Why me pre-coffee and noxious chemicals don't get along

6:42 am.

I'm staring at myself bleary-eyed in the mirror.

I notice the remnants of yesterday's mascara smudged around my eye, so I grab a cotton pad, douse it in liquid, and press it against my right eye.

IT BURNS.

Wincing, I manage to pry open my eye, and splash some water into. I turn my good eye to the counter to see not a small blue bottle of eye make-up remover, but a large pink bottle.

I have just put nail polish remover in my eye.

I've never been so happy to not read "Please avoid contact with eyes" in my life.

And then he told her he loved her in Lord of The Rings

The scene: At a pub with the Duke and a single male friend of his, who we will hereby refer to as Alex. We have just exchanged a few words with two women at the table to the right, one of whom Alex finds rather fetching.

Alex: That girl kind of reminds me of the guy from The Matrix.

The Duke: Who, Keanu Reeves?

Alex: No, the other guy.

Me: Lawrence Fishburne?

Alex: No, you know, the Agent Smith guy.

Me: She reminds you of Hugo Weaving?!?!

Alex: Yeah!

The Duke: Dude, I hope this is something you already know, but seriously, don't ever, ever tell a girl that she looks like Hugo Weaving.

Partying like it's 1999

As mentioned, oh, about two posts below, this weekend involved the latest attempt to convince me I am an adult: my 10 year high school reunion.

Truth be told, it was really quite a low-key affair, nowhere near deserving the significance it has accrued in pop culture and people's nightmares. Only about a third of my small town grad class made it out to any of the events, due to a silly bout of high school drama about the lack of planning of a formal event, along with those "real life" responsibilities that keep us from venturing back home at a moment's notice. Sunday afternoon was the "formal" reunion, really just a picnic in the park with little ones running about in all their resplendent cuteness. Saturday night, however, I declared "pretend you are 18 again night", and hosted a party at my parents' house, much like I was known to do when I was actually 18.

Of course, one can't have a grad reunion party without at least a few random observations, highlights, and not-so-highlights, can they?

• Us late 20-ers can't drink nearly as prolifically as we used to. My mom actually made fun of the number of full cans of beer and half drunk bottle of vodka remaining. I personally had to call it quits post-Jager shots, despite the calls to bust out the tequila.
• The guy who used to be skinny and wear thick glasses who has now had laser eye surgery and has buffened up will find an excuse to take off his shirt after a few drinks, no matter how ridiculous.
• The guy who dumped me in Grade 11 and the next month made out with my friend while we were all sleeping on the same mattress felt the need to announce very loudly, on numerous occasions, that we had slept together. So much for my discretion over a decade ago. He also told me approximately six times that he was sooooo proud of me while tightly hugging me.
• When mentioning that my boyfriend could not make it out due to having to finish off his Masters thesis, several people declared him to be but a fiction, and referred to his name in air quotes for the rest of the night.
• In a perhaps less than sober attempt to prove his existence, I then called the Duke at 1am and passed around the phone to random people to talk to him.
• I will admit to being more flattered than I should after overheard a guy, in his rankings of the hotness of the girls of the party, declare me the winner. Even though I disagree with the idea of ranking hotness in principle. It just takes a little flattery to make a hypocrite out of me.
• It is a little funny to hear that the meanest of all the mean girls, who was known to threaten to beat up smaller girls at random, yours truly included (and very out of the blue, I may add), had declared that she would never come to our high school reunion, stating "Why would I want to see those assholes again?" Wait, we're the assholes?
• Someone actually pulled out my parents' copy of my Masters thesis at 4am, and started drunkenly reading it aloud, while inserting random words like "butterflies" and "sex" into it.
• Only one person asked me when I was getting married.
• Sublime makes me happy. However, a lot of the other music on the kitschy 90s hits station I put on to reminisce was a little weaker-- hello, C&C Music Factory.
• It is funny to realize you missed someone more than expected. It is also funny how seamlessly some interactions can flow, despite all the time and space in between.

Fermented grapes and associated debauchery

This weekend, myself and 12 other lovely ladies gathered to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of one of our besties in the only way we apparently know how: with copious penis paraphernalia and mucho wine.  

Yes, a bachelorette party-- this one involving renting a villa in a lakeside city a few hours away from us, and pretending to be cultured on a winery tour.

Highlights and lessons of the weekend?

Lesson #1- If one is going to have a quickie before meeting up for a 4 hour long drive with 5 perceptive friends, it is best to remember to put your shirt back on inside-in, rather than inside-out.

Highlight #1- After much harassment, one of my more reserved female friends had been talked into flashing our other carload of friends when they pass us on the highway. Just as she was preparing to get her, um, guns out, we noticed that the black sedan beside us is, in fact, not our friends, but rather a couple in a very similar car. A close call indeed.

Lesson #2- Leaving goat cheese in your purse overnight makes your wallet smell like rancid feet.

Highlight #2- Inflatable sex doll with the groom-to-be's face taped on. Enough said.

Highlight #3- Secretly flying in the maid-of-honour, who initially couldn't make it due to financial constraints, on a Saturday morning to surprise the bride-to-be by crawling into bed with her.

Frightening moment #1- Winning this contraption in a game. Would you let this thing anywhere near your genitals?

Lesson #3- Any attempt to look cultured at a wine tasting will be quashed if someone is wearing a veil with penis confetti glued on.

Highlight #4- Having a woman come up to said veil, and then exclaim "Oh! Those aren't arrows!"

Highlight #5- When in a supposedly positive-energy imbued wine pyramid, we are told by our tour guide that we are supposed to sing a song before we leave. We then bust into a rousing chorus of "Baby got Back"

Highlight #6- When playing sexual position charades, making up terms like the backwards playtypus and the merry-go-round for other teams to act out.

Lesson #4- At midnight, everyone will be making epic plans to go skinny dipping in the lake. If you tell them you just need to have another drink or two to be into that, by the time you have those two drinks, you will be the only one shouting "Woo! Let's go skinny dipping!" while everyone else is passing out.

Lesson #5- Men and women do bachelor/ette parties very differently. While we were spoiling the bride-to-be, the groom-to-be was told he couldn't get up from the couch until he had finished a cooler full of beer. While we were up at 9am to clean up the villa, go to brunch and drive home, the men were still residually drunk at noon, with the Duke just getting into the shower when I arrived home at 5pm.

Lesson #6- Despite your best efforts, the mass media really does have an effect on you. 

Case in point- When a car follows your van full of girls for a two hour period, switching lanes whenever you do, matching your speed exactly, and passing other cars just to get behind your van again, you will start remembering "Death Proof" and start planning how the six of you can retaliate *just in case* before pulling over at a rest stop.

And you will feel ridiculous when the car instead just drives by when you finally do stop for a pee break.

Highlight #7- While stuck in traffic on our way back into the city, with our windows rolled down, Bohemian Rhapsody came on, and we gave the fellows in Wayne's World a run for their money.

(Side note- For the more perceptive of you, yes, that is a Wayne's World reference two posts in a row. Dana Carvey would be proud.)

Roadtripping notes

So I think Hope might be right when she says that I am craving a little impulsivity, for I have decided, upon seeing approximately a ten block radius of Portland, Oregon (oh, and their section of the I-5) that I should probably live here. Let's see if this impression holds up when I venture out during the daylight!

The Duke and I rented some wee little car and jetted down to Portland yesterday.   The official reason? I am speaking at a conference that begins on Thursday. The unofficial reason? Roadtrips rule. 

