Stateside

Hey Everyone,

Well I'm back stateside. Just a quick layover at home (isn't it sad when home starts to be considered a layover?) before I head off to Phoenix to toast yet another wedding. But can anyone say SUPERBOWL!!!! Yup, I'll be lucky enough to be gracing the stands in the VIP section during America's Favorite Sunday. As Morty would say, the timing is serendipitous. Just one of the perks of my job. The father of the bride is actually the owner of the Giants but fear not, fellow Bostonians and hearty New Englanders, I know where my loyalty lies. GO PATS!!!! I am from Boston and as a sports town, Boston rules. And besides, Tom Brady is pretty hot.

Anyway, Cuba was a blast, the toast a success, yadda, yadda, yadda,... lots of hot salsa dancers in Cuba, but at this point, all my weddings tend to be the same. It was the beginning of this whole strange trip that's much more interesting. Everything since, including Cuba, is just the byproduct of the beginning. So how did I end up going from a one shot gig at a retirement home in Florida to jetsetting to communist countries and other exotic locales globally? What happened between point A and point Z? Like I've said before, a story is a slow unfolding and I don't intend to rush. Read on and all will be revealed in due time (starting tomorrow).

In the meantime, I have to admit I'm a little disappointed. I haven't gotten one song from a one of you! You are all forcing me to entertain notions that the one song you would pick is some pathetic Milli Vanilli song. Is that really the music heritage you want to inherit?! Anyway, even though my call went unheeded, I'll just keep on keepin' on. I'm not discouraged easily. Until later... cheers

America's Brothel

Ola Signores and Senioritas,

Greetings from Cuba. Been having a fab time living it up in old Havana. I've been frequenting Hemingway's old haunts, like the Floridita Bar and Bodeguita del Medio where the old man himself was known to throw a few back. Fabulous mojitos. I highly suggest you check out these watering holes if you ever find yourself in this communist corner of the world. Did you know Cuba was nicknamed "America's Brothel" in the twenties? It was "THE" place for old, staunchy, rich Americans to come party. Seems like communism is becoming quite en vogue. Anyway, Havana has certainly lived up to its name and its reputation, despite being communist. It's filled with hot, sultry air, seductive music, orgasmic dining experiences and libidinous salsa dancers. Not a bad place to spend a week in the dead of winter, particularly if you're from Boston. Like I've said before, our winters can really suck so its nice to be able to escape to someplace warm.

Anyway, it hasn't been all idleness and leisure. This is a business trip, afterall. I'm here to toast trhe wedding of a Cuban conquistador and his concubine, if you can believe that. Not only is this country communist, but it's also incredibly sexist. And I do have an issue or two with a groom who kills bulls for a living. I can't help it. I like animals. I mean, I'd have no problem staking a bull if it was coming at you out of nowhere and it was your only chance of survival, but to do it in an arena, for sport... it sort of gives me the heebie jeebies. Oh, well. Who am I to judge? They do things differently here. They might not approve of my shoe fetish.

Anyway, a job's a job and I'm getting paid handsomely for services rendered. The language barrier has been a problem, however. This is the first time a translator has had to shadow me while I work. Most international couples I toast speak English but I guess in Cuba they're still holding a grudge. Anyway, it's sort of annoying but I don't let it get to me. I mean, it's sort of hard to have an unpleasant time when you're in a place nicknamed America's Brothel.

That's it for tonight. Thanks to everyone who voted... not a bad turnout! But please see last night's post and do as I ask. Tell me your songs, people! Would you really have me think that given one song, you'd play some crappy one? Prove and redeem yourselves!! Until I return stateside... cheers

The Eagle Has Landed (Finally)

Hey Chicas and Chicos,

VERY short post tonight.... I mean it this time. I'm exhausted. I just arrived at my hotel in Havana after about 76 transfers. One of the conditions in my contract that I have my clients sign is that I always travel by first class and direct flights whenever possible. However being that Cuba is communist and all, I had to make an allowance this time. No direct flights to Cuba from the good ol' US of A, unless of course you're approved by the US Treasury Department. But they only approve journalists or diplomats or anyone going for good of country so since I'm here solely for my own financial gain, I had to make my grand entrance via Canada (by way of Akron, Little Rock and Cedar Rapids). Oh, well.... all in the name of love (and a fat paycheck). Havana seems like a pretty cool town, though. Check out the link to explore all things Cuba.

