebookings. Their response?

"NONE OF IT IS COVERED."

What about the night we are missing at our non-refundable, pre-paid, expensive fancy-pants honeymoon resort in the Maldives?

"NOTHING PRE-PAID IS INCLUDED. See the limitations and exclusion clause at the end of your policy."

WHAT THE F_CK!?!??! We had both reviewed the travel insurance policy, purchased through Expedia.ca and provided by Mondial Assistance, but lo and behold we had missed this imperative clause below:

Um, kind of defeats the point, doesn't it?

So then The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ tried calling his out of country travel insurance through his work to ask for help.Guess what the person's response was on the phone?

"Didn't you just call me about this? I already told you it's not covered".

NO.WORD.OF.A.F_CKING.LIE.
SAME.FREAKIN'.GUY

Turns out his work coverage is completely identical to the shitty Expedia travel insurance plan, right down to the ONE GUY who answers the phone in the early morn, somewhere in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada.

Unless your travelling companion dies, or some crazy-ass weird shit goes down, or one of you loses a limb under certain conditions only, expect nothing from MONDIAL ASSISTANCE.

It gets confusing here, and I have probably already lost most of you, but the bottom line is that after the The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ spent hours on the phone in the lounge, and after Sri Lankan hung up on him twice, we were put on a flight departing Heathrow to go to Columbo (Sri Lanka) 3.5 hours later than planned.  This was NOT our final stop, remember, and we had two more connecting flights.

With this new set-up, we were set to take plane #2 and ARRIVE in Sri Lanka at 1:00pm the following day.

The problem?

Despite all our calls and efforts, the next leg of our journey, AKA plane #3, AKA our "connecting" flight, DEPARTED the following day at 11:20am for Male.

See the problem there?

Seems that Sri Lankan Air has not yet grasped the definition of "connecting flight".

We were booked on an impossible connection, unless of course someone had purchased us those time-travelling spacesuits from our wedding registry last minute.

Turns out no one did.

Sadly, the arrivals lounge had to close at 1:00pm, and kick our tired, sorry asses out.
Remember now, we've been awake for about 24 hours at this point. We couldn't check our luggage because there was no one at the counter of our next, uncertain flight.

So we began the 4 hour wait before the Sri Lankan air counter opened up, to find out if the idiots on the phone had actually at least booked us some way to get to destination #2 out of 4.

And there's more....

_____________

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Embarrassing Admission - Dec. 12, 2011

I have a complete and utter irrational fear of running out of tomatoes at our house.

We use them on pizza, in sandwiches, and I sometimes cook them in my eggs.
I'm not some Italian chef who requires them to sustain my livelihood.

But as soon as we get down to, like, only TWO tomatoes, I start to panic that I WILL NOT HAVE A TOMATO IN MY TIME OF TOMATO NEED. Whenever that will be.

Oh - we also live about 5 minutes away from two different grocery stores.

The New Husband (AKA the Former Feyoncé™) reminds me that I can... uh... you know, go to the store and buy more at any time. And I know it.

So there you go.

Reason #2,489 why I am a f_cking nutjob: my irrational fear of being tomatoeless at home. (No, not toeless. Totally different fear).

_________

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