Am I Engaging? I'd Like To Think So...

So if you missed the second to last post, I'm engaged y'all.

And not in that Britney-Spears-55-hour-long-marriage kind of engaged. It's taken us 6 and 1/2 years to get here.

This is what I actually did, right after Feyoncé proposed:



Fucking Awesome, right?

Okay, not really... but that IS me and I actually did that in Jamaica a few years ago, and it was the most fun I had had (had had?) in years.

Also? I look terribly sexy in shorts and black sport socks.

It's okay to feel a little jealous inside. (Go ahead, watch it again, you know you want to)

Now... I am not, by any means, planning to turn this into a wedding blog, but let me tell you there is some seriously effed up shizz in the wedding world. I will be touching on some of what I have already experienced in my quest to find an affordable dress, and all that jazz.

When searching for a veil online, I came across this photo of "flower girls"

The left flower "girl" looks like she could be a dude... and the one on the right, well... I just don't know.

The "girl" on the right should maybe not be wearing the cleavage-displaying, pedophiliac delight as she appears to be. Tell me I am not the only person troubled by that photo? And lefty seriously looks like s/he could be a dude with waxed arms. Just sayin'.

I searched Kijiji for wedding dresses. (Kijiji is the cheap bastard's eBay - it's free to list and so people will list just about anything).

Found this gem, posted for you ladies out there in need of a throwback to 1982:

You might have had better luck selling this dress about 30 years ago (you know, despite it's seasonal versatility and pet-free home and everything).

I know, awesome right? You're welcome. All for the low price of $75. I think the sales pitch should have been "awesome costume for 80s-themed Halloween party!!".

One additional note. I went into Heirlooms Bridal Shoppe in Dundas, Ontario, just to see what they had in store. I asked the sales associate what, if anything, they had in my price range.

She literally looked at me like I had just shat in the front doorway. And she turned her nose up, as if it smelled like I had just shat in the doorway. She then had the nerve to SCOFF at me, and say:

"Well, we have some very PLAIN dresses here. They are about (twice your budget)" as she lazily sifted through a few "destination" dresses at the front of the store.

Wow.

Haughty, snotty bitch.

The wedding industry is like the rich girl/cool kid club, and I am SO NOT ONE OF THOSE.

I promptly told her I would look elsewhere. GAH.

p.s. I did find a dress somewhere else, within my budget.

p.p.s. Trying to find a wedding dress when suffering extreme fatigue is not fun, time consuming, and exhausting. Just letting you know.
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F-cked Up Letters: Walmart Edition

If you'd like to, check out EDITION 2 HERE, and wayback to EDITION numero 1 HERE.

Dear Walmart Bananas,

Why do you tease me so? You never, ever, ever ripen. You appear to be on the cusp of maturity, with your green tips and banana bum, convincing me that this time will be different. THIS TIME, I promise, I will ripen to yellowness and prevent the gut pain and unpleasantness that come with eating still-partly-green bananas. I won't just pretend to ripen like last time.

And the time before that.

I won't somehow still turn brown without ripening like all of the other times before.

Oh Walmart bananas, you suck. You are consistently terrible. You know what else that indicates? That *I* suck, because I fall for you every time and end up with this:

Ever-green Walmart ninja bananas turn brown without ever ripening. Well played, ninja bananas. Well played.

Screw you, evergeen bananas.

Signed,
Me



Dear Walmart Employees on Smoke Break BESIDE THE EFFING PROPANE DISPENSER,

I understand winter sucks. I feel for you (sort of... I mean, I hate being cold). I understand you have a nicotine addiction that must be fed. I understand you are cold outside.

However, it has come to my attention that your preferred smoking corner at the local Walmart is beside the wind protection of the mother-effing propane fueling station.

Hey! Walmart smokers! This is not what Aerosmith meant when they were singing "Livin' on the edge"!!

Last time I checked, propane was flammable, people. FLAMMABLE. I've heard it's even been used in crazy scenarios where it IGNITES and cooks mother-effing FOOD. The key word here people is "ignites". You use open flames beside this machine FILLED WITH IGNITABLE GAS. The goddamn DOOR is even open, further tempting fate with escaping fumes.

Every time I walk by I feel terror in my gut that you are going to blow not only yourselves up, but the mother-effing store and all the mother-effing shoppers (and that poor mother-effing Greeter).

Please stop terrifying me.

Signed,
Me


Dear Walmart Greeter,

Are you happy with your job? And that one female Greeter with the really wide eyes - are you sane? Do you truly enjoy saying hello to people and dispensing shopping carts in the cold doorway during the day to (mostly) thankless shoppers? I want to think you enjoy the social part of the job, but I would have to guess most customers are assholes.