That's it for tonight. My head is literally about to hit the pillow. But thanks again for all your votes. Didn't quite make the 100 mark but that's ok; I can live with it. I just gotta up my game. Check out my complete profile if you haven't already and see my random question. It's a thought provoking one (at least I think so, anyway) but a fun one. So what would your song be? Send in your song via comments. I'm interested to know... truly. Music can say a lot about a person. My song would be Beast of Burden by the Stones, hands down. I don't know why... it just is. So let me know what yours is. I bet we could put together one funky soundtrack with all our picks. Until then... cheers

Thoughts on Juno

Hey Guys and Gals,

Short post tonight. I thought I'd let you all off the hook after that novelish post last night, but whoever said that that the sum of a person's life can be reduced to a page, especially when it comes to the good stuff? Besides, I'm headed off to Havana to toast a wedding, and getting there is going to be a bitch, given that they are a communist country and all. I have about 5,000 layovers. It is sort of a benchmark for me, though. Now I know I've made it big, seeing that I've broken into the communist market. Castro must not be such a bad guy afterall. Anyway, more on my adventures in Cuba in a different post... I haven't even gotten there yet. Anyway, back to the topic at hand... tonight's post will be short but no less riveting or rewarding.

First off, congrats to Ellen Page for an oscar nod for her performance as Juno! Any newbie that can play a role with such raw honesty and vulnerability deserves the statue, hands down. And any newbie screenwriter that can write a script with such wit, humor, cutting, edgy sarcasm and blatant honesty deserves a piece of rock, too. Not that I know what it's like to be a pregnant teenager or anything, but I can imagine. Anyway, if you haven't seen the movie yet, I suggest you put it first on your list of priorities. And check out the link, www.junoverse.com for your dose of everything Juno. It's a transcendental experience... trust me.

Speaking of Juno, there are two quotes from the movie I really like. First quote: when Juno says, "I know you usually fall in love before conception but I guess normalcy really isn't our thing." When you think about it, those words speak so much truth. There is no formula or fixed definition for love. There are all different types, all different conventions and all different relationships. There's interracial, interage, intergender and interclass. Whose to say what relationship is "normal?" That's the beauty of love... everyone has their own unique story. I mean, how boring would it be if it was all, like Stepford Love? So, I don't think normalcy should be anyone's thing. Live, love and be happy. It makes life exponentially more interesting.

Second quote which bears repeating: "You need to find one person who loves you for exactly who you are... when your happy, sad, a bitch... because they'll always think the sun comes out of your ass." Isn't it true? That's all anyone really wants, and it's not too much too ask for. Someone who will always think that the sun comes out of your ass... even when you're a bitch. Out of the mouths of babes; in layman's (if not vulgar) terms. But it's true. Number one rule about love that I've discovered in my line of work... you need to be able to be yourself, whatever your mood, and trust that your partner will be there in the morning, ready to wipe the slate clean and forgive you your humanness and shortcomings. We're all human. We all have faults and imperfections. Love allows you to be who you are, in the moment you're in. Now that's worth toasting.

Anyway, I'm waxing lyrical again. time to catch my flight. I'm Havana bound, baby. Areeeeeba!!! I'll try to blog if I can, but I am going to a communist country so you never know what overt activities are allowed. In the meantime, stop by and see what I have to say. And VOTE!! Or tell your friends to vote! Aren't we in the midst of a presidential election, people? It's good practice. Anyway, 80 votes to date (including the two "NOs", which really gets my goat). Twenty more! Let's get 20 more! One hundred is the goal!!! Until then... cheers

Cynicism Explained

Hey Chillens,

Thanks again for stopping by. So last night I told you I'd enlighten you with how I came to have this cynical view of love, and, as always, I try to deliver on my promises. Anyway, here's the cliffs notes version:

It was just me and Mom growing up. My dad died when I was three in a car accident. My memories of him have faded and are all jumbled together now like a watery palette; unrecognizable as separate entities but filled with beautiful colors and bright spots just the same. There is a picture of the three of us I keep in a silver frame next to my bed. He was a handsome man. He has kind eyes and a magnetic smile. I wish I knew him. It makes me sad that I don’t and I wonder how I can be a complete person when a significant chunk of my history is gone.

