:: Oops ::

Christene and my anniversary was Jan. 7 for those keeping track (and if you were keeping track, where the hell were you two weeks ago? More on that in a second). And to be honest, that date isn't exactly right... it's an arbitrary, kinda-close date we both chose because the real day, if you wanted to pin it down, conflicted with too many other things. Also, we could never figure out the right day anyway.

Our first real date, if you wanna call it that, was Dec. 31 – New Year's at Brett and Tara's house.

Before that, was my company Christmas party, which wasn't so much an official date (because some unnamed party was still, perhaps, married) as it was a 'Hey, you wanna come with the rest of us to the party? There's free booze!).

And in between those two days, there was Christmas, etc. So thats why we decided, three years ago, that Jan. 7 would be our new "anniversary." It came after the hub-bub of Christmas and New Year's, and it seemed as good as day to celebrate as any other. So we did.

Except for 2012.

We didn't celebrate it this year because both of us flat-out forgot.

I – like most guys, probably – tend to forget these things, but this time, neither of us remembered until Sunday night, when it sprung into my mind for one reason or another. It's not like we juuuuust missed it either; it'd been more than a week. I just laughed it off with an "oh well," but Christene was sufficiently rattled.

"This was going to be our last January anniversary," she said sadly, not because she's breaking up with me but because in 10 months (editor's note: Holy Fuck, 10 months!) our wedding anniversary (again, Holy Fuck) in November will trump the January date.

Not to worry though, Christene. Just wait until the first time I forget – or remember at the last, possible minute – our November anniversary. This won't seem like such a big deal then.

And hey, did I mention that it's only like 10 months or so away? Christ that's coming quick.

:: Some news ::

Why, hello there.

Betcha thought I didn't have a blog anymore - I forgot for long stretches myself, as a matter of fact. But, alas, I am back. I can't promise posts on a more frequent basis - because I'd definitely just disappoint - and I won't necessarily even try.

But I'll try to try. And that will have to be good enough.

Anyways... I know back in June, I said I would post something longer on the Canucks losing the Stanley Cup. I didn't write much then because the pain was too fresh, the wound too deep. And even though we're now smack in the middle of August, I still haven't brought myself to do it. Oh, I've tried - three or four times, at least - but when I actually get passed the first few paragraphs, all that pain and anger comes back.

So I'd stop, and promise to come back to it later. I still will - I promise (There's that word again).

But until the time comes that I can eloquently write about the biggest disappointment I've experienced in some time, let's talk about something happier: me.

Well, me and Christene, to be more precise.

We are getting married.

For real.

Yeah, I know. I'm a little surprised myself. Not sure how it happened really, but it did, and I am glad. I know it was out of character/out of the blue, because after she said yes back in mid-July, these were some of the reactions I got from people.

"What the hell?!" (Christene... rather than, you know, saying 'yes')

"Holy fuck, are you shitting me?" (Bucholtz)

"WHOA!" (text message from someone I cannot remember)

"Wow! I never thought you would ever propose! (Kristyl, who apparently shared this view with Christene.)

"It's true. I kind of thought you never would. It would have been OK. We have the house and the dog, and I just didn't think you would." (Christene, when questioned about the above sentiment)

So yeah, it's fucking happening, folks. Clear your schedules, warn your livers, and send the kids to the neighbours, we're coming home loaded!*

*Because we're getting married in Las Vegas.

The tentative date will be early November, 2012. Likely at the Flamingo Hotel. Sure, there are much fancier hotels, but Christene and I have been to Vegas a lot over the last 3 years, and we agree all the new uber-fancy ones, which glittery and nice, seem a little too... corporate, for lack of a better word. They just seem to lack a little (or a lot) of that Old Vegas charm.

And since Christene and I are both bigger fans of historic Vegas than new Vegas, the Flamingo it likely will be. It's the perfect combination of Old Vegas charm/cheesiness, location, price, and well, it's probably one of the few older hotels that doesn't have bed bugs.

So there's that.

Consider yourself invited. (No, not you.)

:: I fully agree with the statement below ::

Next month, Christene and I are going to a boozeless wedding – a friend of hers from her old job is getting hitched. The groom is a pastor, the bride is also religious, so that's why there is no booze, as is my understanding.

