Oh Canada! Or, Prepare for the sap, party people.

I’ve had a hard time writing this post over the past day. Mostly because I was hungover and stuck on and off a plane at JFK for five hours, not to mention my INTERNETS AND CABLE being down, but also because I couldn’t decide which slant to take with the content: A number 1) the Omigod this weekend totally RAWKED! We froze one another’s panties and drank our faces off! and B number 2) I really can’t believe how spectacular the weekend was, from the perspective of a woman who cries at Hang In There kitty posters and may or may not have her period a full 30 days of each of the –er months.

But as my faithful readers know, mediocrity and/or indecisiveness generally win(s) out, and I decided to do both.

Blog approach A number 1) the weekend did, indeed, totally rock rawk. I consumed three glasses of wine prior to hitting Canadian soil, thanks to two separate bars at my motherland’s major airport and a closed circuit television system that apparently didn’t catch me tripping over the non-existent hem of my jeans on the people mover. Jorge and I arrived at Mrs. J’s work with me smelling of the beautifully pungent combination of Marlboro Lights and Beringer Chardonnay (Amen to those airport dives serving more than White Zin. Represent!) And me honking the car horn. Repeatedly.

That night we reminisced about Junior Prom (not really) and my recent n*ked exploits (no such thing) and Jorge’s brief but fulfilling teenage sexual relationship with Dave (I kid, party people). (Wait, I think I may have confused those a bit. But I can say that we definitely ate pizza.)

Anyhooooooo – we talked and laughed and naturally I cried. And was asleep by 10.

Saturday was a whirlwind of downtown Toronto french fries, attempts at me stuffing the hosts’ cats in my carry on and the Ontario/Seattle Needle sassily refusing me entrance via a loooooooong line. D’accord, I said, laughing in the Tower’s face. The earlier I shall drink, my tall stone one.

Friends and confidantes and young lovers arrived at my host home at 5, and the festivities began. We drank. And we (forcibly) watched wedding and/or Algonquin camping videos and/or soft-core p*rn until drunk off of communal laughter and wine and (gulp) Jagermeister. And I may have smoked les cigarettes, but per that stealth Accept All Faults and Neuroticisms Agreement you checked upon entering this blog, you shall leave such judgments at the door. [At the door with my adorable shoes (see wish list above), that would apparently taint my hosts’ carpet prior to their home sale date. Even Jesus was allowed to wear shoes in the house, Jorge and Mrs. J. Even the Canadian Jesus. I KID.]

Saturday night was amazing. Dinner and drinks with remarkable bunch of people. Mirth and awful butterscotch shots and pints and half pints of beer ensued. And then more laughter and stories about where each person met the other, followed by one-on-one serious and more lighthearted chats (e.g., “I LOVE YOU, MAN!”; “NOOOO. I LOVE YOU!”). And sweating. Near the bar fireplace, which burned to a minimum of 750 degrees Kelvin, there could not have been more perspiration. Unless you’re Kris on a first date.

And on the way home that night I found myself in a cab with Jorge and Dave and Sarah and a lovely taxi Mountie who I’m pretty sure I irritated, giggling myself drunk silly to well-intentioned road signage reading, “Tap it and go!” and “We love your junk!” And I laughed and passed out late night with a cat I pretty much saw two of and a smile I hadn’t had in months.

Enter blog post approach B Number 2). And I cried at the YYZ airport as Jorge and Mrs. J drove away, because this has been one shit of a year. One shit of a year that has made me feel, in a word, disposable. Disposable to friends and lovers and family who don't seem all that phased that I'm not in their lives anymore.

And during this weekend away from it all, I wasn’t.

I was Me. And it felt so mothergrubbing good to fit like a glove with an exceptional group of ridiculously wonderful people I’d never met before. And to know I am still Myself. Excessive drinking, French fry eating, Blog loving, F-bomb dropping, American accent having, neurotic, good ol’ me.

Weekends like this one remind me it hasn’t been such a crappy year after all.