Also, the Duke hasn't been to the US since a childhood trip to Yellowstone Park at around 10 years old, despite the fact that we live about less than an hour away from the border. This means I get to pretend to be all worldly. "Oh, darling, you know they have different currency here, right? And beer in convenience stores?"

(Side note- My impression of a car rental company: "Oh hi. Look at our super cheap and flashy website. We are a million times easier than taking a bus! *go to pick up rental car* Oh, whoops, our website had no mention of the complete and utter lack of any insurance in that cute little price... which is actually more than the actual cost of renting the car!")

So what did yesterday's adventures entail?

The Duke making us stop at Jack in the Box because we don't have it in Canada. All we know about Jack in the Box is that it once killed somebody and the commercials are really damn annoying.

Now having actually dined there? I'm not entirely sure there is a reason for it to exist. Especially at every single highway exit. 

Also, I'm not a big fan of the big bolded calories right next to the prices, especially since I noticed them after ordering. I'm not happy about being at Jack in the Box in the first place. I certainly don't need to know that my chicken strips have approximately half my daily recommended calories in them.

Though curly fries are always a good thing, and lead one to wondering about the rad assembly line that makes said curly fries.

Me trying desperately not to belt out the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs too loudly. The Duke may have been with me for years now, but I'm still not sure he can entirely handle that.

Getting lost in Olympia trying to find Dairy Queen. 

Getting a crash course (not literally!) in converting miles to kilometres.

Rushing to check into the hotel in time for a playoff hockey game, only to discover that out of four ESPNs, not a single one was playing hockey. A re-run of a football game, but not playoff hockey.

We had to resort to a livestream a few inches wide on a laptop.

I am way too excited about HBO, Forever 21, mashed potatoes with cheese in them, and free robes that are so big on me it looks like I am being devoured by a terrycloth monster. The Duke is excited about the proliferation of microbreweries.

We watched Fox News before bed, simply because it is a bit of an urban legend up in Canada (we only get CNN on regular cable). It was everything I could have dreamed. And I had nightmares about Glenn Beck.

Today? If I can get the Duke unwrapped from the sheets in our king sized bed, we're jaunting off to the Oregon Coast. And I should probably, you know, practice my talk, as not to contradict my "official" reason for being here.

And then the nurse said "That's why I'm a vegetarian".

Saturday night.

The Duke, his brother and I are crammed around a two person table at the new English pub that has opened about 15 blocks away from us.

The Duke has just received his steak and chips for the second time. They were cold the first time, so he reluctantly sent them back. His brother and I set to eating our fish and chips with more fervour, now that we all have been fed. 

The Duke takes a bite of his steak, and then pauses.

"Damn, that thing is happening again, where when I have my first bite of steak, it feels like it is wedged in my throat."

A moment later, "It is really stuck. I think I have to go to the washroom and try to cough it out."

He is in the washroom for five minutes, at which point he emerges out, saying that the staff have been knocking on the door of the single stalled washroom, perceiving him to be intoxicated and vomiting. To avoid being kicked out, he tells us he is going to go outside to try to rid himself of this errant piece of meat.

Another five minutes pass. He calls, says he isn't doing well, and asks if we can get his food to go. I run out to the parking lot where he is frantically and unsuccessfully coughing. He says we'd better skip the party we'd planned to go to. I agree, and hand him the car keys, while I rush back to pay the bill.

The waiter is unnecessarily inquisitive. The Duke's brother tells me that he was asking where the Duke had disappeared off to a second time, seeming a little perturbed that he had only eaten a single bite of his re-ordered meal. Rather than explaining that there is meat stuck in his esophagus, Brother tells him that he got an important call from his boss. Waiter asks him what the Duke does. Brother says he is a very important researcher at the nearby university (which, granted, isn't entirely a lie).

When I go to pay the bill, Waiter asks me more about the Duke's whereabouts. I amaze myself at my ability to lie on my feet, telling him that March is the end of the fiscal year at the university, so there had been some major grant deadlines lately. I further elaborate, saying that his boss had called about a mistake on a very major grant proposal. Waiter seems satisfied. I leave him a big tip out of guilt for my dishonesty.

We meet the Duke in the parking lot. As we drive home, his breathing is laboured, and he intermittently mutters "Oh fuck".

We get home. He tries to drink a glass of water. It comes up in a matter of seconds. He retreats to the washroom as I consult the mighty Google for advice. I become convinced that we should go to the ER. He is reluctant, asking for an extra twenty minutes to try his best to dislodge it. It is only after we consult with his parents, who have worked as nurses, that he agrees to go.

We walk the six blocks to the local hospital, as he says that sitting hurts too much for us to take a cab. We enter the emergency room, which looks reasonably quiet and free of blood and screams. We wait in line at admissions, rolling our eyes at the people before and after us, who clearly don't understand the notion of the term emergency, complaining of diarrhea and sore ribs. 

After we check in, we are sent to the waiting room, where the Duke takes a turn for the worse. He is feeling faint, saying he can't feel his arms, and is grasping my hand with a cool, squeezing grip. It is now that I am slipping out of automatic mode, and begin to feel my heart throbbing away. I ask him if he is okay, and he squeaks out a "no".

We go back to the admissions desk. The attendant nurse acts as though the Duke is merely hysterical and working himself up, and tells him to "calm down", take '"slow deep breaths", and, of course, that his turn will be soon. Thankfully, our turn is actually soon, and almost immediately after the Duke informs them he is on the verge of passing out and has numb extremities, he is placed on a bed and rolled on through.

It is hectic. Nurses dashing in and out. IVs, xrays, blood tests, EKGs. His shirt and shoes are removed. His monitor beeps. He swears when the needles pierce his skin. He looks around, confusedly, searching for me amidst this chaos. "I'm right here with you," I proclaim over the series of questions about the amount of alcohol he has consumed and medical history.

The IV helps, as does the stability of the bed. Although still in pain, and coughing up the saliva that can't flow through, he seems more grounded. One of the various medical professionals who enters the curtained cubicle looks at me familiarly. It turns out he is one of my clients from my first therapy practicum. This is the first time I've had such an unexpected reunion, and I am momentarily tickled pink that I was important enough for him to remember me years later.

Time passes. I phone the Duke's parents, who are rife with questions, and tell me to relay their love back to him. I move the chair to beside his bed so I can hold his hand. The flimsy pastel curtains provide little muffling to the sounds around us, so we are treated to the soundtrack of the ER. 

The man to our left has had a stroke. He doesn't speak English, so the translator is attempting to pull out a description of his symptoms and medical history. 

To our right is a man who has drunkenly fallen down some stairs. He is in unbearable pain. I cringe every time he screams "My back fucking hurts!", as well as when the nurses tell him to watch his profanities. It feels voyeuristic, as he shrieks as they turn him over, and as the doctor informs him that he will be "putting a finger up your bum, which you have to squeeze for us to determine whether you have spinal damage." He cannot do so, and yells in frustration. He is moved to trauma, and replaced by a peculiar man with a laceration on his chin. This man speaks in a slow, determined fashion, and precedes a his requests with "I know I am acting crazy, but..." He quizzes each of the nurses and doctors on their qualifications, asks to speak to his mother, and mutters to whoever will listen about some sort of conspiracy and mistrust of the hospital.