And while I must admit never having been to a alcohol-free wedding, it's a Sunday brunch-style reception, so it's not like I'd be getting loaded anyhow (probably). So I'm cool with it, and understand. I like weddings in general – they're fun.

What's less understandable is the wedding I was at a few years back. It, too, was supposed to be boozeless, until the bride's family was convinced at the last minute that it was a poor idea expect people to come to a Saturday night reception without alcohol. Brunch is one thing, but a conventional, Saturday-night party, without some of Grandpa's old cough medicine? Not gonna work, I'm afraid.

In the end, it was an expensive bar, which didn't open til late in the reception, and most people left when the dancing started (Again, religious beliefs. For serious). So yeah, it was a little boring.

Today, I mentioned these things to my brother, who some of you likely know is getting hitched soon – next year, I understand. Anyways, this is his "vision" for a proper wedding.

"I never understand why people wouldn't want (booze). I want my wedding to be the biggest, best party of people's lives. I want every single person to wake up the next morning and forget whose wedding they were at."

So yeah, you want to be invited to that wedding. Take a memo on your Newton.

:: Open bars are dangerous, dangerous things ::

For those of you who weren't there, either because a) you live far away, b) you apparently had better things to do, or c) weren't invited because you are a random reader of this blog and don't actually know me (Hi, random person! Thanks for stopping by) I am going to recount, quickly, the mayhem that was Derrick and Angela's wedding on Saturday night.

The reception, for starters, was an open bar. This meant, unlike most gatherings among our friends where maybe a few people get drunk, others don't, some people don't show up, etc..., this one consisted of everyone but the two pregnant women getting on-their-face smashed. Just obliterated.

To recap:

- Kyle made fun of a guy who was wearing both suspenders and a belt. Guy got angry with Kyle. Kyle told him he was going to throw him down some stairs. Derrick makes Kyle apologize. Apology consists of "Yeah, I'm sorry man, but still, you're lucky I don't chuck you don't the stairs." Nice.

- Jeremy drinks approximately 13 bottles of red wine.

- Jenna and Kyle crash the (lame looking) wedding next door, just to dance. Jenna is approached by a bridesmaid who says, "Get out. The bridge doesn't want you here." Jenna calls her a bitch and invites her over to our fun wedding.

- At very end of night, Tara catches aforementioned bitchy bridesmaid trying to take advantage of our open bar. Bridesmaid is promptly given the boot.

- Jeremy temporarily passes out outside at a patio table.

- Chris, shitfaced, tells Jeremy and Katie - who were leaving and found Chris in the parking lot - that he's just gonna lie down for a second. Proceeds to lie down in a parking stall for a quick nap.

- Because Christene was too reluctant to dance with Kyle - or anybody at the time - Kyle decides to just dance on her, lapdance style.

- On the way home, at McDonald's drive-thru, Jeremy refuses to give Kate his wallet (Katie had no bank card) because that's "his money!" Despite repeated angry efforts, Kate is forced to pay for $8 of McDonalds with her Visa.

- After midnight, Jeremy discovers more red wine on our table. This conversation then ensues:

Me: Hey man, you sure you wanna more of that? I mean, you're already hammered. You're gonna be so hungover tomorrow.
Jeremy: Who cares?! Tomorrow's tomorrow, Nick - LIVE IN THE NOW!!!!!

- The next morning, I asked Jer if he wanted to meet us for breakfast/lunch. He'd already went for breakfast much earlier. "What in the hell were you doing up so early?" I asked him.

"Living, Nick. I was living."

That is my favourite quote of the whole thing.

Oh, and Jenna puked at Ricky's the next morning.

:: The importance of considering the source ::

I just spent 10 minutes at work listening to a 49-year-old single guy give wedding and marriage advice to a woman who is newly engaged – advice ranging from how much to spend/blow on a ring, to what's really important to spend money on at said wedding, and a myriad of other marriage-related topics.

The advice was, far as I could tell, fairly smart, and he was obviously just trying to help. But still, no matter what he said – and how much sense it may have made – all I could think was "You are almost 50 and single. Who the hell are you to be giving marriage advice?"

I mean, c'mon, what's next? Nick's Easy 10-step Guide to Winning a Marathon?

