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.

Wish you were with us

Dear reader,

I'm headed to Toronto for the weekend.

Amazing how it can take you two flights and six hours to travel to a city essentially two states away. My theory is that the non-nonstop flight pattern is some sort of Canadian conspiracy, much like hiding Michael J. Fox until his pubescent years and everything "en Francais" and their famous geese. Oh well. More free Delta snacks for meeee, suckas!

Or something like that.

I am hoping not to spend the weekend obsessed with the conversion of stupid celsius to formidable fahrenheit. (I'm pretty sure I will. It just won't be enough that COLD = REALLY FREAKING COLD. And success with simple conversions makes up for the GRE, now doesn't it?) I expect that I will a) meet in person north-of-the-border friends and b) inappropriately corner them barside, forcing them to eat apple pie and watch King of the Hill. And I simply can't wait to drink wine grown in the fertile grounds under the CN Tower and snap pictures for Internet posting of my host and his wife while they are sleeping in strange positions and/or drooling.

I hear they drool real, live maple syrup, people.

Blog to you this weekend,
Kris

Reason #401 Why I Love the Support of You, My Friends and Family. And Why I Worship one Mr. Dave Grohl

Because for the first time in at least four months, I unabashedly and shamelessly danced - nay, grooved - in the shower today.

Moving on.

My partner in crime wine

I can't believe it worked!

Ok, Blogger, I guess I'll start wearing your letter jacket again. Anyhoo, here is pic one from my time in San Ho (copyright 2006 Jurgen Nation, 2006 Heather B., 1986 Nabbalicious). Soon after this photo was taken, Stacy and I finally had our heads and livers separated thanks to a 14-hour conjoined BlogHer surgery performed by Dooce.

Isn't she beautiful?

At some point during the weekend . . .

Jorge started using lots of words with the very-foreign “our,” apparently over-pronounced a la those Jagewwwwarrr commericals (reference: see such complex words as behaviour, flavour, and downpour)

I lit a cigarette off of my stove. My flat, electric stove.

Kim texted someone.

Mrs. Jorge had to resort to an Avril Lavigne reference when I asked her if there were famous Canadian people.

Heather B. walked home from Bethesda, or some equally-distant, unfamiliar land. At 4 in the morning.

Kim texted someone else.

Heather B. drank wine to attempt to restart her wilting self. At 9 in the morning.

I wiped my T zone in Crisco and then posed for all pictures. (Reference: see all pictures of my shiny-countenanced self taken in last 72 hours.)

I didn’t think I’d ever recover from a red-wine induced migraine. Stupid Merlot.

The BF used the c word, causing both Mrs. Jorge and I to pass quickly into convulsions.

I would catch Jorge and the Mrs. taking a moment together, and was struck by just how close and in tune of a couple they are.

Kim single handedly caused Anheuser-Busch stock prices to plummet when she ordered a white wine.

I ate pizza. And it was so damn good.

Jorge awoke to find himself flanked by Bug and Cricket.

My visitors recoiled in horror when they saw where the blogging magic happens: on my Fujitsu laptop, also known as a refurbed ’86 Speak & Spell.

The Venga Bus is Coming was actually played in my apartment. Both the baby Jesus and Mary weeped openly.

More as I remember them.

Giggidy giggidy

Hours spent cleaning up Cricket’s hair balls and hiding human heads in places other than freezer: 5.

Dollars spent in eight minutes during the first Giant trip in two months, picking up staples other than wine, tampons, and Lean Cuisines: 76.


Acquiring a pink apron-ed, French toast-making Canadian kitchen minion for a full 48 hours: Priceless.

Reader Male

Sometimes a man's perspective is so refreshing. This has shown itself to be particularly true in the age of my recent relationship woes, when men have offered me some of the most sage words of wisdom sans analysis, Baked Doritos, and estrogen.

This first gem comes from Quinn*, a man who has known Kris since the days when she exceeded the legal limit for hanging out at bad Georgetown bars and had a diagnosable aversion to cats. A man who talks fondly of Depeche Mode and his years at Universi-teh, and who might be the first international man of mystery to wear an ascot by age 35. Recently reunited with an old love (and it feels so good), he offered these pearls of wisdom:

Sometimes it takes a year apart to realize that there really is no one else out there who's interested.

I mean, to realize that you were meant to be together.

Crickets.

And then there is one of the blogger loves of my life, t2ed, the Sporty Spice to my Ginger/Baby hybrid, a man who makes relationships and humor and working for the man and knowing the words to more hair band songs than I do seem effortless, who sent me this wonderful missive:

I got married so I could quit dating and let myself
go. In fact, I still threaten the wife with making
her date every now and then.

Make sure you have Matt Groening's Love is Hell. See
if you can pick out which type of couple you were.
Once this becomes funny, you're ready for further
punishment/dating.

As dating is essentially a job interview with the
threat of sex, you've got to start networking. Start
working those contacts as you have an opening to fill,
my friend. Any possibilities at the old job? Or new
one if you like really, really awkward moments in the
office.