I used to ask my mother to tell me the story of how they met repeatedly. I think my mother liked that I would ask her. It allowed her to hold on to something good and I think she liked that I wanted something of my dad to hold on to, too.

My mom walked into a shoe store one Saturday afternoon. She had a penchant for stilettos. My dad was the salesman who slid her foot in. “What’s the occasion?” He asked, not taking his eyes off of her. “Tango, “ my mother answered, although the only time she tangoed was in her underwear, in the living room. It worked at any rate. They went out for coffee when his shift was over… in Rhode Island. They raced along the interstate, trying to outrun a pepper gray sky, and wound up at a pier at the end of the earth with the sky turning pink over the Atlantic. They stayed for a week and came back married. And yes, they did tango.

Dad was a romantic at heart but a science guy in practice. He worked at the shoe store to put himself through MIT and invented the Fetch It, an aerodynamic contraption made entirely out of plastic and painted various psychedelic colors that allows you to throw a tennis ball for a dog with a longer range than humanly possible and adds the extra benefit of not having to pick up a slobbery, dirty, mangy ball to boot. Given the nature of my father’s invention, I always thought it was funny that we didn’t have a dog growing up. Anyway, the money my dad made from his invention allowed him to live the life he wanted and the royalties still allowed my mother and I to live a comfortable life even after he was gone.
One of my dad’s favorite things to do was to walk around the city and admire the great buildings that stood all around him. “Boston is an artist’s city,” he used to tell my mother. He had a keen interest in architecture, partly because of the science of it but mostly I think because my dad liked to find the beauty in everything. He didn’t just see an old building. He saw sharp, contrasting angles or a perfectly rounded dome topped with copper or the intricate details of crowned molding, heralding the city as loud as trumpeters. My dad was a keen observer of things. He noticed the details that most people overlook.

At least these are the stories my mother tells me; little bits of memory revisited that allows me to form a picture and a story in my mind. I have nothing else to go on except for what my mom tells me. Well, and my uncle Hor. Hor is short for Horatio and not some nickname that reflects a certain character trait. The thought of that makes me burst out in an obnoxious guffaw. Uncle Hor is plump and mushy with a shiny dome of a head and a gold-plated front tooth, but he has a big smile and can easily laugh at himself when the mean-spirited people of the world choose him to be their punching bag, which happens often because he has such a kind heart but is also, unfortunately, funny looking. Uncle Hor would take the shirt off his back if someone needed it. Anyway, he’s my mom’s uncle and he’s been there for us from the get-go. He has lived in our in-law apartment on Payton Street ever since I can remember. He lived there since before my dad died and has stayed ever since.

Sometimes I think Uncle Hor would have chosen a different path for himself. He dated a woman named Dolly for quite a few decades, but when she got the chance to go to Nashville and record a country music album, he stayed behind and that was that. That was in 1988. I think Uncle Hor stayed for my mom and me. He didn’t want to leave us alone, and for that reason, anyone who insults Uncle Hor in front of me will find my fist swiftly in his or her face. Uncle Hor is a good man and his loyalty absolutely humbles me. And I was perfectly pleased to hear that Dolly’s record flopped miserably.

For as much as my father was a romantic, my mother is not. Or, at least, not anymore. Sometimes I see glimpses of it when she tells me stories about my dad and she smiles unknowingly at the thought of him but she does not allow herself to get lost there and the moment passes. My mother prides herself on being practical, logical and efficient. That’s not to say that she is not a wonderful, warm, giving woman because she is all those things too, but I think my mom closed herself off to love when my dad died. I think she loved my dad so much and couldn’t bear the thought of going through heartache again that she virtually eliminated the possibility of it from her life. It’s sort of ironic because despite her silent battle with love and all things romantic, really my mom is the most romantic of all in her own way. Her whole life has been a love letter to my dad.