I think not.

"Sean, you are 20 years ahead of the future." - Scotty, discussing a man who is apparently far, far ahead of his time.

"It's bad when you can't figure out whether it came from somebody's ass or their mouth." - Unknown, the day of the gift opening. (editor's note: that's what she said)

"Jesus's brother was an astronaut." - Bobby

:: The track, a wedding and the open road ::

Well, first thing's first - I probably shouldn't mention anything until I talk about a certain event which shook down last Saturday... Jer and Katie's wedding.

I've known Jer a real long time - he's like a brother to me, practically - so I'm obviously happy for him and Katie, who I haven't obviously known as long, but is still pretty awesome in my books. Far better than a jerk like Jer probably deserves, but hey - life's funny that way :) (Just kidding, Jer).

And while I could probably write a sappy post about love and marriage and all that stuff, I'm not going too. Mostly because it wouldn't be very good. (For the record though, I could fake it well enough that you'd probably not notice the difference). However, I'm going to do something I'm better at - whine.

The wedding, like most, was Saturday afternoon. 3 p.m. No problem.

I had plans with some folks from work to go out the night before, and those nights always turn messy. However, with the wedding the next day, I figured I'd take 'er easy Friday, call it a night early, and then save my liver and my energy reserves for the toonie bar at the wedding reception.

And while a good idea in theory, it was not executed with much precision. None at all, actually.

By 9:00 Friday night I'm fairly certain I was loaded, and was - along with a few other co-workers - making annoying, loud phone calls to our other co-workers who chose not to attend. I ended up spending $100, getting home at 1:30 in the morning, and not dragging myself out of bed until12:15, with one helluva headache that took 4 advils, and about 4 hours to eradicate.

However, I did it - and managed to get to the wedding with other an hour to spare so I could help set up. I'd have been there earlier, but my booze-addled brain forgot black socks and a belt when I drove to my parent's house to pick up my pants which had been hemmed. Preparation was a bit of a trainwreck, what can I say?

Thankfully I started feeling better as the reception progressed, and I still got loaded on $2 beers and free wine, but I still came perilously close to fucking up the evening's festivities for myself.

So what's the lesson here, you may ask? Don't be a fucking idiot - that's what.

In other non-wedding news, I recently wrapped up my glorious 2 weeks of vacation, which actually turns into about 17 days off when you factor in weekends and Labour Day. I spent the first week in the Okanagan - first going from Langley to Kamloops to Wells Gray Park, then followed that by going back through Kamloops, then to Enderby/Sicamous, then home.

All in all, it was awesome, but a lot of driving. I felt like I spent far too much time on the road. I figured this out the day after I returned home. It was a Monday afternoon, and I decided I should go run some laps at the track and work off all the beer and food I'd recently consumed. As I approached the tennis courts at the park, a guy in a slick looking black sedan zipped past. I didn't get a look at what kind of car it was, but thought it was an Audi. Hoping to catch a glimpse of a decal on the trunk to confirm my suspicions, I turned my head to the left to check my rearview mirror.

There was no mirror though.

I was walking.

Speaking of the track, I was there again tonight (for the record, this is about Day 525 of my on-again, off-again get in shape plan). Normally, I just walk there, do my thing, and walk home, but tonight I couldn't help but notice the amount of rule-breakers, weirdos, and just plain fucking idiots that were there, too. So with that in mind, I present to you my Rules for Going to the Track:

#1 - Run the same fucking direction as everyone else. Listen pops, this one shouldn't be too hard to follow. When you get to the park in your Tony Soprano full-body-matching track suit (complete with headband), take a quick look at the 20-25 other people who are already there. Notice something? Yeah, they're all running counter-clockwise, like normally fucking people. Hell, even race horses run that damn direction, likely without being told twice. Just do it - the rest of us don't want to worry we're going to have a head-on collision just because we glance down at our iPods. Besides that, you look like a fucking douchebag.

#2 - Do not bring your dog to the track. If you want to run with your dog, keep your exercise to neighbourhood streets and parks like everybody else. The reason people come to the track in the first place is so they don't have to dodge dogshit and traffic.

