two and counting.

In the fall of 2002, a classroom seating arrangement was responsible for placing me next to a 5'5" tall basketball and baseball-obsessed Star Wars-loving teenage boy with shaggy red hair. I had no idea who he was. 

Dear reader, I married him. 

Two years ago today, to be exact. Alas, he didn't greet me this morning with memorized phrases from over-quoted 19th century English literature. Instead he said, "You know what I be, girl."

It's my fault. I've encouraged the gangster tendencies. 

{Darryl Schipper Photography}

There was a time when I was sure I wouldn't ever get married. It wasn't that I didn't want to get married -- I just figured that 6'2" girls who belted out Rodgers and Hammerstein ballads while mowing the lawn didn't find husbands that easily (very loud and sporadic singing is a hard characteristic to adjust to; Wayne can confirm this... as well as our neighbours). I had convinced myself of the fact that I was going to be one of those single girls who gets a career and a golden retriever puppy and lives in an apartment in a city somewhere, spending weekends reading classic literature while drinking tea out of an old teapot with a vase of wildflowers at her elbow. 

Over eight years later, I can now confirm that prophecy is not one of my spiritual gifts. 

While I was thinking these single girl thoughts, Wayne was busy growing as tall as he could as fast as he could. His goal in this, however, was not for me to notice him -- it was more so his intention to improve his baller skillz. Very romantic. But, in the words of Lucy Maud Montgomery,

"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music; perhaps... perhaps.... love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath."

             - Anne of Avonlea

Happy anniversary, dear. 

the other side.

This past Monday marked a really huge milestone in my life -- a milestone I'd never really anticipated. It wasn't even on my radar.

Wayne was gone to Men's Bible Study. I was home alone, my hands held half a green pepper stuffed with leftover couscous (dinner of champions!), and my eyes were reflecting the soft glow of the computer screen. We don't own a television, so we depend on the internet for all our entertainment needs. Tonight? The Toronto Blue Jays were playing ball.

At first I thought, "Oh, I'll just have it on while I'm eating my dinner." Then a few innings went by. Couscous devoured, I made myself some toast. Watched some more innings. Did a little happy dance when DeRosa hit a three-run homer. Watched the whole game. Kept the website tuned into the FAN590 so I could laugh into the dish soap as Mike Wilner sliced up moronic callers on the Jays Talk post-game show. Suddenly, I realized something serious had happened.

I had turned into a baseball fan.

Okay, I get it, this doesn't sound like that big a deal, and in the grand scheme of things, it isn't, really. Weirder stuff is going on out there in blogland. But if you knew what sort of environment I was raised in... think hockey-hockey-hockey, hockey all the time. We didn't have an option. Saturday night was Hockey Night in Canada with Don Cherry and Ron McLean. Don't even THINK about watching a Disney movie, kids. We were taught to skate as soon as we could walk, and though none of us ever played in an official hockey league, we thought we were pros when it came to pond hockey (which presents its own challenges -- uneven ice and pressure cracks can really blow your breakaway, as can getting a frozen tree branch in the eye). Somewhere around the age of 12, I morphed from a compulsory Maple Leafs fan into a full-fledged all-consumed hockey devotee. 

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I lived and breathed the Leafs. Those were the days when you could tell how Pat Quinn was feeling based on the way he chewed his gum and when Mats Sundin still had a full head of blonde hair. I spent the weeks during the playoffs on edge, nails chewed, both dreading and anticipating that 7 o'clock puck drop. Goals scored against us were taken personally, even more so when it resulted in playoff elimination.  We would furiously proclaim our undying abhorrence to teams that got in our way -- I still feel a little grudge against New Jersey thanks to the 2000 and 2001 playoff seasons. 

But baseball? First of all, I was (and still am) terrible at playing baseball. And the Jays? Who are they? Why would anyone pay attention to them? Bunch of old guys who stand around in a field chewing tobacco and swinging at balls -- and losing. Boring. 

University arrived. Now consumed with endless schoolwork and projects, Bob Cole and the Leafs had to take a backseat. I'd occasionally watch a weekend game, but when at Wayne's house -- it was the Blue Jays. Wayne loved baseball. Yes, I'd found myself a man from the other side. 