The white-coated doctor arrives. He suggests that the Duke drink some soda, as carbonation often helps to displace stuck food. The nurses laugh at the banality of this suggestion. I am sent to the waiting room with handful of change, and return with a Pepsi. The Duke takes a sip, then another, then cough desperately, the Pepsi spewing out in nearly projectile fashion. "That really hurts!" he proclaims. The doctor dashes out, as though ashamed. He returns with Gravol and morphine, stating that they should help him relax enough for the steak to become unwedged.  I ask the Duke how he is feeling a few minutes later, and he says "Heavy", later describing himself as feeling "morphiney".

Though he is certainly more relaxed, the painful lump stuck in his chest remains, and around half an hour later, a new machine arrives. This one is apparently meant to deliver a smooth muscle relaxant over the period of an hour. We are told that this should make his esophagus relax, so the meat will merely drop down into his stomach. If this doesn't work, though, it appears that some sort of manual extraction may be the next step.  

Another half an hour, and he starts coughing. Heavy, thick coughs. The conspiracy man shouts "The man beside me needs help!" A few bits of red come up. I am unsure if they are blood or meat. Suddenly, a piece of steak falls from his mouth. It is huge, easily two inches around. I may have pumped my fist in the air in triumph, shouting "It's out!" in celebration.

Before we are allowed to leave, at least three people lecture him on the virtue of chewing adequately. 

1:30am Sunday morning, we leave, pondering how odd it is to be merely strolling away from the ER. We stop at a 24 hour coffee shop for him to have some soup, and I begin laughing uncontrollably the absurdity of the entire night.

He still has suction cup marks on his chest today. And I am going to throw out the steak and chips leftovers.

Like good Canadians do

As good Canadians do, the Duke and I decided to show our wholehearted dedication to all things hockey by hosting a Hockey Day in Canada party.

For those of you not familiar with said tradition, one Saturday a year, all six Canadian teams play each other at times staggered throughout the day. It is an epic opportunity to revive old rivalries, drink before 5pm and engage in some serious trash talk.

A few things observed on this occasion:

Even when you give people a six hour window to show up, and trying for an open house format, the hosts will be sitting around for the first three hours surrounded by untouched serving plates full of appetizers. Then, as if by magic, your apartment buzzer will nearly short circuit itself by everyone showing up at the exact same time (1st intermission of the second game).

Everyone will bring chips to such a party. Everyone. 

Now my fridge has been emptied of veggies, dip, pitas, and other such foods, but my cupboard is full of twist-tied bags of chips.

A lot of people do not come to a hockey party to watch hockey. It is a dangerous thing when the hockey and anti-hockey people collide during overtime.

Flavoured vodka makes me happy.

I look cute in my hockey jersey.

It is awesome when your team wins. It is more awesome when there are opposing team fans trash talking you when their team was winning. It is infinitely more awesome when, due to his team's defeat, your six foot tall guy friend squeezes into your 5 foot 3 self's hockey jersey for punishment and ridicule.

It is awkward when one of your good friend's and her boyfriend finally have that knock-down argument about his lack of a Valentine's Day gift for her two years in a row in your entrance. It is more awkward when it moves to the only apartment bathroom for 45 minutes. It is infinitely more awkward when, after he leaves the bathroom, you try to go comfort your friend who is still in there, and a guy yells across the entire party "Princess, why are you harassing the poor person trying to pee?"

It is also awkward when a drunk lesbian tells my boyfriend she is going to go kiss me, and then just ends up getting a mouthful of my hair as I unknowingly am chatting away with someone else. (I didn't have any idea what her intentions were until later... I was just like "Uh, why did you just bite my hair?") It wasn't exactly the girl-on-girl scene anyone was looking for.

Cleaning up after "adult" parties is infinitely better than cleaning up after teenage and college parties. You just collect the bottles, which most people have kindly gathered in one or two locations, rinse of the plates, put the leftovers away, and you are off to bed. The messiest thing was a pile of damp cloths from when people cleaned up their spill themselves. It is a far cry from the cleaning up of mysteriously sticky liquids and garbage of the parties of my youth.

Tampa, anecdotally

Although I'm sure palm trees in Florida are like pine trees in Canada in their commonality, there is still something about them that screams glamour to me. You could put me in a back alley or some rat ridden ghetto, and if there were palm trees, I would put on my sunglasses and pose for photos. 

However, even I wasn't quite prepared for palm trees paired with icicles. Is that even allowed?

So, yes, as of late last night, I am home from my Tampa adventures. Home to countless unanswered emails, a Google Reader of 1000+, a pile of laundry, and a whole lot of jetlag. Such is this glamourous palm-tree filled life.

***

I think I have too high of expectations for new cities. I always expect a certain level of inherent character through the details, like the billboards, the street names, the architecture. I feel disappointed when the taxi takes me through the exact same stretch of highway on the way to my hotel, no matter what city I am in. I need to remind myself that the business areas of most big cities, as well as hotel rooms, are often ridiculously generic, which doesn't necessarily say anything about the core experience of living in that city. I almost feel as though I owe it to that city to take a cab to some random residential locale so I can really see it, outside the skyscrapers and the Starbucks. Unfortunately, conference trips often mean that my only moment to spare is used checking my email or changing clothes, not gallivanting about trying to find Florida's beaches and neighbourhoods.

However, my favourite billboard, seen on the ride from the airport?

Express Lube: Wednesday Night is Ladies Night

***

Academic conferences are such an odd little slice of life. It is hard to explain to the outsider the constant barrage of aggressive schmoozing, of name-dropping, of professorial rivalries, of learning copious amounts with a hangover. I simultaneously adore them and find them exhausting. The dork in me seriously holds back a squeal when finding out about some novel research findings, while the skeptic in me wants to slap my friend if she starts bragging again about which big names in the field she met last night.

Take poster sessions, for instance. Two hundred graduate students and professors, lined up in alphabetical order, standing by their assorted shiny coloured posters tacked onto bulletin boards. It is like a beauty pageant of sorts, only you are being judged by virtue of the title of your poster, rather than your ability to wear a poster. People avoid eye contact as they walk by you, or even worse, fleetingly pause at your abstract, only to walk away moments later. When I was an Honours student, I wanted no one to notice my poster, due to performance anxiety. Now I want to be the one surrounded by people asking questions, pointing at my graph, theorizing about follow-up studies. Even though I know that I am convinced at the value of the research I am doing, and I always have a number of interesting conversations at these poster sessions, I still want that blue sash declaring me Miss Psychology.

***

Quote of the trip, spoken by a friend doing her post-doc in England:

"Princess, the English take the food we deem fatty in Canada, and somehow force more fat into it."

***

The conference planners somehow had the brilliant notion of planning the conference for the very same weekend as Tampa's Gasparilla Pirate festival. Not to mention the fact that the crux of the event, the docking of the pirate ship and the invasion, take place literally right in front of the convention centre. 

Despite the best intentions of security, this made for random drunken revelers looking confused as they stumbled amidst loads of psychologists in semi-professional gear in the centre's hallways. It also made for a lot of public drinking as I made my way to the conference at 9am, for eye patches and wench costumes, for mechanical parrots, and lots of beads. It was a very odd environment to be sober in, especially when, standing outside of a hotel room door, a man asked me if I was waiting for the elevator doors to open. 

So, of course we had to skip out of at least one session to witness this debauchery first hand. As a friend and I were standing there, a man with a camera comes up, and asks us if we could pose for a photo with a nearby pirate. We happily obliged. He then asks for another favour, specifically whether we will pose for a picture with his son. Assuming his son is around 7 years old, we agree.

We walk over, and a tall boy of about 16 starts blushing, as it become clear we have been brought over by his father as trophies as such. As he puts his arms around us to take the photo, he mutters under his breath "I am so sorry. My dad is such a loser."

