My Surprise Proposal

I know this is a little late (3 months), but here it is: the story of my engagement...

I’m engaged!!

…wow, it’s five days later and saying that still puts butterflies in my stomach!

My fiancé, Brett, and I (ohh saying the word fiancé still gives me goosebumps!) got engaged last Friday. His proposal was more romantic than I could have ever imagined, and I was totally surprised.

He had me believing that I was going to have to wait another six months before he’d pop the question…six months!

But without further adieu, here’s how the happiest night of my life (so far) unfolded…

I had just come home from work and was sitting at the kitchen table clipping coupons (yeah I know, I’m a couponer!). He came rushing through the door and told me that a good friend of his was passing through town and staying at a nearby hotel, and he wanted to meet up for drinks in the lobby bar.

I said “OK” but secretly I was a little annoyed considering tonight he had promised me a romantic date night out…just the two of us. But I got changed anyway and he rushed me out the door.

When we got to the bar his friend wasn’t there yet so we grabbed two seats and ordered a beer each. Brett pulled out his cell after getting a (pretend) text message from his friend saying he would be down in 10 minutes (looking back now, his phone didn’t even ‘ping’ when he got the message. Hello — red flag!).

My fiancé excused himself to go to the washroom, so I just waited, hoping his friend — who I had never met — didn’t come while he was gone.

So I waited…and waited. It was probably only five minutes but it felt like an eternity.

Finally the waitress came over to me and asked: “Allison? This is for you,” and she handed me a small envelope. I stared at it for a second thinking to myself, ‘What? No one even knows I’m here!’

I ripped open the envelope revealing a room key and a note. The note read — and I’m paraphrasing here — “As you’ve probably figured out, we’re not meeting anyone here. I promised you a romantic evening so please join me up in Room 379.”

“OK,” I whispered under my breath, obviously a little taken aback. I took a few more sips of my Bud Light Lime, switching my slightly perplexed gaze from the note to the room key and back to the note again.

I took a deep breath and walked toward the elevator.

When I arrived at the room door I held the key card in front of me, my hand began to shake. I opened the door and there he was, standing amongst rose petals and dozens of lit tea lights.

I walked in, looking around the room in sheer pride. “Wow, you really can be romantic!”

He smiled, took my hands, bent down on one knee and asked me to marry him. And you better believe I said “Yes!”

He did good. Really good.

Advice to the Proposers…From a Recent Proposee

Granted, being proposed to doesn’t make me a proposal expert by any means. But I just thought I’d throw a couple pointers out to you gents anyway.

So guys, let me tell you, whether you’ve practiced your proposal since you were a boy or just plan to wing it, know this:

We ladies have been waiting for this moment for most of our lives, so make it count!

By making it count I don’t mean you need balloons, crowds or to broadcast it over the Jumbotron at her favorite sporting event. Just be yourself. Trust me, just being yourself will mean more to her than any glitz or glam proposal.

That’s what did it for me. Admittedly, I never thought my fiancé could have ever pulled off something like this. And just knowing that he went through all the trouble of planning something so covert, so romantic really does mean the world to me.

An hour or so after he proposed, Brett finally admitted how nervous he was to do it. It wasn’t that he’d ever thought I’d say “No,” but just making sure that the timing was perfect, the other people involved did their part and I didn’t somehow find out about it beforehand was enough to have him on edge.

His advice: cover all your bases, guys. Hide all receipts and try not to act too weird or anxious.

Oh and drink a beer or two beforehand. It helps loosen the nerves, apparently.

Good luck, guys, and happy engagements!

Today’s Bride: You’re Sexier, Choosier and More Unconventional than Your Mother

You’re showing off your curves, your cleavage, and even running barefoot in the ocean in your one-of-a-kind white dress. After all, it’s your wedding day — the biggest day of your life — and you can celebrate it any way you want.

We’ve all done it. Ever since we were old enough to wrap the living room drapes around our head and escort our favorite doll down a makeshift aisle assembled between the couch cushions, we have dreamt of our wedding day.

