Fairytale weddings require leprechauns

It was Allie‘s wedding this weekend. She looked like a princess, got married in a castle in Vieux-Québec, her knight in shining armor looked dashing in his blue suit and spiffy bow tie, and it went off without a hitch.


Remember Brown Socks and Tinker Bell? Here they are, still happily married and adorable 2 years on.

Since Dynamo couldn’t make it to the wedding because of Mini-Boom’s late arrival 6 days ago, Brown Socks and Tinker Bell took it upon themselves to keep Dynamo informed of all of the proceedings. Which is why I got periodic texts from Dynamo throughout the day, including edifying ones such as:

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Brown Socks deserves to spend a few hours in a special area of hell. We all know that one should NEVER photograph a woman eating. Especially a woman scarfing down delicious poutine at midnight after a long day of wedding festivities.

My friends, y’all. Can’t take them anywhere in public.

Allie has asked me to house sit her condo during her 2 week honeymoon. (Incidentally, she still doesn’t know where her honeymoon will be. Her hubby William – so named because he is British, he is her Prince Charming, he has a similar hair sitch to Prince William, and theirs is a fairytale marriage with a happily ever after – has not told her, only instructing her to pack clothes for a warm climate & her hiking boots. She will find out their destination upon arriving at the airport… assuming it is a direct flight. I find this so romantic, and indicative of the levels of trust between Allie and her hubby. Allie, to put it mildly, is a bit of a control freak. Yet she completely trusts that William will plan an idyllic honeymoon. Le cuteness-overload!) I’m under strict orders to not kill her 2 plants and cat during their 2 week absence. Never let it be said that I back down from a challenge, no matter how formidable it may be!

Her maid of honor, upon hearing of this arrangement, commented, “You know what Vanilla? It might do you some good to take care of a living creature.”

Allie’s friends, y’all. Can’t take them anywhere in public.

Some weddings are boring. Some weddings are lame. Some weddings train-wrecks where you wonder if the couple will make it to their first wedding anniversary.

And then there was Allie & William’s wedding.

It was a celebration of the beginning of their Happily Ever After. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind, least of all Allie’s and William’s, that theirs will be a marriage that lasts until death does them part. Their bond is almost palpable. They bring out the best in one another. While neither is blind to the other’s faults, they chose to celebrate each other’s constant work at becoming all they can be, and in doing so, they are a self-fulfilling prophecy. It is a wondrous thing to observe.

A perfect day. Everything went off without a hitch, every guest from the wee babies to the great-grandparents was on their best behavior. There were many tears throughout the day, but only of joy. My cheeks still hurt from smiling so much.

Not gonna lie, I really enjoyed dressing up. Baby pink is not my go-to color, but the makeup artist and hairdresser were brilliant in giving me that slight edge that made the look me, without ruining the romantic, soft, elegant vibe Allie worked so hard to create. I felt like a million bucks. More importantly? I felt like I belonged in this fairytale.

Once upon a time, I would have felt that the happiness Allie has found was not something I could aspire to. Her unshakeable belief in the worthiness and goodness of all the people she loves would have felt like a burden, something I was unworthy of. Without doubt, I fall short of her vision of me, but rather than feel shame, I want to knuckle-down and work on becoming the good person she believes me to be. And in doing so, it no longer feels quite impossible that one day, I will experience a fairytale of my own.

That Allie. What a force of nature.

The Dynamo trip: extreme wedding prep

Everyone warned me about the food in Beirut: it is in a class of its own. Every day, I’ve said I’ll eat a reasonable amount of food. Every day, I’ve eaten the most decadent, delicious, salty food in obscene quantities. I’ve redefined my concept of bloating. Despite working out every day, for at least an hour, sometimes even twice a day, I’ve a much fuller figure, due to the insane water retention.

Dynamo’s wedding is in 7 hours. My dress. My tight, non-stretch, sexy dress. How to fit into it?! (Never mind sitting in it, or dancing. One step at a time.)

Easy. Move into the hotel sauna, for an hour or two. Refrain from imbibing any liquids or foods other than coffee during the day.

Who cares if my face is the same shade of red as the painting in the background? That is what makeup is for.

Cutting weight for a boxing fight is less intense than the preparation for this wedding.


Recap of all previous posts related to the Trip To See Dynamo Lawfully Wedded: Who’d Have Ever Guessed He’d Find A Woman Crazy Enough To Marry Him.

Honesty is key. Timing is also key.

I attended my 4th wedding of 2015 this past weekend. I’m done for the calendar year, I think. I should market my services for being the perfect wedding date: I’m a pro. I clean-up nicely, have good table manners, can converse politely and animatedly on a variety of topics, drink moderately and dance charmingly. I listen to the speeches attentively, and I laugh at all the jokes. I never catch the bouquet. 

This past wedding was a great one. Small, in a deluxe boutique hotel in the mountains. The guests were all beautiful and socially inclined. Booze flowed, laughter tinkled, lots of dancing. Lots and lots and lots of dancing. 

At 2:30am, I stumbled back to my gorgeous hotel room, slightly peeved that I was going to bed alone: that hotel room was made for passionate sex. 4-poster mahogany bed, a shower large enough to do cartwheels in, a clawfoot bathtub, marble counter tops, mirrors, an elegant balcony… Sulking, I threw myself onto the beautiful bed, to recoup sufficient energy to remove my sexy red shoes. That’s when I noticed that there was a covered platter and a card on the night table next to me. I lifted the cover, to a beautifully arranged dish of French macaroons and chocolate sauce. Confused, I nibbled on one, as I opened the card next to the dish.

Mme Laboeuf,

Pour témoigner de notre bonheur à l’occasion de travailler conjointement.

Printed on the beautiful hotel stationery. 


Mrs. Laboeuf,

A small token to demonstrate our delight at our impending collaboration.

I pondered the card, as I ate a second, then a third, macaroon. My name is not Mme Laboeuf. None of the guests at the wedding were called Mme Laboeuf. The card was unsigned. The only “collaboration” I could think of requiring macaroons to be delivered to a hotel room during the wee hours of the night was the kind of one-on-one “collaboration” that I wished I could partake in. 

I realized all that dancing had made me hungry. I finished the macaroons.

Full of new-found energy, I changed shoes into flats, took the card with me, and went down to the reception desk. “Excuse me, I am not Mme Laboeuf, I think you had the macaroons delivered to the wrong room. They were delicious.”

On that note, I went back to the wedding reception and partied another 45 minutes before finally calling it a night.



Sweet Lord Jesus

Dynamo’s wedding was at a supper-club near my G gym. The neighborhood is an interesting one: part of a touristy area of Montreal, while still being quite ghetto and rough. I was mugged there once, and there are numerous strip joints and rumored mafia money-laundering stores in the ‘hood. (I swear the wedding venue was lovely – rooftop terrace, sunshine in the afternoon and twilight and amazing view at night).

I arrived with Brown Socks and his fiancée. Brown Socks parked in front of my favorite strip club (due to my frequency in that area, I’ve ranked the strip clubs, based on the attractiveness of their entrances and the friendliness of the girls I see enter the premises). As I exited the car, a man was walking by, spotted me and hollered: 


Can I get an Amen?