The oddest thing about this is the fact that we were literally surrounded by women in wench costumes, or various states of undress, and he chose us, in our conference gear.

***

I sometimes think that, as a Canadian, particularly one from a smaller town, I don't really understand sleaziness. As such, I wasn't quite prepared for the trashyness of the Tampa nightlife.

After a dinner of Cuban food and a flamenco show, a group of us decided to hit some bars in Ybor City. At first, we were looking for a salsa bar, but as we passed a string of barely dressed people on a threadbare red carpet, my companions suddenly got excited. 

"Let's go there!"

I protested, stating that it was clearly horrendously shady. They maintained that this was the perfect reason to go there, as it was an experience we would never get since we wouldn't set foot in such a place in our "real" lives.

And, so we ended up busting a move in a club surrounded by more lycra and exposed skin than I've ever seen.

The bathrooms had no toilet paper, and were covered in garbage.

Instead of grinding with each other, girls were essentially straight up fucking, some of them simulating blow jobs on seated guys as the other girl pretend to hump her from behind.

And, yes, there was a girl fight on the dance floor.

As we exited the club, a bunch of shirtless guys with a pitbull on a rope were hanging out on the corner called us over. Soon after, a man started yelling "Japan!" at my Asian friend. 

It makes waiting for the bus late at night at home seem a bit tamer...

Yo-ho-ho and some weekendly lessons

Sometimes running around with little time to pause and reflect can actually be a positive thing.

After a week of somehow managing both to be run ragged, but still to think too much, one would think I needed a little R&R. That wasn't in the cards, however, with two birthday parties, a Superbowl Party and a Chinese New Year brunch all in the mix. Though I expected myself to resent the lack of breathing time, the hopping about seemed to be just what the doctor ordered, strangely enough (except for the dietary choices involved... no doctor would be impressed by that much salt in one weekend).

So, blatantly ripping off a page from Bayjb of Everyday Adventures in the City wonderful Key Learning series, here are the lessons I learned from this weekend:

• If there is a bacon sandwich on the menu, The Duke will order it. Even after the server tells him "You know there is only bacon in it, right?"
• All sandwiches should, by default, have their crusts cut off.
• It is not a good idea to eat jalapeño poppers when you don't like jalapeños, simply because the cheese filling is so good.
• I can't trust men who tell me "monogamy is an unnatural state" when only metres away from his miles-out-of-his-league-in-hotness fiancee- especially when I ask him if that means she can sleep with other men, and he frantically shakes his head no.
• Football is more enjoyable than expected when accompanied by nachos and drunken shit talking.
• Lion dances done by children are just about the cutest thing ever.
  
• The second cutest thing ever? Children pouting because they have to march in a parade on a rainy day. (which is easy for me to say when I have an umbrella)
  
• It is always appreciated when a room full of people erupts in protests when my boyfriend jokingly calls me high maintenance.
• I am destined to live my life in pants than are several inches too long.
  
• Even nearly 30-year old successful businesswomen have crushes on teenage vampires.
• Halter bras can often double as torture devices.
• The guy who, on your first meeting, drunkenly, blatantly and unsuccessfully hit on you will pretend he doesn't know you on your second meeting.

***

My exciting jetsetting grad student life is continuing, this time with a trip to attend a conference in Tampa, Florida!

(It becomes much less glamourous when you realize it is taking me over a day to travel there, due to our budgets-- and Air Canada's ridiculous fees-- making us fly out of the nearest American airport, and the fact that I am sharing a room -- and a bathroom-- with three other women.)

As you can imagine, all the learning, schmoozing and traveling will leave for very little covert blogging, so my little hiatus from your comment section and my own page will have to be prolonged a little while longer.

There is also a pirate festival in town, so I can't completely reassure you that I won't abandon the grad student lifestyle to further my pirate wench goals...

If you see a petite girl with an eyepatch and a clipboard doing a jig in the convention centre, you'll know it's me.

The Facebook status updates that weren't

An aside-- would you like to find out what movies I'm glad I didn't see in 2008 and my thoughts on the great Tom Cruise debate? Come visit me in the land of Brandy!

***

... alternately titled my Saturday night, in hypothetically Facebooked form.

(Background: Annual Christmas party, now held in January, with seven of my besties, mucho wine, cheese, and debauchery)

Princess thinks that an average of nearly two bottles of wine each is a little frightening.

Princess still has not reached her maximum cheese capacity.

Princess is giving Snoop a run for his money.

Princess is doing the limbo beneath a Swiffer.

Princess is now spanking her friend with said Swiffer.

Princess is all about having whip cream sprayed liberally into her mouth.

Princess is sharing a lollipop with a cricket in it. It apparently tastes nutty.

Princess hates it when she falls while enacting sexy dance moves.

Princess is the walrus... koo-koo-ka-choo!

Princess is laughing at S's dogpile related injuries and her resulting washcloth and ribbon bandage.

Princess does not think that picture is a very good idea at all.

Princess is perplexed as to why her friends are singing along to the Chipmunks.

Princess is surprised at the cornucopia of salacious information exchanged in a game of "I've Never".

Princess wonders why her boyfriend doesn't respond when she texts him "Wooooooo!"

Princess thinks it is time for bed when people starts singing Achy-Breaky Heart.

(and today... "Princess' head and tummy wish she would stop pretending she is 19.")

Small town bar

An annual tradition in HomeTown is the Boxing Night Extravaganza. The various people home for the holidays all gather at the local pub early in the evening, generally heading down to the local "nightclub" (I use this word loosely) after a sufficient buzz has been accomplished.

This year I again find myself the recipient of multiple phone calls in the days and hours approaching Boxing Night. "What's going on tonight?" "Are we meeting before?" "Is so-and-so coming?" "Can I crash on your parents' floor?"

In high school, I was the resident co-ordinator, playing at being a social butterfly, knowing where the party was at, and offering up a sleeping bag and floor space to anyone without a ride home or too drunk to drive afterwards. It's a role I deliberately eschewed when I moved away, ricocheting into the opposite "going with the flow" orientation, as it gets exhausting serving as everyone's planning middle man. However, going home is like a time machine, where everyone treats you a little like your 18-year old self-- and, well, my 18-year old self was the party go-to girl, so my fate is sealed for the time being.

The first step of Boxing Night, though, is not pre-drinking and planning a meeting place. It is deciding what to wear. This is of the utmost importance, considering you are most likely to run into at least one of each the following: ex-boyfriend, ex-crush, and former stalker. As such, you need to look good. Very good. However, HomeTown is also a place where most people wear winter gear to the bar on a Friday night, which means you can't look too done up-- because then you are "too big city", and thus likely to be shunned. I was once deemed to have turned big city because my earrings were too big. This means that a delicate balance needs to be struck.

Deliberately casual yet coordinated, then the pre-drinking begins, as people arrive and squish into my bedroom, like old time sake. I have not drank on my bed in a long time, considering I have a living room and coasters now. We have taken a bit of a step up, though, drinking store bought wine and fancy mixed drinks, rather than whatever beer comes in an 8-pack or whatever homemade wine we could scam.

A little more nostalgia hits as we drive downtown, too many people in one car. Like old times, I am the one crammed on a friend's lap, my head grazing the roof. We teeter on icy sidewalks, and make our way into the pub around 7:45. There are already no tables, so we claim the corner by the foozball table as our own. My phone buzzes near constantly, as more people announce their upcoming arrivals. We all hug and summarize our lives in response to the countless times we are asked "What have you been up to over the past year?" I don't mind this question quite so much as the "How much more school do you have left?" or the much more direct "Aren't you done school yet?"