I didn't mind much. If you were going to fall asleep on the couch on a Sunday afternoon, you might as well fall asleep to a Jays game, right? Right. It was kind of nice, actually. Alan Ashby had a pretty soothing voice. 

Throughout our dating years and into marriage, Wayne has devoted himself to teaching me every single possible thing there is to know about baseball. I listened politely at first, then with slight interest, now with unabashed fascination. I really, really, really like baseball. I like its rich history and its calculated, silent strategy. I like its etiquette and its unwritten rules and player codes. I like its lingo -- backdoor slider, moonshot, uncle Charlie, snow cone catch. I like watching the interaction between opponents, whether it's a head nod acknowledging a good (i.e. filthy) pitch, or a solid plunking to let the batter know what everyone thinks of him. 

And now I don't even know the name of the Leafs' head coach. I'm so incredibly fickle. 

Wayne came home from his Bible Study and asked if I knew how the game went.

S: They won! I watched the whole game!
W: You watched the whole game??! Alone?!?!! 
S: ...Yes.

He was pretty proud of me. Then when I told him I'd listened to Jays Talk alone as well, he just started laughing. Disbelief, I think. 

{source}

Anyway, the game is starting soon. Jerry Howarth, how I've missed your voice!

the wedding pt. 8: flowers.

Flowers at weddings are odd things. When else in your life do you ever hold a bunch of flowers in an awkward-yet-queenly sort of way for an entire day? At any other time in your life this would be considered abnormal behaviour. But no -- today, on this momentous day of days, you are allowed to hold a bunch of flowers for hours on end. All your friends get to hold them, too. And the boys! The boys get to wear them! Not at any other time (at least in this century) will they consent to pin pink gerberas to their shirts, but today -- oh yes. Today this sort of accessorizing is the pinnacle of masculinity. 

I wasn't very good at the whole flower thing. I was not nearly as prepared as I should have been. Smart girls have Pinterest boards packed with bouquet ideas from the age of 13. The go to flower shows. They do serious research. I googled "pretty wedding flowers for July", pasted some images into a document, and never referred to them again. This is rather too bad, especially in the wake of how my wedding flowers actually turned out. There was nothing wrong with them -- they looked beautiful and smelled nice. They just didn't really... match. 

{Darryl Schipper Photography}

This is all my fault. My florists were brilliant. They did exactly what I asked them to do -- and that's why it's my fault. I can even recall them asking if that was exactly what I wanted, and offering other brief suggestions, but I declined and popped out of there as soon as I could because we were late for a family wedding (where the flowers matched beautifully, I might add). Also, it had been pouring rain outside and being doused in mid-June showers resulted in all my creative sense washing away. No, this has not been scientifically proven. Yes, I'm still going to use it as an excuse. 

You may recall that our girls were dressed in various shades of blue, and the boys in black and white. To stay safe (and inexpensive) I decided to go for crisp and clean with a white and green bouquet. This was to be my theme throughout -- for the guys, girls, moms, etc. Keep it simple and pretty. Princess Kate's bouquet from earlier in the year may or may not have played a role in helping me make this decision. 

The day of the wedding -- surprise! My bouquet was a pinky cream with purple here and there. Not white. Not green. My mouth got a little dry when I had a flashback to that day in the back room at the flower shop -- yes -- I distinctly remember saying cream would look nice. And purple, too. What?! Why?!?!  I still have no idea what possessed me to think that this would look all matched and proper. I wish I could say that the purple was for some sort of sentimental reason... that it had some sort of secret meaning. Alas, all it means is that Suzanne doesn't always pay very good attention to things. 

{Darryl Schipper Photography}

Not that it really matters. We rocked our bouquets, and those flowers have now gone back to where they came from... composted and rotted back into the earth, helping other plants grow! Makes one consider their mortality and all that serious stuff. Matrimony. Mismatched flowers. Mortality. I don't think I have blog categories for all of these important things. 

 {Darryl Schipper Photography}

my husband is more fashionable than me.

I'm not joking. He is. I don't know when this happened, but it did. He knows what cuffs go with what cuff links and what collars you should wear to which occasions. He has a travel case for his ties. He's been lurking around thrift stores trying to find a navy blue blazer and finally succeeded -- it's now altered and dry-cleaned and while wearing it he looks like Prince Harry. He irons his dress shirts.

