What many don’t know is that I have a fast-growing bloggy bucket list of some fabulous women I’d love to meet at some point in my life. Though Nev of Pretzel Thief lives in Australia and I don’t currently have the funds to afford such a vacation, I imagine it’s only a matter of time until I pack my bags and grab my newly renewed passport to head down under. Nev is the kind of chick I’d soon become good friends with. We’d stay up late to giggle and gossip late into the morning’s wee hours. In the meantime, however, I eagerly anticipate each heartfelt email I receive from her as though it were coming from a long-lost friend. She has a quirky sense of humor and a beautiful free spirit, and if that’s not enough of an incentive to make you visit her blog, she was also 1 of 5 finalists in a national short story competition in Australia. Please show some love to her as she shares her beautiful romantic tale and then go check out her awesome blog here!

(If you would like to be featured in the “Finding Love” series, please email me at charlotte@mypixieblog.com. I look forward to hearing from you!)

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[DISCLAIMER: (1) Being that I’m in the great land of Oz, our spelling is à la British English; and (2) I don’t use my husband's real name on my blog so the faux name, “Yogi” – hee! – is what I refer to him as.  Try not to laugh too hard when you come across passages along the lines of “fell in love with Yogi”. I’m still chortling, though.]

“Huh. I’m married,” I think. “Holy snakes on a plane, I’m married. ME!”

There are days when I still have these amusing “realisations”. At 26, I sometimes still feel like a kid. All the same, getting married was a natural progression and something I dove into elatedly, even though I hadn’t been in any sort of a hurry to do so.

But let’s start from the start, though, mmmkay?

The “how I met my now-husband” part is not exactly conventional but also not unheard of: Yogi is my brother’s best friend. SCHYEAH. I met Yogi mid-2000 after he and my bro had met at work and become fast friends. He exuded a quiet confidence, but was also talkative, warm and awesome. I thought he was handsome and cute, and BOY was he tall…!  (He’s 6ft3!)

I developed a major crush on Yogi, which involved but was not limited to listening to indie rock music in his presence so as to impress the bejesus out of him. Snerk. My crush eventually waned; I mean, I was only sixteen! (Yogi at the time was 21, so no way was anything gonna happen, DUH.) Fast forward almost five years later…Yogi and I ended up spending quite a lot of time together, by default, as we’d hang out with my brother and his then girlfriend. I relished getting to hang with him big-time. There was chemistry between us, as there always had been in the past. I didn’t think much of it, though. (A-hoy-hoy, denial!)

One day, after a day of by-default hanging out, I fell into a slump. My mother pondered me quizzically and said, “What’s wrong, kiddo?”
“Nothing, ma, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You were rapt all day and now you’re all…well, THIS.”
“It’s nothing; I don’t know,” I muttered.
“C’mon, tell me.”
And on and on this dance went, until mama asked me point-blank, “You haven’t fallen in love with Yogi, have you?”

I burst into laughter. I laughed so hard and hyena-like that mama followed suit, so absurd a sight I was. As I cackled, the laughs suddenly turned into, you guessed it, tears. (Pah!) And with this out-of-nowhere hysterical crying, I looked at mama and nodded.

Yes, I had fallen in love with Yogi, as a matter of fact, and I had only just realised it. Right then, right at that moment. Mama was naturally thrilled. I, on the other hand, wanted to crawl into that good ol’ proverbial hole. In love with my brother’s best friend? What was wrong with me? THERE ARE RULES. (Ah, those unwritten “Thou shalt not covet thine brother’s best friend” rules.)
 

My brother accidentally found out (through his girlfriend, in whom I had confided) and, unbeknownst to me, TOLD YOGI[!!], said he thought we’d make a fantastic couple and basically gave him his blessing if he decided he wanted to pursue something. Yogi did. Haha! (Fear not, they’re still best friends!) When we finally got together, it was…SQUEE! First kiss? Phenomenal. Every weekend was spent together. We started cohabitating a year into our relationship.
 
Yogi proposed to me August 2, 2009 in Novi Sad, Serbia. (We’re both Serbian, but born and grew up in Croatia. I immigrated to Oz mid-’94, Yogi mid-’97.) We were at the awe-inspiring 17th century Petrovaradin Fortress, having coffee and big-ass pretzels for brekky (yeah, baby!).  After walking around the fortress – and Yogi taking photos (he’s an accomplished photographer) – I sat on a bench overlooking the Danube and Yogi cracked a joke as he snapped away in my direction.  I doubled over laughing and he walked over, then kneeled before me.  I didn’t think anything of it until Yogi looked up at me with a certain look (the look) and started saying all these wonderful things, and the whole time I’m thinking, “Wait, what the— no!  He’s not actually going to…”

Oh, but he did.

He took a beautiful ring out of his pocket and I burst into tears and, er, OBVIOUSLY said yes immediately. When we got married on November 20 last year, it was an amazing, unforgettable day. We were both relaxed and euphoric and rejoiced in every awesome moment!

I am beyond blessed to have Yogi and what we’ve built.  We make each other laugh, we goof around; we talk about anything and everything. Like any couple, we argue and quibble but make up quickly most of the time! We were both forced to grow up before our time, having gone through the civil war(s) that followed Yugoslavia’s disintegration. We’ve both consequently faced tragedy: him by being forced to escape his place of birth with his family or face death; me by losing my beloved father who was one of the far too many civilian casualties of that godforsaken war. This has definitely made us cognisant of the brevity of life and not to take it for granted. Yogi is my soulmate and best friend. He is one of the kindest, most noble, wise and amazing people that has graced my life. (He’s also got a killer sense of humour. Trust.) Yogi makes me want to be the best person possible for both him and myself. And after 5ish years of being together, he still surprises me anew and inspires me in infinite ways.