I notice this year that I don't know a good third of the bar like I used to. It occurs to me that coming back to HomeTown is no longer everyone's first priority over the holidays. People have their "new" families-- spouses, children, in-laws, or jobs that do not halt because of the significance of a particular day. Perhaps this is another one of the realities that comes along with the fact that it is my (yikes yikes yikes) ten year high school reunion this summer, and I am, in fact, getting old.

I stand by our territory of the foozball table and a guy of about 19 tries to start chatting me up. As he is getting his game on, and I try not to giggle too much, a friend hands me a drink. It is wet on the outside, as he has just carried up an enormous round from the bar, and seems to have spilled a little. Just as it occurs to 19-year old to ask me my name, the drink slides out of my hands and shatters to the floor. He actually backs away slowly. I go over to my friends, and laugh that I have inadvertently found the easiest way to get rid of a guy.

Except he comes back and tries again. Apparently he mistook my clumsiness as intoxication and figured he still had a shot. And tries to impress me by telling me all about the first year psychology course he had taken. Yes, indeed, guys, the way to impress the woman completing her PhD in psychology? Show her how much you know about psychology from your first year. Educate me, baby! Of course, this was after he pretended to run away when he first heard what I studied.

Of course, I run into the checklist of people, including exes, former crushes, and random people I hadn't thought about in years. There is also a guy I went to elementary school inexplicably wearing a polar bear costume. I joke with a friend that I just needed an awkward former drunken make-out partner to make the night complete.

It is soon after that I notice the Ex's best friend, who I have previously deemed ABF (Alcoholic Best Friend) at the bar. The vodka perhaps artificially enhancing my nostalgia, I go over to say hi. He is drunk and ecstatic. The first thing out of his mouth is the comment I've already recounted below about the Ex needing me more than ever. He then tells me he is buying me a drink, despite my claims that I am not in the mood for double fisting, as I have a fresh drink in hand. He buys me one anyways, and then proceeds to pour out his heart about his girl troubles, disregarding the fact that we haven't seen each other in two and a half years. He doesn't ask me a thing about myself, rather begging me for detailed plans of action about what he should say to his ex-girlfriend and current crush. As my friends come to extricate me from the situation, he slurs "Please just give me a few minutes with her. I promise I'm not trying to molest her. She's been my counselor for years."

A few minutes to closing time, we exit the bar. There is no hope of getting a taxi any time in the next hour, given you can count the number of taxis in the town on one hand. Two of us walk to the front door of another bar, where people have chosen to go instead of paying the unheard of $10 cover charge at the "nightclub". Seven of us set to walking up the enormous hill home.

Snow is tumbling from the sky, as we walk down the middle of the empty street. Despite the drunken cries around, it is strangely peaceful, as though the snow muffles it from our ears. We walk a half block backwards, so we can watch the snow sprinkling on the view below. As we make it to one person's destination, someone grabs a six-pack of beer, and someone else two inner tubes. We spin and slide down the steep street on the inflated rubber, a lone car beeping its horn at us as we skim by, our hair frosted in snow. I decide at this moment, despite my instincts earlier in the night, that I refuse to be too old for this.

So this is the new year

Yep, it's that time again-- the obligatory welcome to 2009 post!

As I did last year, I'm going to kick this post off with a meme, with a twist. The standard rules say that you are supposed to post the first line of the first post of every month of the past year. I choose to do the last line, as it seems like we are celebrating the passing of the last year and the beginning of a new one, not vice versa.

January: It's time to bust out the hideous tacky metaphors and hop on the train back to Princess-land!

February: Arghblephiz.

March: Part of growing up with hippie parents is summers spent in the great outdoors.

April: ... and I go a little crazy.

May: It came to mind yesterday, while at a event scattered with random faces from my past, that my ten year high school reunion is due to rear up next summer.

June: I adore Chicago.

July: Two Yale law students, fed up with threats and lies being printed alongside their full names at the law school admission forum, AutoAdmit.com, filed a lawsuit against multiple anonymous trolls.

August: There are reasons one doesn't skinny dip in a lake in the middle of the day.

September: Last week, an exterminator came by to discuss our furry apartment visitor.

October: I don't entirely understand those who enjoy being scared.

November: A little housekeeping out of the way first...

December: I usually have a post more or less lined up in my head before I start writing, a few choice lines on repeat in my head.

***

Other than these choice words, what has 2008 been for me?

I kept plugging away at the good old PhD, and actually just finished my last course, meaning I may be able to pretentiously call myself Dr. Princess sometime in the future. 

(Don't get too excited... I still have those pesky things called a dissertation and an internship to get through)

I left behind my apartment and moved into our apartment.

February brought me to Albuquerque for a conference and a hot air balloon ride.

May was a visit to Seattle (including very personal questions by customs).

In June, Chicago spited me, but I continued to have full on unrequited love for her.

In July, I hid out on an island and went camping.

I also celebrated nuptials and poutine with my girlfriends for an epic stagette.

In August, the Duke and I celebrated awkwardness in a hijinks ridden wedding trip.

September had a far more mellow wedding weekend away.

September also had our celebration of two years, and another wonderful escape to an island to frolic with marine life.

I also made it back to HomeTown two times.

While last year, I had one bloggie meet-up, this year, I had something like five separate meet-ups-- which were shockingly consistent in their ease and awesomeness.

These included a a multicited visit with Distracted Spunk, three separate meet-ups with a veritable Chicago blogger explosion, and a bad luck filled reunion with Surfergrrl and first meeting with Ultra Toast.

I also started on a very exciting group blog endeavour!

(oh, and FYI, I didn't end up having to go to court... a nice extra Christmas present)

The year finished off with a quieter, but still equally wine-soaked, night than most-- and the first one that I was able to ring in the next 365 with a kiss from my guy, which I figure has to be a good omen.

It is funny... while thinking about this post, I managed to convince myself that since I hadn't met any of the major milestones I'd passed in years passed, I'd actually had a sadly uneventful year. Perhaps that is one of the bonuses of having a blog-- being able to have a documentation of those little excursions and moments as a reminder of what the past year has been for you. It doesn't look so boring, now, after all.

Reasons I can't always act as if I am at least 10 years younger

I am in no-cell phone land, up a mountain driveway encased by snow draped trees. I may look a little rounder than usual, being layered in the eternally unflattering beige polyester of snow pants, but I am feeling pretty idyllic as I sit on the back of a snowmobile, wind sneaking through my scarf, the outstretched branches sparkling and contrasting to the gradually dimming sky. In fact, as I trudge up a hill, crazy carpet in hand, I think that I could perhaps write part two of the post below, sprinkling a few new ways I've remained in touch with my inner kid over the past few days.

I unroll the crazy carpet, and plop myself down on my stomach on top. With a quick kick and a little elbow work, I start hurtling down the hill just quick enough to get a slight twinge of a rush in my belly.

All the sudden,  I am slowing down.

And choking.

I gasp, dig my heels into the snow, and look down simultaneously, to see my scarf, still as securely connected to my neck as moments ago, but also entangled with the hand holes in the plastic below. It takes me a few moments to unweave myself from the contraption, as the people at the bottom of the hill looked at me quizzically as I stand up with my new crazy carpet necklace.