I have not yet used our iron.

I don't really know how to use our iron.

But yes, with the combined efforts of training via The Art of Manliness, Neal Caffrey, and an abundance of really excellent thrift stores in this city, Wayne has become a man of style. Now, if only I could find a nice pea coat with sleeves long enough for my arms. You can't get away with 3/4 length sleeves all the time, my friends. I've tried. Although, on the upside, I've really formed quite a strong relationship with my forearms over the years. We know each other well.

Speaking of weird relationships, this is something Wayne said yesterday:

W: "Alright coffee, it's time that you and I locked lips. Some people say I have an inappropriate relationship with coffee... I just say we're friends with benefits."

S: [Confused silence]. 

You've got it -- it's that time of year again, folks! Midterms and all the confused and hazy brain slush that comes with 'em! Turns out not only is Wayne fashionable, he's also really funny when he's sleep deprived.

Well, that's all. No pictures today. Sad face.

the wedding pt 7: the music

Lots of people hire this for their wedding ceremony music:

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We thought that looked pretty silly, so hired these ladies instead:

By far the better option. Thank you, beautifully crazy cousins. 

the wedding pt. 6: the gents.

Six men stood up for Wayne at our wedding. Six super guys. Six guys who didn't get to spend the day lounging around posing all snazzy-like for weddings photos and smoking cigars. We put them to work -- hard work -- because weddings aren't about fun. They're all about doing things you'd rather not spend your day doing but you do them because you kind of like the people who are getting married.

 

Okay, it wasn't that bad. But these boyz did a lot for us, including but not limited to...

1. Throwing Wayne a perfectly respectable (though not un-crazy) weekend-long bachelor party involving a cottage, bacon, beer, and lots of paintball.

2. Posing all snazzy-like in 40 degree celsius heat and humidity while wearing suits for wedding photos. In my experience most guys don't enjoy spending several hours having photos taken of them, but all six of these guys did it happily (or at least faked it well). 

3. Buying new suits. As with the bridesmaids, we gave the guys complete freedom in attire (provided the suit was black and wearable). They all opted to just buy a new suit instead of renting a tux (ends up costing the same, and you get a new suit out of the deal!) and looked pretty first class.

4. Being completely ridiculous during the rehearsal and causing us to go way overtime. I don't regret any of it. 

5. Taking care of business. When a couple plans on becoming aliens by moving from one country to another, there are certain legal procedures that need to take place and certain things that need to be submitted to certain governments (ie passports, visas, signatures... and marriage licences.). Say a hypothetical couple plans on moving from one country to another five days after getting married and can't receive some sort of important piece of paper needed for a particular border crossing until submitting their marriage license. Well, that's where the super men came in. As soon as the marriage licence was signed, that baby was faxed and UPS-ed by our groomsmen to the important people who could get us places... and we got our papers just in time. I MEAN... the hypothetical couple got their papers just in time. Phew. 

This picture is not showing how Wayne feels about tying the knot. We're discussing legal documents. Happy wedding day!

6. Rocked it as co-MCs. Yeah, we made them multi-task. Plus, they were really funny. Thanks guys. 

7. Disc-jockeyed those mP3 files like a boss. No, we didn't hire a DJ. We just asked our bro to man the soundboard and let the speakers do their thang. And Eric, you did a fab job, even if you're still confused by our profound love for Christian hip-hop.

Such excellent men. 

{All photos courtesy of Darryl Schipper Photography. }

baseball brain.

Growing up, my parents had all six of their children signed up for some form of softball at one point or another. I remember going to watch my three older siblings play softball and thinking it was great -- although I don't remember much of the games. I was more interested in playing in the piles of field line chalk. Weird kid.

My turn came. I was willingly signed up for a local little league team that consisted of a bunch of distracted 8-year-olds. I don't remember much of this time in my life -- but think Brian Regan. Most of the memories I do have involve my coach telling me to pay attention because I'd be standing in the outfield doing this:

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I was not destined to be a great ball player. About halfway through elementary school, however, my parents coerced me onto another team for a summer. I was not happy. I don't blame them, though -- I'd do the same if one of my kids spent the majority of the summer with her nose in a book and hating birthday parties.

Like I said, weird kid. 

