Twoonie bars & drunk uncles

As I swerved through traffic on Sunday morning, I hurled profanities out my open window in the general direction of the suburbanites grooming their fertilizer-fueled lawns.

With only 10 minutes left before the ceremony was set to start, I was lost and stuck in the city. I still had a 20 minute drive ahead of me into the country.

With my heeled foot heavy on the gas pedal, and dust billowing behind me, I smiled briefly. It's a good thing I grew up in the kind of place where being able speed on a gravel road wasn't just a necessity, it was a rite of passage.

I arrived at the church just in time. And by just in time, I mean about 20 minutes late.


"The bridal party just arrived," the ushered informed me. I breathed a sigh of relief and collasped into a wooden pew at the back with my brother's friends, where Teri's baby stared in rapt fascination at my bright red dress.

After the ceremony, we funneled out of the church into the hot sun, set out a blanket, and collapsed in the shade.

My brother was the best man. This is a picture of Andrew and I, actually looking like we might be related, for once.

Despite my love of attending weddings, I don't think I've honestly thought about my own wedding since I was 6.

I've known and been friends with a lot of girls who eagerly flip through bridal magazines, oohing and aahing over white gossamer gowns and floral arrangements, rings and colour combinations.

I just don't get it. (My favourite part of this picture: my conspicuous absence from it. At Chantel's wedding, her bouquet broke apart in the air. I caught one flower from the arrangement, which I figured entitled me to at least one good date.)

If I ever get married it will be for the following two reasons: to get gifts, and to have an excuse to go on an extended and justified vacation (commonly referred to as the honeymoon).

In order to make the benefits of gifts outweigh the cost of the wedding, I've created a master plan. I'll invite everyone I knew and hold the ceremony on the beach. If it rains, I'll stand out in the rain. After all, if my dress gets ruined, it won't matter, because it won't be a $1000 taffeta affair. It will likely be something a) not white and b) worth less than $100.

Afterwards the reception will be at the Cold Lake Legion. All the local veterans who hang out there will be more than welcome to attend, to ensure that their stools at the bar downstairs stay warm. Food has not yet be determined, but it will likely involve peanuts that you can shell right onto the floor. And if the legion's booked, then I'll see if I can rent the Roundel. After all, nothing says classy like stripper poles on your wedding day.

I guess I've just always thought that if you love someone, you don't need a piece of paper to prove it.

And although I love the idea of being able to celebrate sheer adoration for another person in front of friends and family, I don't want to do that through an iced carrot cake, the token drunk uncle, bad bridesmaid dresses and pre-written vows.

I want to do it and celebrate it through my daily actions.

(Edit: I almost forgot! The best part of the wedding is when the brother of the bride said grace. "Thank you god, for this love feast," he said, much to our amusement. "So," ventured one of my brother's friend's, looking at her bottle of Snapple, "if this is a love feast, does that make this love juice?")