#3 - If you absolutely insist on letting your dog run on the track alongside you, make sure it's not a Bichon Frise. Look, I've got no problem with small dogs - I used to have two, but they aren't "running dogs." If you're running alongside a German sheppard or a lab, that's fine - they're built for it, presumably. But jogging next to your tiny, little pooch is not only cruel to the dog - how fast do you think his fucking legs move, Toots? - you also look like an idiot. And that little pink sweater you're making Princess wear isn't helping your cause either, sweetheart.

#4 - Once your girlfriend with the little dog is done her two draining "power laps" around the track, and gives Princess to you to watch while she "cools down," don't try to look tough. Yeah Muscles, I'm talking to you - the guy standing on the edge of the soccer turf with the Affliction shirt holding the leash. Uncross your arms, take the don't-fuck-with-me scowl off your face, and relax. Your dog has a pink jacket on - now is not the time to Man Up.

#5 - If, during the course of your jog, a soccer ball from the practice in the middle of the track happens to bounce off the field and come within five feet of you, kick it back. Look D-Bag, just do the guys on the field a favour and boot it back to 'em - it takes you a lot less effort to move your foot in a kicking motion once than it does for the goalie to run 40-50 feet behind the net and across the track surface to get the ball once it's rolled to the fence. Don't pretend you don't see it; don't start fiddling with your iPod headphones, and don't look the other way. Just stop the friggin ball. And even if it's more than five feet in front of you, if you can speed up a bit - hell, even sprint for a second - in order to save the shot, do it. Picking up the pace momentarily isn't gonna kill you, and you can probably afford to burn an extra calorie or two anyway, Lardo.

#6 - Only do wind sprints on the straightaway portion of the track if you actually should be doing them. Look, there are people at the track who are legitimate sprinters - college and high school athletes who are training for serious. It's pretty damn obvious who they are - for starters, they're the only ones there actually in shape. You can also tell just by watching their routines for 20 seconds that they know what they are doing. Leave it to them. Midway through your jog, do not wander over to the straightaway and start doing sprints. You aren't impressing anybody, douche, and you aren't fooling us either. If you were really a serious sprinter, you wouldn't have ran 8 laps at a leisurely pace before doing the 100m. Yeah, you gotta warm up - but I don't think Usain Bolt runs two miles before stepping into the blocks.

#7 - If you can only run half a set of stairs - barely - don't run stairs at all. Pretty simple. Sure, I'd like to run a marathon, but I'm not start doing it then quit after 500 metres. I applaud your effort, for sure - but you're embarassing yourself. Run down on the flat surface like the rest of us.

And finally, #8 - Don't bring your God damn kids. The last thing any of us wanna do is have to trip over three kids who've decided that "play time" should occur around the last corner. No, it's not cute when little Billy cheers your name every time you run past, nor is it adorable when your 6-year-old daughter runs part of the way with you every lap. They're in the fucking way, and if you don't move 'em, well...

:: Wedding, etc...::

"At that point it's not a tux, it's a monkey suit." - Meghan's thoughts on wearing a tux to get girls, and then failing miserably at said task.

And then there's this, Super Bowl fallout...

Fuck you, it's a god-damned robot

You can watch the commercial yourself, right here. Easily the SB's best ad. I haven't felt that much emotion over the plight of a robot since Short Circuit.

"You see, marriage is a lot like an orange. First, you have the skin... then the sweet, sweet innards."

"And if all else fails, just walk up to one of the hot ones and stick a finger in her ass. She'll never even see it coming!" - Ian, with whom I was discussing my potential ability (but likely, ultimate failure) to score with a bridesmaid, or other reasonably hot woman at this shindig.

As for the above quote, well, yes, there was failure. Obviously. However, it was through no fault of my own (for once). There simply were no opportunities. Reasons for this are twofold, and possibly threefold, if we wanna get into specifics.