That summer confirmed the fact that I was never to achieve greatness in softball. I dreaded Wednesday nights because a softball game meant:

a) Experiencing emotional trauma by continually striking out, or 

b) Getting a walk, then having to run around the dang bases with my clumsy pre-adolescent giraffe legs  while avoiding being attacked with the ball by psycho infielders, 

c) Watching the just-as-psycho outfielders close in on me when I stepped up to bat,

d) Standing in right field trying to force myself to pay attention,

d) Having to communicate with other people I barely knew. coughintrovertcough. 

I got through that summer determined to never play baseball again. Then I married Wayne.

Wayne loves baseball. He loves it with all his heart. It makes his eyes light up and his face glows... GLOWS when he gets near a diamond with his bag full of cleats and gloves and baseballs and water bottles. When he has a little bit of free time he'll come up to me with a face like this:

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And ask if we can please please please play catch. I do like playing catch -- in fact, I've got a mean curveball goin' on. But to actually play a game of baseball -- well... that's, as they say, a whole different ballgame. 

Wayne's been on a city rec league all summer and has signed up for the fall league as well. I go every week and cheer noisily. That's an easy job. No running involved (though no longer pre-adolescent, the legs are still reminiscent of a giraffe's). 

There are weeks, however, where not enough women show up. Each team needs a certain number of women or else they forfeit. You'll be glad to know that despite my fear of organized team sports, during these not-enough-women occasions, I step up to the plate. 

Get it? Haha!

Okay. 

My summer experiences on the field have again confirmed that I am not a baseball star. Wayne and I have determined, though, that it is not because of insufficient athletic capabilities (though there's a lot of that lacking as well). It's mostly because I don't have a baseball brain. 

On our drive home from the diamond this week, Wayne asked what was going through my brain while standing at second base during the last play of the game from just before the pitch onward.

Suzanne's brain: Okay. Focus. Focus. One more out... what did I have to do yet tonight? I think I have to write that email to my mom for those recipes. I wish I had worn my sunglasses out here, I can't see much. Although they fall off a lot and that's just as annoying. I wonder if I can fix them? Hm. FOCUS. Argh. Focusfocusfocus. Okay. If the ball comes to me... um... whatever. It probably won't. My feet are hot. NO. Focus. Hocus Pocus Focus. Foooooocus. What a weird word. There's a runner coming to second if the ball's hit. Get him out. Probably. Somehow. Then throw it to first? There's the pitch. I hope that squeaking the car's making isn't the brakes. GAH! NO! NOT TO ME! NOT TO ME! heyIcaughtit!!! PUMMEL RUNNER COMING TO SECOND IN THE STOMACH WITH GLOVE! What the. I just ended the game! Hurrah! I'm not useless! Man I feel gritty. Shower? Yes please! 

Wayne at shortstop: Suzanne, you could have just touched the base, it was a force out. 

Suzanne: Oh.

Wayne says that when he's in a ball game, his mind is on overdrive, planning strategies and orders in which to throw the ball and figuring out what to do in the hundreds of different scenarios that could take place when that bat hits the ball. My mind... is not. I'll just stick to making baseball-themed birthday cakes.

the wedding pt. 5: the ladies

So it turns out that being a bridesmaid is a lot of work. It's fun work, but work nonetheless that requires time and patience and good scrap-booking skills. Okay, not always true for the scrap-booking skills. But my lack of skill in that department was a bit of a boon when trying to help my sister make invitations for her wedding. Yes, Marcella, the messed up invites were probably the result of my sub-par workmanship and bad relationship with glue sticks. Sorry about that.

Knowing that being a bridesmaid takes work, I almost felt a bit bad asking my friends and sisters to be in my wedding party. I made myself feel better about this by taking on the bulk of the wedding planning myself so that I wouldn't have to put stress on anyone else. Or... I'm just a control freak. Probably the latter. My poor younger sisters/maids of honour come up to me a few weeks before the wedding and say, "So... it's almost your wedding and we haven't helped with anything. Is there anything you want us to do?"

I should probably learn to delegate.

I had six girls on my side of the wedding party -- four sisters, one future sister-in-law, and one dear friend I had the fortune of meeting during my university days. Their heights ranged from 5'5" to 6'2". Two of them would be 7 months pregnant by the time our wedding date rolled around. The issue of attire was a bit of a burning question.