After my dad died, my mom went back to school and became a high school chemistry teacher, which she still is to this day. I think she needed something to focus on, a routine and a formula to follow, just to get her through the loneliness of another day. My mom likes following recipes that will lead you to a specific outcome. In her lab, mixing chemicals and co-agents, she knows what to expect. She knows what she’ll end up with at the end of the day. I don’t think it’s an accident that my mom went into science, even though my mom won’t admit it. It’s homage to my dad. It keeps him alive for her.

So that leaves me, Maggie McDonald, product of Lila and Oliver McDonald and a perfect half of each. Uncle Hor used to call me a perfect paradox. I have my mom’s dark hair and my dad’s blue eyes. I have my mom’s little turnip nose but my dad’s smile. I inherited a healthy dose of cynicism from my mom but a keen sense of observation from my dad. I think, deep down, there is a hopeless romantic in me, swimming around in my heart, looking for a way out, but, like my mom, I’ve learned how to keep it at bay. Play it safe and you can’t get hurt. No one wants the burden of a broken heart.

So I guess you could say I am more my mother’s daughter. I had the chance to love once and I let it go. I’ve learned from my mother’s example; her heartache, her strength and her success. But sometimes, when I’m lying in bed at night, trying to decipher shapes on the ceiling from the headlights that drive by outside, or when I’m watching a sappy movie with Carrie and Kate and find myself welling up at an inconvenient moment despite myself, or when I’m walking through Quincy Market and I see lovers linger in their kiss when they say goodbye, I wonder if my dad was around if the romantic in me would be more present. I wonder if I’d be more of a complete person. I guess I’ll never know, but what I do know is that I need to find myself. There is a part of me missing.

So, that's it chicas... in plain black and white. It's no big mystery, although, as with most things in life for most people, it's sort of complicated. Anyway, that's more of my authorized bio. More to come, more to come.... just keep poppin' by and reading away. And maybe we'll discover together if I become a changed woman afterall. Until then... cheers

Paradox Paradigm

Hey Guys and Gals,

70 votes and going strong! (I won't count the two "NO" votes) Let's make it 100... a nice, round fat number! There are still 4 days left to vote so let's get the word out! Thank you all for your positive comments too... you guys rock like seniors!

So last time I told you what a deliciously good time I had down in Florida with the Sarasota Gang, but I really didn't give you the 411 on Morty and Addy and since I am in the business of toasting couples, I thought I'd give you the rundown. First let me start by saying that although I'm a professional wedding toaster, I'm also a cynic... especially when it comes to love. Don't get me wrong... I'm all for love and romance and happily ever after; it's just usually a tough sell on me in the beginning. And therein lies the great irony of my life. I have improved greatly in my cynnical outlook since I started this gig full time. I've been doing it now for about a year and I live and breathe all things wedding, and I'm happy to report that to date, I have a 0% divorce rate among my couples. I must be doing something right. But when I was just starting out, I wasn't always so convinced that my couples were doing the right thing by taking that long walk down the aisle (hell, I couldn't do it), and Morty and Addy were no exception.

Don't get me wrong; Morty charmed the pants off me (although not literally) at Carrie's wedding but Morty is, well, you know, old, and unfortunately, a little funny-looking. He wears Bermuda shorts and knee socks, his gums flap in the wind like a double-masted ship when he talks and he has to sit on a pillow when he drives his big ol' white Cadillac because he's too short to see out the windshield (driving with Morty is like having a near-death experience). And Addy.... well Addy's not (short or funny looking I mean). In fact, Addy's kinda hot, for a senior citizen I mean. She's tall and has beautiful silvery-white hair and the leanest tennis arms I've ever seen. I'M jealous of her tricepts. Anyway, when I first saw them together, I began to think that something might be rotten in Denmark, if you know what I mean. Morty is loaded afterall. But after spending the week with them, I realized I had it all wrong.