Firstly, despite the fact that some of the women there were absolutely unbelievable (Seriously, like 12 out of 10), many of the thought-to-be-single ones were, in fact, not single at all. This is to be expected, really, because if they're so hot, why wouldn't they be snapped up already? (Likely by some greaseball guido wearing a leather jacket and too many rings, who owns a small construction company...just, uh, for hypothetical example)

So, there was barrier numero uno. However, that shouldn't have been the end of things, since there were still *some* reasonably attractive single girls there, but this leads me to my second point:

The reception lacked the two things needed to hook up at a wedding: dancing, and alcohol. The reception started around 6:00, although the bar did not open until after all the formal stuff was finished - dinner, speeches from Doug, Carmen, Chad the best man, all six parents (Doug's wife, Carmen, has two sets of parents) etc...By this time, I don't know exactly but I'd guess it was about 8:30-ish, and still all we had to drink was wine, as the bar didn't open until just after 9:00.

Why didn't the bar open until then, you ask? Well, it didn't open early for the same reason that over 60% of the people at the reception left as soon as the dance floor opened: many people on the bride's side of the family are staunch Mennonites, who disagree with both drinking and dancing.

Rather than detail the situation any further, I've chosen to compose a haiku about Doug's wedding.

Doug marries Carmen
Just wine, no bar til 9
Mennonites don't dance

So the party died fairly quickly, despite the fact that me, Chad, and a few others did our best to keep the bartender busy. However, when the single girls and even the bridesmaids disappear for hours at a time, what's a lonely groomsman to do? Drink a few more beers, then go home defeated, drink a few vodkas, then pass out on the couch until 3:30 in the morning, that's what.

Oh, and that third reason? I'm kind of fat, so getting some was likely out of the question from the get-go, regardless of how awesome I looked in my rented tux.

But we don't need to dwell on that fact, do we? Oh, we do? Well shutup. Jerk.

Other than the lack of gettin' some, however, it was a very fun few days, beginning with the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner Friday night out in Abbotsford. Saturday morning I headed over to Doug's to get ready, with Chad and the other groomsmen. All was going fine - we had coffee with extra expresso shots, solid breakfast foods in abundance, tunes cranked and some red bulls flowing, until about 11:30 when my pants broke.

Yes, my pants broke.

For those of you not familar with rental tuxedo pants, let me explain quick-like how they work. Basically, you're given a pair of pants that are capable of being worn by someone with about a 22-inch rockstar-on-heroin waist, to someone who appears to have ate a small child for brunch. There are these thin metal "sliders, where you slide the waists to your desired girth, and then snap a lock into place.

Well, after wearing the pants for about 20 minutes, the slider came off-track. It appeared a lost cause for the longest time, and I spent a good deal of the morning wandering the house in a tuxedo shirt, tie, and boxers. Classy, I know.

I was prepared to just wear my giant MC Hammer-esque pants with suspenders to keep 'em up, until Chad finally fixed them with the help of a pin, a knife, and God knows what else. He earned the best man title right there.

So I went to the wedding with properly-fitting pants, and the whole thing, basically, went off without a hitch. And I gotta tell you, the whole wedding experience had more of an effect on me than I thought it would.

One of my favourite moments was talking with Doug's dad. Now, his dad has never been a super-positive person, and since retiring he's largely become a hermit in his own home, with not a lot to do. But Saturday he smiled, bought people drinks, and was as happy and proud of his son as I've ever seen. It was just kind of a touching moment, knowing both Doug and his dad as well as I do.

His dad also told me, while buying me a drink near the end of then night, that "Chad's done a great job as Doug's best man, but as far as I'm concerned, he has two of them tonight. You are too."

I've known Doug since we were 13 years-old, and he was engaged for 10 months before Saturday, but it wasn't until moments after the wedding where I actually realized "Whoa, Doug's married." (and to a pretty stunning blonde, by the way). And right then, I realized how incredibly happy I was for him, considering the rough ride he's been on for 2 years before he met Carmen. I was happy for him, maybe a little jealous that he'd found somebody, and proud of him too.

Which, in and of itself made it one of the best weekends I've had in ages and ages. Even if I didn't score a bridesmaid.

Chris: Hey, where are you?
Blatz: Picking up the cars for tonight.
Chris, OK, just making sure you weren't halfway to Mexico. See you later.
Blatz: Alright.
Chris, calling Brad first thing in the morning, the day of his wedding. What a good friend.

Me: So how's the physio goin' and all that?
Brad: Pretty good. I'm walking with a cane now.
Me: Oh, so do you feel like an old man?
Brad: No, it's a pimp cane.

Now I have visions of B-rad dressed like this.

Awesome.