What I did know is that I wasn't going to lead 6 girls around trying to find a matching dress that would suit them all perfectly. That is something we like to call impossible. Instead I picked a colour (royal blue-ish, give or take a shade) and sent them off into the world of retail to fend for themselves. Price, style, frills -- twas all up to them.

 

{Darryl Schipper Photography}

Hi Rhi. 

Those babies are now born and cuter than you could possibly imagine. 

{Darryl Schipper Photography}

I think it worked well, considering I didn't see all the dresses together until the day of the wedding.  Haha. If I had a wedding planner she/he'd probably lose her/his mind... but it's way more fun this way.

fight the Lord's battles.

Wayne and I are at a beautiful place in our lives. We're almost six years into our relationship, and we've been married for nine months out of the total 72. We've settled into our wee little home well and spend our Sunday afternoons playing catch, our Saturday mornings eating pancakes, and our Friday nights watching British period drama. During the week I go to work so that we can keep buying groceries and filling up the gas tank, and Wayne goes to seminary so that he can keep learning about missional ministry and ancient Hebrew.

{source}

It's a comfortable little world. Sure, Wayne's homework gets to be overwhelming at some points, and like any other seminary couple in the world, we'd feel better if our bank account was a little more full than it currently is, and obviously we miss being close to our families, but all things considered, we're in a really lovely place. But, like Proverbs says, there's a time for everything, and I'm pretty sure that it won't always be this way.

Our future lies in The Ministry. When I think of life in The Ministry, my mind cycles through a variety of scenarios. Sometimes I see us in a church in Manitoba standing beside a bunch of weathered old farmers singing Charles Wesley hymns in a clapboard sanctuary. Sometimes I see us in in a Toledo suburb making flowers out of coffee filters with a bunch of 6-year-olds in a red brick church, circa 1965. Or we could end up in some ghetto of Atlanta, getting our southern accents on and working with hardcore gangsters. Or we could even end up in Toronto, wading through the seas of atheism and relativism and pluralism and apathy... so many possible roads to take.

{source}

But sometimes I see something completely different: Wayne and I, hand in hand, standing on the edge of a cliff, white-knuckled and wide-eyed, looking out into an enormous valley in which a fierce and bloody battle rages. There are moments when I feel a little thrill to think of jumping into the mess of this world, but a whole lot of the time I feel... how shall we say... a leeeeeetle freaked out.

Charles Spurgeon always makes me feel better. He writes,

"We may feel in these days that we are losing the battle and unless the Lord Jesus shall lift His sword we do not know what may become of the church of God in our time; but let us be courageous and bold.  Seldom  has there been a time like this as biblical Christianity trembles on the brink of capitulation to pluralism and empty religious routine... The Savior is, by His Spirit, still on earth; let this encourage us. He is always ever in the middle of the fight, and therefore the outcome of the battle is not in doubt... Turn your anxious gaze from the battle below, where, enshrouded in smoke, the faithful fight in garments rolled in blood... The battle is not yours but God's."

I am not a brave warrior. The girl who shudders at the sight of a spider is not a warrior. But thank the Almighty that Jesus is... and that's what will give us the courage to jump off our cliff of seminary life comfort and into the chaos below. 

on being a PW.

We've been going to our church here in Michigan for about 7 months, but we're still running into people in the congregation whom we have not yet formally met. This past Sunday I was able to meet a few new people, and one older gent I was talking to was delighted to learn that my husband was in seminary on the journey to become a pastor. "That's wonderful!" he said. "You're going to make a lovely pastor's wife, I can already tell."

The only way that this man could have been able to tell this was if he had been blessed with the gift of prophecy. I mean, we only talked for 3 minutes. How can you gauge a woman's level of Pastor's Wife Prowess by only talking with her for 3 minutes?

I have no idea what kind of a pastor's wife I'm going to be. I'm perfectly aware of the stereotypical PW who plays piano and runs the kid's programs and runs the youth programs and runs the <enter whatever term you want here> programs, who wears matching pantsuits with matching cardigans and drinks tomato juice and has naturally well-coiffed hair and home schools all the children with patience and kindness (truthfully, I don't think she actually exists). There's also the other end of the spectrum -- the rebel group of PWs who have absolutely nothing to do with their husband's calling whatsoever and tell their friends that he's a motivational speaker on weekends.

