And what was I up to last week?

We had a birthday (Eldest Daughter), a dinner and slide show with the Canadian Chinese Cultural Society (awesome), a rehearsal dinner to meet my niece's new inlaws, my niece's birthday (same night), a wedding (Birthday Niece again) here in Montreal and then a graduation from university on the east coast (Eldest again) all in the same weekend. There was a lot of running around both to and from the airport, although the trip to the convocation in New Brunswick almost didn't happen.

A ride to the airport that normally takes 10 minutes turned into an hour due to accidents blocking every available road early Monday morning. Every alternate route we tried was clogged with cars and trucks and I had no choice but to breath deeply and try not to freak out while my husband tried every side road and service road to no avail and my daughter sat quietly in the back seat. We finally arrived and raced to the desk at the airport within minutes of the departure time only to be told the doors were closed, too bad so sad, you're out of luck.

After I did some serious begging, the rep called over a manager who confirmed it was not going to happen. We had been up until the wee hours the night before at the wedding reception and I basically poured myself out of bed and into the car that morning, so I had few reserves left and even fewer inhibitions. I did what any mom would do - I burst into tears. The manager shifted his walkie-talkie, hesitating, mentally calculating the problems he'd have holding the plane for a few minutes versus talking this hysterical mother off the ledge and having to deal with the aftermath. He wisely, nobly, unbelievably opted to hold the plane for us if we agreed to run. All I can say is thank goodness I chose comfortable shoes that morning, my feet having given out on the dance floor at the wedding. We did the Amazing Race style bolt down moving sidewalks and corridors, yelling "COMING THROUGH" at hapless passengers and threw ourselves onto that plane. The flight attendant took one look at my red face and heaving bosom and said, "I'm thinking you could use a bottle of water, am I right?" Bless his soul, I needed more than a water at that point, but it was gratefully accepted.

Long Live Air Canada!!

So....Eldest graduated from university with a degree in English Literature and minors in French studies and Political Science. Here she is with her buddy Curtis, pondering their futures.

There was a lot of hugging and kissing this weekend, both at the grad...

and at the wedding of my niece.

Hugging.
Kissing.
Hugging.
Kissing.
And here are the cousins. The cousins are really close. A holiday of any kind is always prefaced by "Are the cousins going to be there?!" It's a really special relationship they share. (Note the traditional Canadian bouquet the bride is holding.)

Ooh, a The Hills Are Alive moment.

And in the end, they all lived happily ever after....

Bridesmaid Dresses or, It seemed like a good idea at the time

Bush Babe, one of my favourite bloggers, just posted a sweet and touching story about her wedding. I'd share one of my wedding photos with you but my scanner has gone belly up and is currently pining for the fjords. (Bonus points and initiation into ANW's personal fan club if you know what that means.)

I thought about wedding stories I could share, and there was one, tiny hiccup at the ceremony that still freaks out my husband of twenty-three years. The sweet woman in charge at the church had early, undiagnosed dementia and forgot to come and get me. The music started, and everyone stood, including the groom, and looked expectantly at the chapel doors. No bride. The organist went through the Entire Song, stopped, then played it AGAIN in its entirety. Still no bride, and at this point, the groom started to sweat and was convinced his beloved bride had bolted. Nope, she was downstairs, oblivious, peering in a mirror, chatting to the maid of honour, wondering when the woman was coming back to bring her upstairs. It was soon sorted out and the wedding proceeded. The relief on my soon-to-be husband's face was palpable, although it was tempered by the agony of having to endure the music a third time.

The reception, like the wedding, was a small affair without a professional photographer or speeches or flowers or any other folderol generally associated with weddings so we only have a handful of photos that guests took for us. We just wanted to get married, so we did it simply, in front of 48 invited guests, in an old chapel at McGill University. And then, in our "going away" outfits and with confetti in our hair, we ran from the reception and hopped on to a plane bound for Paris. There, in the City of Love, we took the motto a little too literally and came home pregnant. Our first child was brought home nine months to the day we married. And then fourteen months later, I was pregnant again. And then fourteen months after that... Let me put it this way - on my fourth wedding anniversary, I was expecting our third child. All I can say is, do NOT honeymoon in the City of Love unless you mean business. I would suggest you go to Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, instead.

What I can show you is a photo of my sister "Yutha" and her husband at her wedding. My sister "Brink" and I are bridesmaids. I'm on the right, Brink is on the left, and the sister responsible for our dresses is in the middle. My question is, should we forgive her?

Bear in mind that when I stood beside my husband, a tall, handsome clean-cut kind of guy in a suit, we looked exactly like Barbie and Ken. (Yutha, do you have a photo of us?) Well, strictly and anatomically speaking, he isn't exactly like Ken. See City of Love above for clarification on that count.