It is one of life's great mysteries how you always
find the perfect person once you're attached. Anyone
you turned down that you wish you hadn't? Taking up
with his best friend is always a nice touch.

Alternatively, find someone who looks just like him
and either go for a hate hump or stand him up for a
date. Both will make you feel better.

Make a list of all those traits you wish for in a boy
toy. Now rank them. Now, what are must haves?
Realize that "Pulse" and "Buys Me Dinner" are really
the only must haves on your list. See, there are
plenty of guys who fit the bill!

You should relish all those things you can do now that
you're "out of committee." Order whatever you want on
your pizza. Watch all those girly movies he'd never
sit through. Randomly talk about your feelings in the
middle of sporting events. Buy pillows for your bed
that are just for show. Buy small soaps and
handtowels that may not be used. Throw your clothes
everywhere. Do whatever you want to. This will only
be a phase so do not paint your apartment black.

Sorry you are blue. Things will get better. Now
continue to crank Love Bites, Love Stinks, Hate Myself
for Loving You, Bad Medicine, and I Like Them Big and
Stupid (by Julie Brown) as loud as your neighbors can
stand it.

Keep your chin up, kid.

t2ed

I love you guys.


*he so wishes this was his name.

Day 1: How to entertain a fellow blogger

I’m learning quickly. I think it helps if you ensure that she has something to eat before you pick her up from the airport, considering that she had already had three glasses of God’s nectar prior to getting into my Sentra (for which I bought new hubcaps yesterday, simply because the thought of any guest actually seeing the one black eye on both sides of my vehicle made the part of me that is my mother cringe.)

A splash of top-shelf margarita and some Will-Farrell-doing-Harry-Carrey impersonations cannot hurt.

Allow Cricket to perform her slightly uncomfortable sexual antics by rolling around on the carpet, exposing her white tummy and constant need for attention.

Turn off the heat in the bedroom, allowing the temp to plummet to a Jurgen-comfortable 61 degrees.

Did I mention the equal parts Absolut Vanil and fully-caffeinated Diet Coke thing? That works too.

Fight her and win for sleeping on the couch rights, but only after the two of you verbally assault innocent and sober fellow blogger Maliavale via cell.

Leave her nestled in the king bed as you attempt to find clothes that you didn’t already wear this week.

Rinse. Lather. And prepare to repeat.

Miss Jurgen if you're nasty

The infamous and ever-cute Jurgen comes this weekend to visit. I fear several things, but here are my top three:

1) that Bug will sit (and rotate with claws out) on her head at 6 am, much like he did to his mama earlier this morning before I put him in the microwave,
2) Jurgen finding the human heads “freaky” or “gross” or “let me out of here, now!” and not the living art I know them to be,
3) that she will attempt to escape from the box under my bed, which formerly housed both Jorge and Peter (but not at the same time.)

If we can hold our heads up long enough to be clever, we plan to post pics of hair braiding and wine consumption activities.

Your cashmere turtleneck hanging out the window of your 31st-floor hotel room to get the smoke smell out by morning: priceless.

Jorge and I had our North American rendezvous Friday eve in Toronto, home of Hooters restaurants and Kelly Clarkson music. And Joey and Rolling Rock bottles. Oh, right. Those are the American things the Canadians just pilfer due to getting only a 70 for originality. At least they’ll always have Avril Lavigne.

Jorge was early (it seems he’s actually read my blog before and knows that I slice late people into bologna-sized slices) and looked exactly as he does in the photos on his site. Refreshing. I removed my fake mutton chops before he had the opportunity to see them; I didn’t want him to think I was trying too hard. Jorge limped a little as we walked to the restaurant. I must confess that I had a little bit of a Silence of the Lambs flashback and worried that the “injured” Jorge would lure this American girl into a well with a poodle and a basket of assorted lotions. He didn’t try, but I’m pretty sure I could have taken him anyway.

We plopped down in a pleather booth at the restaurant and were waited on by a young, dramatic gent who may have worked at Medieval Times for a summer or two in the 90s. Jorge handed me an envelope. I suspected he might be from Publisher’s Clearinghouse and scanned the premises for Ed McMahon. That was a no go, so I opened it, only to find two fun photos of Jorge and his Canadian lover (read: Dave) as well as the nighttime snapshot from here. [For those of you who don’t already know, with Jorge comes Dave. I had once thought that they were probably both married simply to disguise a long-term infatuation with one another and Strawberry Shortcake, but it turns out they’re just heterosexual nerds like I am. We would have been the kids who high-fived when we finished our first book of sonnets ahead of the other kids in Language Arts.] Jorge used some technical Canadian jargon like “half carafe” and “Chardonnay” and “cell phone” and before I knew it we were drinking and I was harassing Dave via cell in some city called “Too shy, shy. Hush, hush, Ottowa.”