I was extremely excited when I was contacted by Jaclyn about this week’s “Happily Ever After” post. Her story captures the beautiful and awkward moments of first encounters. Jaclyn is delightful, sweet, and UBER talented (seriously, go check out her adorable Etsy shop–holidays are just around the corner!). Let’s all please give her a warm welcome! You can also find her on Facebook here.

(If you would like to be featured in the “Finding Love” series, please email me at charlotte@mypixieblog.com. I look forward to hearing from you!)

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Well, hello there, happy My Pixie Blog readers! Jaclyn from Snap, Crackle, Pop here. This is my first guest post! I saw Jayme’s Happily Ever After  post and asked Charlotte if I could play, too.

At my blog, I post about lots of things–my Etsy shop, my brother (who has autism), slice-o’-life style goodies and, often, my beau. While I have more than my share of bosom pals, most of them live in, oh, any state other than my own, so my fun is often had with the beau, aka Jeff. I have not, however, ever shared the story of how I met him. I find it kind of adorable.

A friend and coworker invited me to her birthday party two years ago. I was excited to go, but the closer the date came, I realized: I would not know many people there. Maybe I wouldn’t go.

A few hours before the party, I decided: I’d go, but I’d only stay for a little bit. I should be social, even though going to parties where you only know a handful of people can be awkward.

I got there just about on time. I hugged the birthday girl, looked around and thought, “Aw, shit.” There weren’t many people there, yet: There was that cute guy from downstairs talking to some bald dude. There were a few folks I’d never seen before in my life. Oh! Finally! A friendly face!

Pam and I promptly plopped ourselves down by the (spiked) punch.

“Do NOT let me drink more of that,” I told her. “I will crawl up under the table and go to sleep.”

“You should crawl up on his lap and go to sleep,” she said, pointing to the bald guy.

“I should?” I asked. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Jeff. He’s awesome. You need to meet him.”

A few minutes later, Jeff came up to say hello, and we were introduced. We shook hands, and I noticed the bald guy had a pretty smile.

After a few minutes–or maybe it was longer, as the party had gotten considerably more crowded–a group of us went into the basement. There was my friend Steve playing the maracas. His wife, Bonnie, had a clarinette. Someone had some bongos. The Birthday Girl handed me an accordion.

And we all started to play. No one had a clue what anyone was doing, and it sounded a little like Satan, but hilarious.

In the midst of the cacophony, I heard it: music. Like, real music. Someone knew what he was doing? I looked in the rocking chair to my right, and there was the baldie with the pretty smile, strumming a guitar. He was by no means an expert, but in that group, he was clearly the only one who’d ever so much as held their instrument before in the past. (Ever try to play the accordion?? It’s flippin’ HARD. Also, this pic reminded me that at some point, I passed off the accordion for a ukelele. That’s a normal sentence, right?)

I forgot to mention one detail: Most people playing these instruments? They were wearing either a hat or a wig. Or both. (My birthday girl friend? She’s awesome. She has wigs and hats and instruments just hangin’ out in the basement, ready to provide the greatest ice breakers known to man.)

Jeff and I chatted throughout the “concert,” and eventually, there were only six of us: me and Jeff, birthday girl and her husband, and Pam and her husband.

Birthday Girl and Pam had been eyeing us all evening, very happy to see us chatting almost exclusively. But they decided it was time to kick it up a notch.

“We need to dance!” Birthday Girl exclaimed, and she put on one of her (so old school, I’d never even heard of it) records, and the slow dancing part of the evening began. During this portion, Jeff had on a looooong red wig. He looked a little like Dave Mustaine from Megadeath. I had on a short, curly, old lady wig and a pink pill box hat.

Feeling a level of embarrassed and giddy I hadn’t felt since junior high, I grabbed Pam’s husband for the first dance. After about 30 seconds, Birthday Girl yelled, “SWITCH!” and I found myself dancing with her husband. Thirty seconds later: “SWITCH.”

Oh, hello there sexy bald man in the Ariel wig who is making my palms sweat like a mofo.

“I’m sorry you have to dance with an old lady,” I said, referencing the fact that I was definitely not looking my best.

“You’re a sexy old lady!” he shouted over the music from the 1960s.

“You’re drunk!” I declared.

“No, I’m not!”

(He was.)

Around 3 a.m., I figured it was time to go home. Birthday Girl told me she had put my coat upstairs, and as I went to get it, I heard, “Jeff, you need to take her to her car! I live in the white ghetto!” (She doesn’t.)

As he walked me down the street to my car, Birthday Girl and Pam stood on the porch for a smoke. As we walked, I linked my arm through his, and I told him, “I’m very aware that we have an audience.”

“It was really fun getting to know you,” he told me at my car. “Is it OK if I call you?”

“It is,” I told him. “Give me your phone, and I’ll put my number in it.”

“I left it in the car,” he told me.

“OK,” I said. “Give me your phone number, and I’ll call it.”

So I dialed, and he watched me with a smirk as I left the following message: “Hello, Jeff! This is Jaclyn. You met me at the birthday party, and we had an awesome time. You should call me, and we should hang out, ‘cause that’d be fun.”

“That was a good message,” he said when I hung up, and he gave me a smooch.

I froze. Abso-frackin-lutely froze, as if it were my first kiss or something. My brain turned to mush, and I no longer had control of my body or my mouth. I pulled away really awkwardly and stiffly, all robot-style.

To this day, he swears he didn’t notice.