The groom, the venue, the flowers and, most importantly, the dress — it’s all been strategically planned out in all of our bride-to-be minds throughout the years.

I remember flipping through my mother’s wedding album as a young girl. She looked beautiful, my father was handsome, but there were definitely some aspects of her wedding day I swore I would never repeat.

Saying 'Yes'

I still haven’t done it and I’m sneaking up on 30, but I’m in no rush to tie the knot. My mother, though, was barely in her 20s when she got married.

As today’s bride, we want to travel, start a career and even have a family first. We’re not saying ‘yes’ to the first guy who asks and we won’t be getting divorced. Our daughters are our flower girls, we do it when and how we want to and we don’t need our fathers to fork over the cash.

We want to be absolutely sure we’re marrying Mr. Right Forever not Mr. Good Enough for Now.

The Ring

All dream weddings have to start with the dream ring. My mother’s was yellow gold with the tiniest diamond shimmering in the center. My father picked it out all on his own and paid for it with whatever he could spare in his savings — which wasn’t much.

My rock will be bigger, shinier and fashioned to a white gold band.

The Groom

OK so this dream guy is probably much the same as our mothers’. We’ve all fantasized about our tall, dark and handsome bad boy standing there at the end of the altar. Nowadays, though, he doesn’t have a handlebar mustache or satiny teal cumber bun.

Instead, he looks dapper in a relaxed suit, casual shirt and khakis or even barefoot on a beach.Those perfectly tailored monkey suits or brown tweed ensembles of our mothers’ more traditional generation wouldn’t fly at our weddings.

The Bridal Party

As today’s bride, we want our entourage to look good at our side. No more puffy sleeves or sea foam green, unflattering get-ups for our closest friends and family.

My mother, believe it or not, shoved her poor bridesmaids in long-sleeved, floor-length, dark green synthetic velvet dresses. Awful!

The Venue

Stuffy drawn-out church ceremonies have been replaced by more personalized, brief unconventional vows.

We want to get married outside, in nightclubs, restaurants or even under the sun down south. I want a destination wedding — it’s more my style, cost-efficient and makes for unmatched picturesque memories.

The Dress

Unlike our mothers’ floofy, long-sleeved smocks, we want our flawless figure-flattering strapless designer gowns to show off our assets and our personalities.

We have replaced long veils with flowers, chic headpieces and even feathers strategically placed in our softly tussled side ponytails.

As today’s bride, we sport fuchsia stilettos under our dresses and send out save-the-dates over email or Facebook. We have themed, eco-friendly and even backyard weddings — and it’s just like we had always dreamt it would be.

Good luck and happy weddings!

It's more than a matter of trust

** The next exercise at the writing workshop asked us to describe something we've done, either real or made up, that is unforgivable. This is what I dreamt up...

I cheated.

I was always so scared I would hurt him. I'm selfish. A coward.

I thought I could overcome it. I begged him to marry me, to commit his life to me, his soul. To trust me.

I don't know why I did it. I was never lonely, or deprived of love or intimacy. It was something I did to sabotage myself.

I knew I couldn't do it. Be faithful. And I proved myself right.

Do I confess?

No, I can't tell him.

He would hate me. Divorce me. And never want anything to do with me.

I betrayed him. His trust.

Tears begin welling up in the corners of my eyes. But I'm not sad. I don't feel sorry for what I have done.

They are tears of self pity.

The place I'd rather be

** I attended a writing workshop last weekend. One of the exercises we did was imagine the one place we'd want to be and describe it in five minutes. This is what I came up with...

I lay back against the soaked chair. I close my eyes. Splashes of water hit my face and send chills from my neck down to the small of my back.

I open my eyes, they squint as the sharp rays of the sun send spears through my vision. I put my head down.

I adjust myself into a sitting position, look up and realize as I stare at the large, hairy, scantily clad figure standing before me that my eyes have now overcome the brightness.

The figure walks by. I continue to look beyond me. Over my bare stomach and legs. My toes shoved into the wet, white sand in front of me.