Within two glasses of wine I confessed that I had asked the cab driver what that large, lake-like body of water was out of my passenger window. Jorge stifled the urge to label me as “stupid American girl” and continued to hang out, wishing all the while his friends would call with a pseudo-emergencie. I’m pretty sure this alone changed his view of me; after that he calculated km/m conversions for me and encouraged my use of an abacus to calculate tip.

After 2.5 glasses, I was singing at the table and Jorge was ordering shots of Jagermeister. I called him a frat boy and refused to do mine, based on the fact that I had to give a presentation to fifty people within mere hours. Jorge persisted like a plantar’s wart, and I ended up taking two baby sips before recoiling like the first time I was felt up. I shuddered and chased it with a familiar swig of white wine.

And then at some point Jorge revealed that his name was actually pronounced George. As in W. Bush.

Crickets.

At 2.75 glasses, I berated G/Jorge for writing haiku about everyone, their brother and even their drunkcles. At three glasses, I was grilling G/Jorge about photography and studying that picture again. Within the same glass of wine, I was overtaken by the beauty and the messages written on those photos, and I did what only Kris does in every touching and/or tipsy situation: I started to cry.

Crickets.

G/Jorge was gracious about it and made some joke about puppies being kicked against barn doors and immediately the mood lightened. Soon his beautiful and newly-coiffed wife joined us (think the rare female creature who is funny and gracious to an Internet woman she doesn’t know who has taken her beau away for the evening) and there was more wine and more giggling. And pictures of myself and of G/Jorge and the Mrs.

And I just had so. much. fun. And was so happy my work dinner plans were called off.

How do I keep getting so lucky? I feel privileged to “know” all of you, blogger people.

Saturday was my presentation. Four of us showed up to present on a panel about research methodology.

And two people showed up to hear us.

I should have had the Jager shots. (Or is it J/Yager?) [insert our waiter’s melodramatic wink here.]

10 Things I Learned from Rendezvous-ing with Four Fabu Ladies who also Write on the Internets

(Or an ode to Jurgen, Maliavale, Nabbalicious, and Kim)

10. It is so not pronouned Jurgen, as in the hand cream used by young men nationwide. It's Yurgen, using the Y made popular by such phrases as Yan Can Cook and Yo Mama.

9. I am the Mrs. Garrett of yet another social group, leaving the party early enough to catch Murder She Wrote and soak my bunions before bed.

8. Contrary to old Information Superhighway tales, bloggers do not have visible horns or fangs. The jury is still out on third nipples.

7. It may not be a bad thing to be the only one sans camera for such a meeting. 8 X 10s of Kris scarfing mozzarella sticks are highly overrated.

6. I don't have an accent.

5. A mini-bottle of hairspray is a must for your Macguyver social kit. Kim just might be able to take Stacy in a Battle o' the Bangs v. 2.0.

4. Nothing I've ever said about you is as funny as what these women came up with.

3. I was just kidding about number 4.

2. If you use the "I was talking to the cabbie" excuse to explain your late arrival, not a soul will suspect you were having difficulty stuffing that body into your freezer.

1. Jorge had better be prepared to bring it next week when it's Bloggers Gone Wild: Canada, as it will be pretty damn hard to top meeting these four beautiful, exceptional women.

"We're not a taxi service, ma'am"

My best friend got so drunk on Saturday that she called 911 for a ride home. Twice.

Crickets.

Crickets.

When I'm 64

I spent most of the day and evening yesterday at the hospital with the Best Friend.
I will share with you the top five most disturbing moments of the day.

[cue drumroll]

#5) Aimee still looked better than I did, even though I had actually showered this week.

#4) She shushed me during the E! True Hollywood Story: Mary Kay Letourneau. Indication number one that her meds are affecting her brain.

#3) I made two trips to the penny candy bins at the gift shop, and the pink lady cashier with the lipstick outside of her lips asked me, "How long do you think these are gonna last you this time?"

#2) As a result of her recent experience, Aimee has decided that her rap name shall heretofore be "Sir Clots-A-Lot." Indication number two that her meds are affecting her brain. We all know it should be "Mama Clots-A-Lot."

#1) I caught a glimpse of Tuck's Medicated Pads in her clear overnight bag. Read: I caught a glimpse of our lives when we're both 70.

I don't remember this happening to Carrie.

I don't have much to say today.

My best friend was admitted to the hospital last night because of pain and swelling in her calf. A 6 am ultrasound revealed it to be a blood clot.

So she sat and waited until the CAT scan at lunchtime. A Noah Wyle look-a-like resident came in this afternoon to tell her she also had several small clots on not one, but both of her lungs.

Murr.

I love this woman, and hope she gets out of the hospital very soon.

Not only will this mean she is on the mend, but this will surely clear me to begin making fun of her again.

-------------------------------------

In other news, if you Yahoo search for "how to make a drunk girl wet her pants", my blog is result #70.

Aimee, that one was for you.

A needy woman does what?

Today I brought in two dozen donuts to work. That should make the nice people like me.

And make the mean people fat.

[insert maniacal laughter here.]