Morty and Addy met a few years back. They were neighbors at Clearwater and both upstanding members of the Sarasota Gang. They played Scrabble everyday (Addy used to let Morty cheat and use swear words) and one day, out of the blue, Morty said to Addy, "Let's get hitched." And Addy said, "Let's do it." And so they did. During my week with Morty and Addy, I saw them eat food off of each other's plates, hold hands under the table when they thought no one was looking, smile like children when the other one would enter the room and read to each other in bed at night, just for the comfort of hearing the other's voice. And the conclusion I came to was this; you can't fake that stuff. When you're not in love with someone, it's hard to act like you are, even if you are at the age where you might start forgetting your own name and street address. I saw a quote once that has sort of stayed with me; "True Love is friendship set on fire." That sums up Morty and Addy to a tee.

Morty and Addy remain dear friends of mine. In fact, you could say we're sort of related now, but more on that in another entry. I have been down to Clearwater to visit the Sarasota Gang on numerous occasions since and I'm happy to report that Morty and Addy are still going strong, both healthwise and lovewise (while still continuing to drink like fish- well, Morty does at any rate). And the one thing I realize, over and over again, everytime I go visit is that love is not soley reserved for the young. Love belongs to everyone, and that's the beauty of it. You can find love at any age. Another thing that Morty and Addy taught me is that old age can be a blast. Let's face it; everyone has an innate fear of mortality, wrinkles and either thinning or graying hair, but what really keeps you young is your state of mind and your spirit. I mean, I guess plastic surgery and anti-wrinkle creams can help too, but if you're young at heart, having a good time and have someone to share it all with, that just makes life all the sweeter. So fear not if you're lovelorn and lonely and approaching an age where you're body starts doing strange and unsightly things.... love is out there for everyone and Morty and Addy are proof of that.

So how did I come to have this jaded view of love anyway and why can't I practice what I preach, so to speak? How can I toast and celebrate the love of strangers when I chose to turn my back on it myself? More to come, dear readers, more to come. Life is a slow unfolding of events and 90% of it is always complicated. My story's no exception. Tune in tomorrow and I'll give you the 411 on why I'm such a paradox (and yes, more on Jack- I know you're all dying to hear more ). Until then.... Cheers

Senior Break

Hello my peeps,

Thanks again for stopping by and for all the nice comments. And for voting!! Seems like I have a good thing goin' here... so I'll just keep it going. I'll try not to disappoint.

So last blog I told you I'd introduce you to Morty, and I always keep my word (well, most of the time anyway). Here goes:

So after the big toast at Carrie's wedding... yada, yadda, yadda... a funny little man appears out of nowhere on the balcony where me and Carrie and Kate ( Kate's our other best friend. We've been like the three musketeers since seventh grade) were sharing a moment together (with wine, of course. Wine seems to be a pre-requisite for us). He was quite an eccentric character, but in an endearing, charming sort of way. He sort of reminded me of George Burns but, then again, George Burns is dead, so maybe not so much. He was wearing a top hat for one thing and he had to be driving over 80, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he introduces himself to us as Morty Finkelstein, former window installer of Bangor, Maine and current Elks member extraordinaire. Morty was up in Boston from his retirement home in Sarasota for the annual Elks convention but either forgot what day it was or couldn't see the date he had written in his date book (I guess that happens when you're old). Anyway, he was staying at the Boston Harbor, which is where Carrie's wedding was, and happened to stumble into the wedding, quite by accident, looking for the men's room, at the exact moment I was giving my toast. As Morty still says to this day, it was "serendipitous". Anyway, Morty hired me right there on the spot to come and toast his upcoming nuptials down in Sarasota for one kilo (is that the right slang for a thousand bucks? The language of America's youth and gangster rappers seems to keep changing these days. Even though I'm hip, I just can't seem to keep up). He said he wanted to give Addy, his bride-to-be, the gift of words. For a kilo (Yikes! That sounds sketch!), who was I to argue?

