The bride wore McQueen

And I wore H&M and a home-made hat. But my shoes were Ralph Lauren and my bag a Kate Spade. So are we really that different? I don’t think so. Plus, as I pointed out in a previous post, I am descended from royalty.

Simple, classic and gorgeous. I could do without the train, but these royal types seem to like them. (Photo courtesy

But seriously, the wedding was beautiful and breakfast was fantastic. I was not pleased to discover that I had been bumped from my table by some fault of over booking, and was sitting with strangers, but at least I make friends easily.

From here on, I think that every day should start with pretty dresses, and mimosas. At least two of them. And those mimosas should not be spilled into the lap of the woman beside me and all over my nice white bag. They definitely should not. It was an accident. The offending server apologized profusely. For the first two minutes I was too busy helping my poor neighbour clear her lap of the cocktail to realize I was also covered. But I escaped to the restroom and I think the poor bag will survive. I thank you in advance for your concern.

To the lovely couple: congrats and best of luck.


Another year older

Last week I turned 33. I have officially started what my Dad likes to call my Jesus year. It’s my year to make an impact in the world or … die trying? I’m sure he only means the first half. I have a tendency to interpret too literally sometimes.

What will 33 bring? I have big plans, but yet no idea. By the time I turn 34, will the world know my name? Not likely. I’ll take small victories. Like maybe 100 readers. Or maybe a complete novel?

The holiday dreads

my Christmas tree, finally decoratedI can’t be the only one this happens to. The holidays are coming. You plan dinners. You invite guests. You RSVP to every dinner party you can possibly squeeze into your schedule. And then one more. You buy a new dress, and a new pair of shoes (or two, for good measure).

Then you sit back and … panic. Agh! I said I would do what? When? Oh dear. This is not good. “He’s gonna want to talk about … ” “She’s going to want to do … ” “I’m gonna have to… ”

Suddenly all I want to do is curl up at home under a blanket with a rum and eggnog and a good book and ignore the telephone and doorbell.

OK, so this is really only sort of true. You see, I have always teetered somewhere between introvert and extrovert. The extrovert side has gained strength over the past few years, for sure, but her introverted sister is still in there. And she panics. A lot. Which leads to insomnia, and digestive issues. I love her. I really do. But she causes problems.

But yet, I know that this is mostly a figment of my own imagination. The guests will arrive, the parties will be attended, and I will love every minute of it. In fact, in the midst of this weeks panic, I decided we should really host a New Year’s Eve party. Because it is so nice to have a house filled with our family and friends. I can’t explain the dichotomy. I have just become accustomed to living with it.

And now, having written that, I already feel better. And you all know that I am not as well-adjusted as I pretend to be. Merry Christmas, and pass the eggnog.