I don't like tomato juice. I can play Fur Elise on the piano really well -- but that's it. That's the only song I've learned. I'm a lousy teacher -- like, really lousy -- sorry, children's ministry. Sarcasm is my main teaching method... keep me away from the 5-year-olds. But I'm also not shying away from the fact that Wayne's going to be a pastor. I think it's a beautiful and rare honour to be called to ministry -- a challenging call, yes, but an amazing one. I'm going to try to embrace it, and grow in it, and gather all the wisdom and advice that I can... when I'm not feeling lazy, that is. Sigh.

There's more reasons why I'm not going to be the best pastor's wife in the world. Endless reasons. Just the fact that I come from the line of Adam means that I'm going to be a terrible pastor's wife. It's that annoying sin thing.

I recently received an email from the landlord who rented out her basement to me during my college days, and who also happens to be a pastor's wife. She was inquiring as to how we were doing, and wrote, "the wonderful thing about you being finished with school is that you can pray for [Wayne] more consistently and with lots of knowledge for his needs as he studies."

I think this is probably exactly what the best kind of PW is. I heard somewhere that a pastor's wife is the closest thing that a pastor will ever have to a pastor, if that makes sense. If I'm praying for him and his work constantly, keeping him accountable, asking him hard questions, and knowing that God is at work through me to benefit him, it won't matter if I can't put together the Christmas Pageant or accidentally tell a 4-year-old that her Sunday School craft is kickass. A pastor's wife is just that -- a wife. And by the grace of God, I pray that I'll remember that throughout our ministry together.

spring = sports

Spring is my favourite time of year. The dramatic black skies, the sharp silhouettes of damp tree trunks against the gradually greening grass, the hopeful tips of tulips poking out of the earth-- lovely.

Spring is also Wayne's favourite time of year... but not because of what I've just listed. For him, this time of the year is when the annual progression of sports reaches an all-time high. The NCAA Basketball Tournament occupies most of March. The NHL season is winding down and Stanley Cup hopefuls start growing playoff beards. Most importantly, spring training is in full swing for Major League Baseball teams down in Florida and Arizona -- the Toronto Blue Jays are doing mighty fine, by the way. Wayne loves this time of year, and being married has only increased my awareness of this. He loves the murmur of a ballpark crowd, the smell of a leather glove, the sound of the seams hitting the mitt. Baseball occupies his thoughts -- stats are often running through his head, anticipation for the home opener has him distracted -- such a sports guy.

More than I thought, apparently. This morning while trying to wake him up he started trying to say something in his half-asleep state...

Suzanne: Wayne, it's 8:30.

Wayne: Ughhhh... mfyoreharmzert.

S: What?

W: ...My forearms hurt.

S: What? Why do your forearms hurt?

W: Spring training... throwing the ball too much...

So apparently he's been spring training with the Jays in his sleep. That takes some seriously mad skill (which Wayne has lots of). I'm married to sermon-writing-baseball-playing-stat-quoting-Jesus-loving dude. And that is wonderful.

the wedding pt 4: the invitations.

As has already been established, wedding planning as a whole was not my forte. There were, however, certain parts of it that got me excited, and these particular parts involved me putting a pencil to paper and drawing the evening away.

I had decided early on that I would draw as much of my wedding as I could. Unfortunately there's only so much you can draw. You can't draw the flowers. You can't draw the centrepieces. Nor can you draw your bridesmaids' dresses... although... I guess you could try. But be thankful I didn't, bridesmaids.

The biggest drawing project I took on was the invitation suite. Yes, a suite. Until starting research for my wedding invites I wasn't aware that the collection of info you stuff into the envelope was referred to as a suite, as if it were a fancy hotel room or some intense musical composition. It's funny, the things you learn while planning a wedding. I feel so much more... cultured.

My invitation suite research led me to believe that any attempt I might make to create my own hand-drawn invitations would result in complete and utter failure. There are a great deal of beautiful things online that encourage you to wallow in a pit of self-doubt and pity regarding your own levels of creative skill. After spending far too much time on sites like this and sighing over creations like these...