The roar of the water radiates in my ears as the damp seeps into the bottom of my bathing suit. It's hot, almost too hot, but the chill of the waves makes it easier for my body to relax. I collapse deeper into the chair.

My hand resting gently against the chair's plastic arm is touched. I feel the hard grasp wrap around my wrist.

I look over my shoulder at him sitting next to me. His eyes fixated on mine. His gaze glides down my body to my hand. His fingers now intertwined in mine.

I smile as I realize there's no other place I'd rather be.

** Now describe why the place is so special, so important...

This place is my serenity. I come here when I feel hurt, lonely, like nothing I do is worth even the slightest consideration.

It is a place to reflect. To help me understand who I am or who I long to be.

I am not yet 30. Although sometimes I feel as if I have already lived more than half the life I was meant to live.

My life feels empty. Unfulfilled. It's a feeling that the hectic nature of any week leaves me struggling with.

Here, there is no busy. There is no stress. No sorrow.

Heart vs... Heart

I've never been a believer of love.

Instead, I've lived my life based on a fairly tight-knit workaholic philosophy in which relationships are more like dream-killers than fairy tales.

Sure, I hear the sappy songs on the radio and think to myself for a brief moment as I picture a white picket fence and teeny baby clothes, ‘Gee, that would be nice.’

But the idea of settling down, getting married and having kids just never compared to the bigger picture of living the dream as a hot-shot journalist at a big-wig newspaper or magazine in the likes of Toronto or, even more ambitiously, New York City — you know, the ones with the fancy all-glass, high-rise offices with immaculate views and expensive pens.

Moving to Swift Current last summer and embarking on a career stepping stone at the Prairie Post has opened my eyes to the possibility of life as a small-town professional journalist I never before understood.

I have realized just how important local newspapers are to the community they report on and how every written word matters to the people who read them. And, contrary to my previous big-city ignorance, news does happen here.

Broncos hockey games, panic over the H1N1 pandemic, Frontier Days, events at the Lyric, floods and City versus RM disputes have made this last year an unforgettable and worthwhile experience.

Then, without ever really realizing it at first, into my life walked the man of my dreams ... And he ruined everything.

He’s a bona fide Saskatchewan boy, born and raised in Moose Jaw. He played WHL hockey in his teenage yesteryears, drives a rusted pick-up truck with a broken A/C and paints his entire face green in homage to the Riders on game day. None of which, I’ll admit, I’ve ever placed as top priority on my Prince Charming check-list.

But the 28-year-old railroader won my heart with a certain charm I can only attribute to his prairie upbringing. Flowers at work, a surprise fully-paid-for trip to Vegas — it was only a matter of time until I realized I was in trouble.

Before I knew it, I was running back and forth between here and Medicine Hat, where he lives now, nearly every weekend just to see him. After racking up the mileage on my Hyundai and about half-a-dozen speeding tickets between us, we realized it doesn’t make sense to be apart anymore.

So, I took a chance on love and said farewell to Swift Current. And although my fate as a journalist seems foggy at the moment as I bid adieu to my first real reporter job, I can confidently say this was the right choice for me.

My so-called claim to fame seems to have dropped in hierarchy on the priority scale, and I can actually envision myself happy not ever getting that high-brow position in the big city.

I want to thank everyone who has picked up the Post to read my articles each week. It has been my pleasure and I can only hope I have adequately reported on, quoted or represented you and your community over my time there.

So, call me ambitious, crazy or a fool in love as I embark on my new, modest Alberta life — and thanks again for allowing me the opportunity to get my journalistic feet wet in the city of Swift Current.

It’s been a blast.

An ode to revolutionaries

Imagine trudging through snowstorms or hail, or pushing through heavy sheets of rain as the constant spattering on your face makes continuing on almost unbearable. Imagine the relentless pain of blisters, sore ankles or exhaustion.

Now imagine having to keep going until you reach the other edge of the country.

The revolutionary Terry Fox was the first to do it. His determination and strength led him to embark on a 143-day journey across Canada.

Fox's world-changing run to find a cure for cancer in 1980 changed the way strong-willed activists fight for change — one man, one dream and a lot of heart is all it takes to make a difference.