Three weeks later, I was at Clearwater Retirement Home in Sarasota, Florida. I had my share of doubts and reservations about the whole thing. For one thing, I had not only agreed to, but actually suggested spending a whole week with the newly betrothed. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT??? Spending a week in Florida with a couple of senior citizens is NOT my idea of a vacation, but first and foremost, I am a woman of words. I mean, anyone can stand up with a mike in their hand and say "good Luck, good health and congratulations. That's not creative or insightful; it's just downright lame. As I said in yesterday's post, you need to witness the seemingly insignificant moments, because that's the stuff that speaks volumes. Anyway, because I believe in the integrity of words, I decided to suck it up and deal. You can't give a toast, or at least a good toast, when you don't know what the hell you're talking about.

Surprisingly enough, the universe had a thing or two to teach me. Like, first of all, seniors can party like rock stars. It's true. I thought I was going to like, a nursing home, with people in wheel chairs and moth-eaten afghhans draped across their shoulders, but this was like a four star resort. And the elderly can drink, let me tell you. My days consisted mostly of sitting by the pool and drinking with "the gang" (I have since dubbed them the Sarasota Gang because there are just too many of them to name each time individually), playing Dirty Scrabble on the patio (where curse words and sex words are double score or nothing. Hey, it wasn't my idea. I told you this crew could party) and drinking and watching reruns of Sex and the City (and drinking) with the Sarasota Gang. It was like spring break for the over 65 crew. And it was fun. I also developed an affinity for Shuffleboard while I was there if you can believe it. Turns out I have a mean shuffle. I was top scorer. Anyway, Morty and Addy didn't just teach me that seniors can drink and are an overall hoot and a half, they taught me a thing or two about love, too. But enough for this blog.... short and sweet wins the race. Tune in tomorrow and I'll tell you more about Morty and Addy and impart more of my "Maggie Wisdom" but until then... cheers. And remember, seniors ROCK!

Intro Please, Maestro

Hello Faithful Blog Readers,

Thanks so much for checking me out (NOT like THAT Dudes! You know what I mean...). It seems as though there is an audience for this blog and I am only too happy to accommodate. When you toast weddings for a living, you're used to speaking to a crowd. Anyway, I'll just keep blogging away until someone votes NO. Seriously, thanks for voting and for your support. You all ROCK!

Now that you all have the 411 on my life at the moment, you're probably wondering how I ever came to be a wedding toaster in the first place. Believe it or not, it all started with a wrong turn and a cup of coffee. Seriously.

Let me back up. One morning my best friend Carrie was running late for work, took a wrong turn and was forced to get her requisite cup of java at a strategically placed Dunkins instead of her usual drive through Starbucks. Anyway, long story short... yadda, yadda, yadda... she ended up meeting her husband-to-be, Ben, in line. All because of a wrong turn and a (much) needed cup of coffee! You just never know how the universe works.

Anyway, as a wedding gift to them, I gave a toast at their wedding. I had been Carrie's roommate (until I relinquished the apartment when they got married. That was my other wedding gift to them, and it was no small feat, let me tell you. That was a prime piece of real estate; it had a roof deck and everything) and I had spent a lot of time with Carrie and Ben. I was privy to events and observations that the rest of the general public was not. Whether it was sitting around watching TV with them or eating dinner together on some random Tuesday night, I was witness to the seemingly insignificant moments that have the power to sum up any relationship. What I think about love (and I am single so maybe my opinion doesn't count for much) is that it's the little things that speak volumes. It's when you're home alone together, caught unaware in little moments, that have the power to measure the scope of your relationship. Do you wrap your pinkies around each other while you're reading the paper and not even realize it? Do you make your lover chicken soup when they don't feel good or take the dog out even though it's not your turn? Do you APPRECIATE each other in private moments, when no one else is around to judge or you're not consciously trying to make a good first impression on your business client or your mother or your in-laws? Do you appreciate each other daily, even when life is boring and mundane? Anyway, Carrie and Ben did and I wanted to celebrate that. I think it's worth celebrating and besides, I am in the business of words afterall. I can kick ass at the podium and wax lyrical like no one's business.