...Wayne took me by the shoulders, told me to get off the internet machine and start drawing. Thank you Wayne.

After lots of sketching and experimentation with my wedding's colour palette (which didn't actually ever exist because who needs a colour palette when you can just throw colours together and hope they look good?), this was the final result.

No, my dress did not look this cool, but thank you for asking.

Thankfully I heard no tales of lost or misdirected guests! Hurrah! Thank you, dear little map.

More deets...

And the all-important RSVP card. I opted for the postcard version. Envelopes = unnecessary extra cost. Plus, I figured the people at the post office could use a little sunshine in their day. If I worked at a post office I'd totally want to read people's postcards. And that's probably why I don't work at a post office.

You'll notice that the speech bubbles on the front are empty. We let the guests fill those in. You're getting dozens of these RSVP cards back in the mail, you might as well get some entertainment out of it. The results were varied... mostly cute, often funny, sometimes inappropriate... always amusing. We hung them up at the reception like this:

And that was that. I sent them out -- Canada Post didn't fail me, despite their silly strike -- the RSVPs returned (mostly on time), and the wedding happened. And I learned what an invitation suite was and became extra cultured. Oh la la.

dies natalis

The seminary Wayne attends celebrates its 136th birthday today. How does a seminary celebrate its 136th birthday, you ask? Well, for one thing, everyone has the day off. No classes, the professors get to wear jeans, etc. Everyone loves seeing a dude with a PhD in Biblical Studies wearing jeans. Since the office where I work is closed on Fridays, I was able to go into the seminary this morning with Wayne to join the big ole seminary party -- there's a catered breakfast, and then the student senate puts on a big variety show that completely shreds the professors, all in the name of the seminary birthday celebration. Nice.

While all these brilliant men and women are getting satired to pieces (fyi satired isn't a word, don't use it in your essay that you're avoiding writing while reading this post), there is also quite a vast sprinkling of seminary jokes within the dialogue. Seminary jokes which I totally don't understand because... well, eschatological and hermeneutical humour is only relevant to a very selective group of people. I'm not one of those people. I'm married to one of those people, but the humour is lost on me. But I pretend. Someone's up there making jokes about exegesis vs eisegesis and everyone else is letting loose these huge belly laughs and I'm slapping my knee, all "HAHAHA that's hilarious", meanwhile I'm clueless (Though not anymore! Wayne just explained the difference to me not 2 minutes ago, so the joke would totally make sense now... if I could actually still remember it).

But all the difficult-to-understand jokes aside, I think it's really neat that there's such a strong feeling of community within the seminary, despite differences of opinion regarding the Belhar Confession and women in office and Martin Luther's love of beer. It's kind of nice to be surrounded by a whole bunch of people who are on this wild journey with us -- makes you feel a little less crazy. Although... not quite sane. I mean, we are still laughing at jokes about Bible software. Weird.

the wedding pt 3: the dress

The absolute pinnacle of a woman's life: the purchase of a wedding dress. Or so I hear.

About a month after our engagement, I had the hall and church booked, and it was around this time that I realized that wedding planning probably wouldn't be my cup of tea. I ran out of steam. I decided that only 1-2 months should be allotted for wedding planning, not 11-12. Total waste of brain space.

I bookmarked two pictures of flower bouquets I found online. I made a folder on my desktop called "Wedding". I made many sub-folders within the Wedding folder which remained empty. I signed up on theknot.com because that's apparently what brides are supposed to do and got annoyed by their constant wedding countdown emails. I'm fully aware that my wedding is six months away. Please stop reminding me. As a side note, they're now sending me emails from thebump.com. REALLY?? Give a girl a break, sheeeez!

Anyway, point is, I managed to do zilch in terms of wedding planning over the next three months. Now that is a high level of procrastination that many only dream of. Then my mom said, Suzanne, you probably need a dress, and I said, yeah, probably. So I booked an appointment and went here with my mom and younger sisters:

It's a non-profit organization that receives dress donations from salons, magazine shoots, and brides, and sells the dresses for very reasonable prices, using the money made to assist other organizations in the research and fight against cancer. Kinda cool.

There is a completely random variety of dresses to choose from. You can't really go with something specific in mind, which worked perfectly for me because after browsing a couple of Maggie Sottero slideshows online I got sick of waiting for the pictures to load and gave up, resulting in Suzanne still not knowing what she was looking for.