Errol Povah, a 57-year-old anti-smoking activist, embarked on his own four-month trek from British Columbia to Quebec May 31.

I had the opportunity to interview Povah — an absolute revolutionary in his own right — as he passed through Swift Current last week.

He didn't have a sob story nor was he looking for sympathy or heaps of publicity. He didn't have an entourage and no TV cameras were fighting to get a shot of him.

Povah was just walking down the highway, giving a subtle wave to the traffic as it sped by him.

His T-shirt was fittingly adorned with the blood-red words "Tobacco Kills" spread across his chest, and a small Canadian flag was fashioned to the back.

I realized as I walked next to him eastbound down the shoulder of the busy Trans-Canada Highway just how much strength, determination and selflessness it must take to walk across an entire country — and for no self-promotion, personal gain or acclaim.

I, like many others I'm sure, donate to a charity or two each month and volunteer at the local SPCA from time-to-time. I've even participated in the organized cure-for-cancer fundraisers. By no means do I consider myself a revolutionary or hold myself above Povah, Fox and all the others who have dedicated their time, bodies and soul to their causes.

Oprah Winfrey, Angelina Jolie and other Hollywood celebrities are endlessly praised for their periodic trips to developing nations across the world, and charitable big-businesses make it well-known of their contributions.

It doesn't take high-profile celebrity status or millions of dollars to make even the slightest of differences in this world. Terry Fox, and his revolutionary Marathon of Hope, was the first to prove it.

It doesn't take much to write a monthly cheque, drop a couple pennies in the charity jar at the grocery store or volunteer your time to help out.

As the runners, walkers, rollerbladers or cyclists pass by you during their journeys to make a difference, wave, and relish in the satisfaction of knowing there are people out there willing to risk it all to save the world.

Prairie skies reach even the biggest city hearts

Whoever it was who biasedly referred to people living in small towns as inexperienced, unworldly or sheltered from real life must have been a New Yorker — because my experiences over the last few months have proved that theory otherwise.

Being raised in Toronto, I had the big city at my fingertips.

I went to professional hockey, baseball, basketball, lacrosse and soccer games, watched plays and concerts performed in massive amphithetres, and sipped lattés with the best of them on Bay Street.

Okay, so I'm a city girl — I'm spoiled, I wear make-up and heels to the grocery store, I relate more to synthesized songs by Lady Gaga than the soulful Gretchen Wilson. I don’t know how to two-step and I’ve never witnessed the birth of a calf.

It's been nearly one year since I moved to Swift Current last July, and every day I’ve spent here, I’ve learned something new or experienced something I’ve never before had the opportunity to do.

I attended a community-wide Halloween dance at the hall in Maple Creek, went snowmobiling for the first time on a frozen lake, volunteered at the local live theatre and SPCA, and spent my very first night camping in a tent surrounded by the evergreens of Cypress Hills Park.

If I’ve learned anything of importance so far, it’s that there is nothing more spectacular than gazing up at the huge open Prairie sky in pitch-black darkness in the middle of nowhere.

Big-city skylines are bombarded by bright lights, skyscrapers and smog, and I’d bet most people who live there have never really seen the expansive sky stretching far beyond the rooftops.

Stars are as big and as bright here as you'd imagine flaming balls of gas to be, and there are millions more up there than the selective few that make up the small and large dippers that can be seen from anywhere.

There is something to be said about small-town education as well. My high school graduating class was of 400 students, and even after four years, none of the teachers remembered my last name — never mind how to pronounce it.

We never skated or learned how to curl in gym class, and field trips were always too much work for teachers to organize.

People seem happy here, which is something of a rare find back in Toronto. They aren't rushing around or stressed out, and spending time with family actually means more to them than gathering around the flat screen television set Thursday nights.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to knock big-city living. It, of course, has its perks as well. However, I feel I must admit my former Toronto-esque naivéty had me convinced that there was no way one year here, not the many years in Toronto, could open my eyes to the world.

I was wrong.