Or, if not assholes, they are like me. Feeling weird saying hello, feeling weird being offered a cart, feeling like I am not sure if you like your job or absolutely hate it and need the money because retirement didn't work out as planned.

Do enough people smile back? If they don't, I apologize. This letter isn't meant to be funny Walmart Greeter. But I hope you really do enjoy what you do. Otherwise I feel like and even BIGGER asshole than I already am for shopping at Walmart and exploiting workers in China who ultimately give us these "rollbacks" and low prices.

Signed,
Me


Dear Walmart Snowbank I Threw Up In Last Week,

Sorry about that. I couldn't resist the urge of half-priced danishes at the grocery store and ate two faster than a slimy dude can pick off a vulnerable single woman in a dance class.

Me + wheaty, fatty, sugary danishes ≠ Proper Digestion

Me + wheaty, fatty, sugary danishes ≠ Just a hop off the bandwagon, then back to regularly scheduled programming

Me + wheaty, fatty, sugary danishes = Quick, violent upheaval of danishes onto the nearest/closest surface outside of my car.

Sorry 'bout that.

Signed,
Me

p.s. Follow up apology to snowbank beside my garage door for the same reason.


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Embarrassing Realizations (Part 2 of ∞ )

No matter how hard you try, no matter how many washes, black track pants/sweat pants will inevitably leave black fuzzies in the crack of your arse. It's true.

Be aware of this now, and every time you wear them (for only the most discerning people [such as myself] wear pants with elastic waistbands that are comprised of a pilly fleecy interior). p.s. They call them sweat pants for a reason. SwAss people, swass.

Don't even TRY to deny that. You'll think you're pooping spiders for a second.

 
Second embarrassing revelation: Don't attend a "Toronto Dances With The Stars" workshop, with only a modicum of dance knowledge.

You will be surrounded by excellent dancers who already know the moves, more than a few bitchy/ignorant dance studio teachers/owners who will tell you to "get the hell out of the way", and a bunch of people who THINK they can dance, but cannot.

The latter group will treat your (my) apologetic, bumbling, self-conscious ass like a piece of whale poop, as you (I) muddle through the instruction without a partner.

Dmitry Chaplin shoots lasers out of his left eye. Totally worth the ticket cost.

I got a picture with Dmitry - he's cute and personable. He was nicer than most of the participants there!

Me & Dmitry, and my flashless, non-smart phone

While I am sure there were a few other semi-normal single folk out there attending this workshop, I was only exposed to a few crazies, and one complete and utter douchebag/slimeball who forcibly made me dance to the last song on my way out of the evening gala dinner (with my coat and gloves on).

MY INNER VOICE: "Guess what asshole, you're wrong. You can't dance." (Image source)

Third embarrassing revelation: If there is a somewhat friendly single male individual who offers to partner up with you for one dance practice session, and your gut is telling you "Get the fuck away from this guy, he oozes creep and causes you extreme discomfort!" ... then listen to your gut.

A little of this:

Irritating and salesman-like

Plus a little of this:

The finger-gun type. (No, this isn't him)

Inevitably, your phone calls to random people to avoid him and your declining of his insistent offer to leave the venue to go to lunch together will still not prevent him from proclaiming that you "are the one he wanted to spend the night with", then grabbing your ass at the end of the night. This will all happen before he asks how to stay in touch, you decline the offer, then he chastises you for having the audacity to show up to an event like that if you have a fiancee. (HELLO, dickwad, did you not see the ring on that finger?).

Seriously, he gave me his "card" with his title on it. Guess what his self-generated business card title was? 

"The Connector". (Arguably still better than "The Shocker", I suppose)

I saw him making his way around the room to all of the apparent single ladies, and I think he was gauging their playability based on their:

A) Outfit.
2) Lack of self-esteem (or unwarranted abundance of self esteem).
J) Level of isolation in the room (appearing to be there alone or not).
5) Their inability to tell him off when/if he gets all touchy/grabby/in their face/insistent.


Blah. I was just relieved to get the hell out of there and not have anyone trail me to my car. I will never go out on a limb an attend a social-dance thing like this again.

Final realization for this post: Tons of people call the person they are going to marry their fiancee. Or fiance. (Fee- awnce - say). I feel like an utter douche when I say those words (BF is FABULOUS, it's not him, it's the word). I realize now I can't call him BF any more in these posts, dammit. So in order to cushion the douchey-blow I feel I deliver with every "fiancee"-drop, BF will now be officially renamed to Feyoncé. HA! That's right. He's gonna hate it.

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