While there I think I tried on every dress in my size. Since I'm over 6 feet tall, skirt length was kind of an issue. We prevailed, though, and found one. I didn't have an "aha" moment, and didn't weep when I saw myself in the mirror. It was more like "Will I be able to dance to MJ's Thriller in this? Yes. Yes I will. This is the one."

It needed some alternation, of course: several inches of extra fabric sewn along the bottom and some straps added to make the Thriller dancing more of a reality -- and finally, the dress was had. I put it in my closet and hoped it would still fit six months later.

Very soon after all this, I was wandering the aisles of Payless Shoe Source (well, at least the size 11 chunk of the aisles) and found my shoes. They were 11 dollars and too small. But only 1/2 a size too small. I bought them. Outfit completed! I tried to stretch them with ice in the freezer. I wore them around the house to stretch them out more. I was DETERMINED to wear my bargain wedding shoes. And I did. And by the end of our wedding day my right big toenail was a little bruised. But it was worth the pain.

Total disaster of a bride. More successful in the wife department, I think. Right Wayne?

the wedding pt 2: hall rental.

Everyone knows the first thing you have to book when planning a wedding is the church and the hall. Everyone but me. I didn't know that. But it's okay, because all the wedding books told me what to do, along with helpful family & friends who are much more wedding-savvy than I.

When booking a hall, you have to do some serious research. First of all, you need to know how many people you're going to have to stuff in a room. We had no idea how many people we'd be inviting, so we just sorta went for it, and figured we'd shave/add guests off/on the list depending on what our hall size ended up being. No biggie.

Then we started looking. Now, when you're doing online research and gazing at photos of beautiful reception dinner setups, this is what you tend to see:

Because everyone has access to a lawn near an impossibly picturesque river.

Not to mention some ancient brick-pillared walkway in their backyard. Totally an option.

But when you're actually looking at halls that are available within your sad little recent-university-grad budget which is so far away from Will and Kate's budget as far as budgets go on the budget spectrum, this is usually what the options look like:

Option#1: The room above the local curling rink.

Option #2: Community Centre with colour-coordinated chairs and curtains that smell like 1978... and fire retardant.

And then most halls have a whole lot of stipulations. Like -- you have to use our caterer. You have to use our plates. No, of course the plates aren't included in the rental fee. No, you cannot bring in a herd of barbecues to grill shishkabos. No, you cannot stick things on the wall. Yes, this day will cost about as much as your firstborn. Maybe more.

But after much endurance, we figured out where to throw the party -- the basement of a big church nearby. The same place my older sister and bro-in-law had their reception. Probably should have just started with that, would have saved ourselves a lot of pain and frustration. But it's all part of the amazingly fun wedding-planning process, right!???!!

...What makes you think my teeth are clenched?

Anyway. Point is, we booked a hall. Fantastic. Expensive. Fantastically expensive. But something to check off of that exhaustively long to-do list. And that was something worth celebrating.

conversation hearts hangover.

I had far too much access to Valentine's candy this year. People just kept giving it to me and like any rational person I didn't refuse it. Wayne thinks I may have an undiagnosed candy addiction. I told him that was absolutely not the case while stuffing crumpled chocolate wrappers into our car's glove compartment.

It was our first married Valentine's Day spent together. We've never made a huge deal over this day which we're totally okay with, but a holiday is a nice excuse to do fun things like bake and draw cards (ie avoid job searching with reasonable cause).

So, to celebrate our first V-day together I made Wayne's favourite coffee cake.

It's made of sugar and cream and chocolate and probably some more sugar. And butter.

The fact that two people who shall remain nameless are already this far through the Valentine's Day cake may or may not have something to do with the fact that the aforementioned nameless people decided to start working out at the campus gym again.

Then I made Wayne go on an excessively long treasure hunt to find this card (hence the weird clue posted on this blog yesterday).

Nothing beats romancing your husband with a Star Wars-themed Valentine's card. Seriously. He was overjoyed to be portrayed as Han Solo saying the classic "I know" line. Although I must say, Han Solo has pretty ridikalis 70's hair which I clearly had trouble drawing.

Hope your Heart's Day was full of fun!