When clients hire me, this is what they hire me for. Everyone's story is unique and if you look hard enough, you can find something to celebrate in all of them. That's what I do. I look hard and I celebrate the ordinary with words. And in doing that, I make it unordinary.

That's it for tonight. I believe in making things short and sweet instead of long and boring. But tune in tomorrow and I'll tell you all about Morty. You don't want to miss this edition... I still credit Morty with making me who I am today. He gave me my start, all because he either had a bad memory or bad eyesight (we're still not sure which), but at any rate, it's quite a story. As Morty would say (and it remains one of my favorite coined phrases), it was serendipitious. Anyway, until then.... cheers. And don't forget to vote! And leave a comment if you're so inclined to. I just may answer you personally.....

Life in a Nutshell

Hey Chicks and Dudes,

I'm Maggie McDonald and I'm a professional wedding toaster. It's pretty ironic actually, given that I bailed on my own wedding once upon a time and left my fiance standing at the alter with a crumpled note in his hand and a roomful of people to whom he had to attempt to explain the unexplainable.

I'm not a bad person; I like dogs and I always put change in a homeless person's cup when I pass them on the street. I even cry when watching the finale of America's Next Top Model if you can believe that, but I just don't want to do someone else's laundry or account for where the money in the checkbook goes. It is afterall MY checkbook, and I don't feel the need to justify what I spend my money on... I mean every girl needs her fill of Gucci bags and Jimmy Choos. Anyway, Jack was a great guy but like I said, it wasn't about him; it was about me.

I wasn't always a wedding toaster. I used to write a pet advice column for the Boston Hub, but then I got demoted to writing obits after I went AWOL. I took off for Australia for a couple months after my "wedding". Deciding on the day of your wedding not to show up is a very traumatic experience... I needed to clear my head. Anyway, this is my gig now. I toast weddings. Professionally. I know it's sort of an unconventional occupation but it has its perks. I get to travel to exotic locales and stay in palaces, mansions and/or luxe hotels (did I mention that my clients tend to be rich and famous?). I just flew in from Lima this morning, where I toasted the wedding of a diplomat's daughter. I've just recently broken into the South American market. It's pretty lucrative too. I charge a pretty penny for my services and my clients are only too happy to pay it. And it does allow me to keep a limitless supply of Jimmy Choos.

Not that it's always perfect. I'm gone Three out of four weeks a month. Except in the off-season (yes, even weddings have off-seasons). Then I'm gone usually two out of four weeks a month but it's usually to somewhere hot so I don't mind. The winters in Boston can really suck. But most of the time I don't even remember which city I'm flying to when I'm in flight. Just last month I thought I was en route to Phoenix but in actuality the plane landed in Denver. It's January, people. And the mile-high city is DAMN cold when all you have to wear are sundresses and daisy dukes.

Anyway, those are just some of the occupational hazards of my job. For the most part, I love what I do. I know I already mentioned the obvious plusses of my career, but there are others. Like, I've met some really quirky characters, who, if not anything else, make interesting topics of conversation at cocktail parties. But some of my clients have become very dear friends. I'll tell you about some of them on another blog entry, but everything in due time. And I have to admit, they've given me a thing or two to think about when it comes to matters of the heart. Like maybe, just maybe, there's a romantic in me after all.

Anyway, that's the 411 on my life up to now. As someone famous once said, "A quick recap is almost always better than the long, drawn out version." But I intend to share more... that is if people want to hear it. My story is a pretty wild one, I don't mean in THAT way, I just mean that it's pretty unbelievable. So how did I come to be a professional wedding toaster? Who are some of these quirky characters I've met? What do I have to say on matters of love and how do I really feel about Jack?

Keep reading to find out. This is my story... let me know if you're interested in reading about it. If you are... great! If not, I won't waste your time or my breath. Chances are I'll probably be running off to catch some flight anyway.... but let me know . You never know when you might learn something worthwhile. Until then, cheers...