The next round, I decide, would be better completed sitting. It takes me a few seconds longer to gain momentum with my arms higher off the ground, but soon I am hurtling down the hill, backwards, laughing.

From my backwards perspective, I notice the german shepherd rapidly bolting down the slope behind me. At first, I think he is just chasing me, and I giggle at his excitement. Then, his frantic barking reaches my ears. He soon follows, and he is biting at my arm. I'm sure he is just trying to stop what he sees as my uncontrolled tumble down the hill, but his teeth don't just get my jacket on the second nip, and he pinches my arm through the fabric. He keeps pace with me, barking, as I fly down the hill, and I am trying to negotiate with him, calm him down, slow him down, anything.

And, suddenly, I slam into something very solid from behind. The dog dashes away. It turns out, that in my attempts to bargain with the dog, I have neglected to twirl myself back to facing frontwards, and have collided with a parked car. I roll off the crazy cart of doom into the snow, and wincing, stare up at the dusky sky above.

Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something.

(But, achy as I was, I still went for one more run, just to spite it.)

Observations after cutting loose on a Friday night

For the first time in months and months, I decided to go bar-hopping with a few of my single, party animal girl friends. As one would expect by the title, a few hijinks may have ensued, and a few observations were made. (Is it bad that I try frantically to memorize such instances when they occur due to the possibility of a good blog anecdote?)

***

It is always a better idea to wait in line for 15 minutes for a bacon cheese potato in principle than in reality.

Especially when your friend runs into a former one-night stand in said line-up.

***

Best text message sent to a boyfriend ever? "Jagerbombs + Journey = Best Drunken Night Ever".

Yes, I mean that Journey.
I actually heard "Don't Stop Believing" two times last night, and, for some reason, was thrilled about this.

***

My friends are far bigger style mavens than I. The lessons I received from them whilst gussying me up for the evening included "never put your bangles on the same arm as your biggest ring". 

***

Best accessory ever?

Gangsta' rings, bee-otch!

***

Pretending you are someone you are very obviously not is grand fun. 

Example:

Cheesy guy: So how old are you ladies?

Friend: How old do you think we are?

Cheesy guy: Around 22. You seem too young to know Journey so well.

Me: I'm actually 45.

Cheesy guy: Shut up.

Me: No, I really am. I'm actually here for my son's 19th birthday party. He's at the bar getting some beers.

***

Gatorade is very possibly the nectar of the Gods.

***

How is it that I despise Womanizer when sober, but it becomes my new favourite song when drunk?

***

My friends, along with being big stylistas, are also far too adept at playing the bar star.

Despite my attempt to convince Cheesy Guy of my middle agedness, my girl friends decided to take him up on his offer to buy us Jagerbombs. They then talked to him for the appropriate five to ten minutes, and quite obviously were not feeling him (though I may have been too into lip syncing "Return of the Mack" to notice). Instead of simply making an excuse to leave, they had a far more histrionic plan- pretending to have an argument. 

I was confused as anything at first, looking at the two of them wide-eyed, whispering plaintively "Why are you fighting?" It was only after one winked at me that I realized this was a well-honed act on their part. Cheesy Guy looked especially distraught at the dramatic turn of events, and let us leave without protest. It was only when we got a sufficient distance away that they broke into peals of laughter.

Perhaps it says how boring that I am that I would rather not take the drink, and therefore not have to talk to Cheesy Guy and not fake a fight. But, then again, what do I know?

Maintaining the Halloween spirit

I'm a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to Halloween.

And when I say traditionalist, I mean I like to pretend that I am still ten years old.

I don't like Halloween for "adult" reasons, like having an excuse to sluttify everyday careers and show off my goods in a socially appropriate context, or to dance in said underdressed state under a blacklight at an overpriced club.

I like it for the kid reasons- creativity, haunted houses with cold spaghetti as brains, finding ways to put on a winter jacket while still keeping your costume intact, face painting, jack-o-lanterns. Oh, and CANDY.

I am convinced that my love of candy corn will lead to my downfall in some way or another.

(As a side note, when I went to the epic grocery store last, their bulk section had about five different varieties of candy corn. I felt like a small town girl who had just set foot into downtown NYC-- my eyes are now open!!)

My love for Halloween is such that I continued trick or treating until an absurdly late age-- well through high school, in all actuality. We weren't those teenagers who just put on a hat and sneered at those opening the doors in a misguided attempt to get free candy, later egging the houses of those who denied us. We still went all out in our costumes, but were respectful of those who denied us candy due to our age (although we may have pouted a little when they closed the door). Perhaps it was a small town thing, but it was actually quite standard to keep shouting "Trick or treat!" well into adolescent.

Despite my small stature, I have now ceased my knocking on people's doors in a request for candy. Sadly, though, I have still not had the opportunity to be on the other side of the door, handing out candy. All my life, I've lived in seemingly inaccessible locations-- down long driveways, in back lanes locals didn't know existed, in basements suites and apartments. The year the Duke and I started dating, I eagerly bought bags full of assorted candy and headed to his place on Halloween, as he had a front door out onto a main street-- apparently too main and busy of a street, as not a single ghost or witch knocked on his door. I may have been a little crushed.

This year, Hallowe'en is looking to be a bit of a bust, in all honestly. I live in an apartment, so no trick or treaters. For some reason, I have been invited to three parties on Saturday the 1st, when Halloween is on Friday. Furthermore, the party I am most obligated to go to is a non-Halloween bridal shower, meaning I will have to forego the two costume parties-- though I may insist on showing up in costume. On Friday, everyone seems to be wrapped up in going to overpriced club events, and I flat out refuse to pay $50 to listen to a bad DJ merely because it is the 31st and there are some fake cobwebs hung in the bathroom. I want a *real* costume party, dammit, with creepy punch and Monster Mash playing over the stereo!

At least my Halloween spirit hasn't been totally crushed, though, as yesterday did involve a surprise birthday party at a pumpkin patch...

A pumpkin in a pumpkin... can you handle it?

Our various jack-o-lanterns...
My jack-o-lantern. He looked like a pretty evil demon until I added whiskers, though I still think there is the slight possibility he may watch me while I sleep.
So at least the kid in me was able to cling to Halloween a little longer this weekend...

Two stories to prove my classiness

In an attempt to verse my mother in big-city multicultural life, I took her to an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant around the corner from my place. With the menus placed in front of us, I may have went a little crazy with the checklist, ordering us a cornucopia of rolls, noodles and other dishes. As the first appetizers arrived, we ate at a frenzied pace; however, as the trays continued docking, we gradually slowed, until our eating tempo halted completely... with an array of full dishes still in front of us.

Bolded letters on the menu reminded us that "Wasted food will be charged on the bill at regular prices."

And this is where I had the opportunity to demonstrate to my mother the true skills I learned in the city. In stealth fashion, each time a server turned the corner away from us, I would drop a piece of sushi into the napkin spread in my lap. After a few pieces, the napkin was wrapped around the random pieces of food, and I shuttled them to the bathroom garbage, where I gathered more paper towel for wrapping purposes. There is no greater display of class than smuggling paper towel wrapped sushi out of a restaurant in your purse with your mother.

***

Last night, as a large group of us sat around my friend's living room in a turkey induced daze, a fellow dashed into the room with a purple egg shaped electronic device in hand.

"This thing is amazing!" he proclaimed. "You pick any item, and it asks you twenty yes or no questions about it. It will seriously figure it out. It actually got poutine!"

Sure enough, this device had some serious psychic powers. As we grew more astonished by its powers, we also grew more dirty (note- many, many glasses of wine were had at this point). After it guessed "panties" correctly, it was decided that we would determine whether it could identify a certain part of the female anatomy.

We giggled while replying to its questions, such as "Is it usually exposed outdoors?"

After twenty questions, the red letters flashed on the screen-- "I know what it is!"

We all peer over the holder's shoulders expectantly.

"You are thinking of pussy!"

Seriously.

The children's toy said pussy.

The Twenty Questions Electronics Game by Mattel-- keeping drunken perverts entertained for decades.

Non-beast induced running

The world is an eerily quiet place at 8am on Sunday.

The scene is almost fitting for a Western film, such that I could almost picture a tumbleweed bouncing down a usually busy street in unison with the echoes of my footsteps.

I certainly was nowhere near experiencing the stillness of a weekend morning the day prior. The only movement I was capable of before noon was a stilted dash for the kitchen sink after being awoken by a mouth the consistency of the Gobi. Why everyone decided I should be drinking double rum and cokes was beyond me, but they seemed so convinced that I went along with it. It did certainly make the random transition from two hours of 60s soul a la Temptations to random modern rock a la Metric by the bar DJ seem much more reasonable.

I am highly versatile in my ability to bust a move.

But Sunday I was more prepared. I'd foregone another partying opportunity for a quiet dinner, crawling into bed straight after my Tina Fey fix (I have a serious girl crush, I'm afraid), in order to be prepared for my alarm clock. 

As some of you may remember, I am not the biggest fan of running. There are a few occasions when I find it appropriate-- namely, whilst pursued by rabid beasts of the devouring type, or when for a good cause. Thankfully, my shoes were laced up for the latter, as a group of us participated in the Run for the Cure on the behalf of a friend's mother recently diagnosed with breast cancer.

(And a special shout out to Surfergrrl and Dan Mega for being kind enough to donate!! Believe it or not, I was my team's #1 fundraiser! Probably because people would pay big money for the sheer humour of seeing me run...)

Having not participated in a big city fundraiser (my HomeTown fundraisers usually involved me volunteering at a snack bar at the Legion for a local cover band), this was certainly a new experience. There were literally thousands of people, ranging from toddlers to the elderly, serious runners to casual strollers, clad in wigs and wings, even men in pink dresses. Even more overwhelming, though, was the positivity. Everyone was smiling, cheering, and there were rows of people with loud yellow "Free hugs!" signs, doling out enthusiastic embraces. One couldn't help but feel heart pangs at times, seeing too many names written under "Who I'm running for", too many "my mom, my best friend, my sister", along with photos of beautiful smiling women pinned to their shirt. But, still, amongst all the tragedy, there was an air of optimism and hope that flowed along with the pounding music.

And, yes, I ran-- nearly the whole five kilometres, when I wasn't too clustered within the crowd. Though sometimes it felt as though my breath was stabbing at my throat, and I still didn't experience this mythical runner's high, as I came down the last stretch, sloping towards the finish line with people cheering from the sidelines, I could imagine why people would find the experience a little invigorating.

(Though I'm a little convinced I pulled my groin.)

To catch a mouse

A side note... if you are looking for more Princess today, you can find me here (on the topic of friend break-ups) and here (as a part of Lauren's testament series).

***

Last week, an exterminator came by to discuss our furry apartment visitor. He moved our dishwasher and shone around with his flashlight. Based on our reports of only two sightings in the kitchen and the lack of droppings, he stated that he believed Mr. Mouse to have been merely passing through on a food hunt. He left a little poison and said we would likely not see the fellow again. In fact, all seemed clear on the rodent front when we left for the weekend.

However, apparently the lack of cat slippers lulled Mr. Mouse into a sense of comfort, because when he returned, he had gained run of our entire apartment (although it seems he was not dining here).

The first day back, he emerged beneath the coffee table at the Duke's feet.

The second day back, he did a full scale dash across the living room as three of us sat on the couch chatting.

The third day back, he had abandoned all sense of fear, popping up by my feet as I sat on the couch, scampering by the Duke as he chatted on the phone in the dining room. Even worse-- he made his way to the bedroom somehow, where the Duke busted him chowing down on one of my massage bars at the bottom of my night stand.

The invasion of our bedroom send me into a bit of a tizzy, as I pictured myself waking up with a mouse ominously peering over me on the headboard. The Duke, armed by the power of Google, set up a makeshift trap, constructed of a garbage can, a ramp made out of boardgames and books, and a toilet paper tube filled with peanut butter. Mr Mouse had shown interest, and had knocked over the ramp once, but had not yet fully set off the trap and tumbled into the waste bucket.

We were trying to relax, watching television in the bedroom and waiting for the trap to work its magic, when we heard squeaking and rustling behind us. I froze, while the Duke jumped up, and seized a flashlight. "He's behind the bookshelf! I think we can trap him!"

And thus began a frantic game of cat and mouse. We blocked one side of the bookshelf with a massive painting, and started wedging books beneath it and to the side. Only once we have built a wall surrounding the bookshelf does a cursory flashlighted look reveal that Mr. Mouse is now cowering behind the dresser.

Books were now piled around the dresser. The Duke, for some undisclosed reason, sent me off to get garbage bags. Mr. Mouse fled back to the corner behind the bookshelf. In the frantic hubbub, the Duke pullled the dresser forward rapidly, and a piece of claywork that my aunt made for me as a child toppled to the ground and cracked into two.

I shouted "I told you to be careful with that!" and started to fight back tears at the sheer aggravation of my bedtime being in the destruction of cherished mementos and the rearrangement of our furniture due to a damn mouse-- especially since I didn't have a single clue what do with said mouse once he was cornered.
As my frustration grew, however, The Duke, became even more determined.

The bookshelf became an impenetrable fortress, with books of varying sizes shoved in every possible gap. The Duke peered over the top of the bookshelf again.

"I think he might be dead. Maybe the poison and the shock did him in. He's just curled up in the corner, motionless."

I fetched a long handled mop. A quick jab revealed that Mr. Mouse was only faking it. I squealed and jumped away as Mr. Mouse came back to life.

In a stroke of genius, the Duke grabbed a long poster tube he had been using for the ramp on the latest version of the garbage can trap. We slowly edged the bookshelf away from the wall, and replaced one wall of books with the tube.

I then set to frightening the mouse from his corner. First, I gently knocked on the painting, gradually increasing my force. He wiggled a little.

I then fished into my old piggy bank, and bring out handfuls of pennies, which I dropped behind the bookshelf, first one, then several in succession.

It worked. Mr. Mouse dashed straight into the poster tube, the Duke rapidly stood it up, and clamped a book to the top. Mr. Mouse scratched frantically at the circular walls at first, but gradually grew silent.

We grabbed our house keys, and slipped out into the rainy night, taking turns delicately balancing the tube and book as we marched through puddles. Five or six blocks away, in a back alley, we set the tube on the ground. A light tap on the end sent Mr. Mouse dashing out ike a cannonballs, disappearing into the dark night in a matter of seconds, as we turned back to return to our torn apart, but mouse-free bedroom.

Rodent harnessing skillz? We has 'em.

The one in which I befriend marine life

Before we begin...

I know my posts located on other sites have been getting less love lately, but I feel compelled to tell you that my all-time favourite post is published over on Lauren's wonderful Testament series today. (just one click away... seriously!)

***

To continue on the warm and fuzzy theme...

By Friday afternoon, I have convinced myself that my chosen profession is rife with pompous jackasses, after a rather unfortunate professional workshop-- although, granted, the day was nearly made worth it, not due to exciting new information on the latest version of the IQ test, but rather as a result of large platters of free cheese.

Still, when I see the Duke waiting at a bench outside the venue, I sprint across the walkway in sheer excitement... for all I know is that he is picking me up to drive somewhere mysterious for our anniversary, and that he had forced me to pack and/or point out clothing for nearly every plausible occasion so as not to clue me in on our intended destination.

He leads me to a beige rented Corolla, stocked with all the trip necessities, including suitably convoluted Google Map directions and five cent candies. The map only leads us on the first half of the trip, to the ferry terminal. We manage to be one of the first cars on the ferry and are located at the very front, so, instead of joining the masses upstairs amongst screaming children and overpriced chicken fingers, we remain in the car, listening to the Beatles, Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones, and watching the lights of the port slowly approaching.

As our tires rolled from the ferry dock to the road, and we struggled with nonsensical directions, I gradually became aware of our destination-- a small, rugged community on the opposite side of the island, known for its forests, surfing beaches, and wildlife.

The road there is one of the crazier highways I've been on-- full of twists and turns, fringed by enormous trees. As we edge closer to our destination, the fog grows so thick that we have to forego headlights and inch along. One of the first things we see once the mist cleared were signs warning us of the possibility of tsunamis. Welcome to the open ocean.

We pull into our hotel around midnight, the air thick as we stepped out of the car. As we open the glass door in our room, we can hear the ocean below, though the fog prevents us from seeing it. We walk towards the water, the orange glow of a beach fire glowing in the distance. It is almost eerie how far we walk, with the blurry view of the waves still crashing distances away.

Shockingly, the Duke, the king of lazy mornings, suggests that we set the alarm the next morning to make the most of the day. I have my morning coffee looking onto the misty ocean. Breakfast is Eggs Benny with delicious local ingredients, like smoked salmon and dungeness crab.

We then take a walk along the ocean shore. It is funny how the lack of sunlight, something I would find depressing in the city, somehow adds to the mystique of the area.

The shores are oddly smooth, so smooth than the sheen of a millimitre of icy water acts like a mirror.

We drive the five minutes to town, which is more aptly described as a village, free of traffic lights. Wandering around it does not take long.

The fog is starting to peel away, so we decide to book a late afternoon whale watching trip. We are lucky to only have to share our yellow ship, the Miss B Haven, with two other people, and our captain, Tim Tom, who has an natural ease on the ocean. We skim across the water at first, wind whipping through our air, sailing by green islands and rocks piercing the water. Gradually, we start hopping over waves.

We near two other paused boats. Between them is a school of sided dolphins, frolicking in the waves. As the boats slowly skip along the ocean, the dolphins leap about in their wake.

TimTom, a grin on his face, simply states "Pretty cool, eh?"
The dolphins gradually bore of us, and scamper away.

It is, however, only about ten minutes later than we see the next fellow on our list... a grey whale.

We first detect him by the spray of his blow hole. He swoops up and down multiple times. Another one joins him, surprising us by his rapid surfacing mere feet away from us. Tim Tom tells us that, were they to use their blow hole too nearby, we would be greeted by a tremendous stench.

It is hard not to be overwhelmed by something so monumental and exotic.

Next, it is the island of stellar sealions. They are the true stinkers, massively lolling about on the rocks, roaring at us passerbys. 

 Seals great us as we float by, bobbing in the current. We drift by a rocky island rife with seabirds, and a family of otters cavorts amongst the seaweed, their heads barely distinguishable.

And, as a final farewell, we catch site of a juvenile humpback whale. He moves quicker than the grey whales, swimming through the water at speeds that seem impossible for a creature so gigantic. But, just before he disappears from sight, he dives below the water with his tail reaching towards the sky.

As we make our way back to the harbour, the rocking of the ship nearly lulls me to sleep.

The evening was capped off by an amazing meal, and drinking red wine out on the beach.

(Oh, and maybe watching E! True Hollywood's story on the New Kids on the Block. Shut up.)

The next morning, we check out of the hotel set ourselves off to exploring the nearby national park, stopping every few kilometers to see a new sight.

There were boardwalks running through the temperate rainforest...

Yet, somehow, a few minutes down the road, the landscape of a bog felt like nearly another planet, with broccoli like trees with pallid grey limbs spurting from the spongy moss.

Soon afterwards, to finish where we started, an open beach.

After that, it was back on the open road, with stopovers at random small town restaurants and to ogle more looming trees, pulling back into our apartment at midnight to alarm clocks and a backlog of emails. Still, it is the escapes like this that make that day-to-day tedium so much more bearable.

And me? I'm still in awe that someone likes me so much to plan something like this. And I'm one hell of a lucky girl.

The one in which I give Skeelo a run for his money

This weekend was just flat out wonderful.

One reason?
I spent it here:


Another reason?

I spent it with some of the most fantastic people I have ever had the fortune of knowing.

(which one do you think is me?)

And, most importantly, I witnessed an amazing friend make the most beautiful bride, and I saw in her groom's eyes that he recognized it, too.

Lest you think I am just some concentrated form of sap, I am not one of those generic "I-wuv-weddings" type of girl. In fact, after the last wedding we attended, I found myself wondering if I had perhaps became a little jaded, for outside of some more detached appreciations of certain moments, I wasn't having the typical warm and fuzzy emotional pangs. However, even the stoic Duke himself noted that this was a particularly lovely wedding. And he was one of the only dry eyes in the house during the speeches.

Other highlights and lowlights of the weekend?

The weekend kicked off with eight of us poured into one mini-van. While some would have sulked at the prospect of being forced to wait for a ferry in such close quarters, we celebrated by drinking red wine out of to-go coffee cups while in line.

Most of the tiny island was taken over by visitors for the wedding. Not only did we have every hotel room booked, but we also took over the local bar the night before the wedding, where someone plugged in their musical disgrace of an iPod, leaving us to dance the night away to hip-hop AC/DC remixes and Whigfield's Saturday Night. My guy, however, was impressed by my lyrical knowledge of Welcome to the Jungle.

Songs officially banned from my wedding? The Chicken Dance, the Macarena and the Hokey Pokey.

The lyrics to "I Wish I Was a Little Bit Taller" and "Shoop" are pretty much permanently imprinted in my brain. However, even better is the interpretive dances that accompany them when I have drunk multiple glasses of wine.

Sometimes gender contrasts are way too stereotypical. Exemplary of this fact is the 40-something woman who literally dove and collided with other people's ankles to frantically grab the bouquet, while the men had to be herded onto the floor to catch the garter.

Asshat of the wedding award clearly went to the fellow who was actually doing a running commentary of shit-talking during the wedding. Not only did he let out overexasperated sighs during certain portions of the ceremony, when my friend stood up to do a reading, he snarkily whispered "How much do you want to bet it's from Corinthian?" I also learned due to forced eavesdropping that he came down the aisle for his own wedding to "Eye of the Tiger". Seriously.

Warm and fuzzy part of the weekend? When the bride gave me and our close friends special engraved wooden boxes, and told us that they contained the key to a box we would get for our own wedding, which included a special garter that we were all to wear on our special day.

Quote of the weekend? 

The scene: Three of us discussing the incarnations of bacon in different countries.

J: Bacon strips taste different in the US than they do in Canada.

The Duke: That's because bacon from Canada is made from children's dreams.

Me: Mmm, I taste unicorns!

(Psst... ummnowwhat.com. Do it.)