Three hundred beers

We make fun of ourselves for acting old. For enjoying a bottle of wine and playing cribbage, boggle or rummy. For making supper together and watching downloaded TV for the rest of the night.

Friday was the opposite of old and boring. It was slow dancing in the living room, a serenade while I wrote in the dust on his guitar. It was wandering over to the nearby pub, where we've never been, to watch the football game. It was being pleasantly surprised that it was also karaoke night. It was feeling popular when random girls asked if they could sing with me when my song came up -- Journey, Don't Stop Believin', of course. It was drinking three hundred beers before wrapping the night up with some Boston [More Than a Feeling]. 

Saturday was a write off. A three-hour nap before watching our Roughriders win, and watch grown men beat each other senseless at a friends' place. 

It was a whirlwind weekend of music, football, friends and a bit [maybe more than a bit] of a hangover. It was a weekend that made my heart swell and my knees go weak. A weekend where you want to say, "I love you" so many more times but it just seems like overkill. 

It's a weekend that makes the resulting week of reading worth it.

fall(ing)

[via postsecret]

Finally, the summer is over. Fall, with cool mornings, clothing in layers, smells and colour-changing leaves, is upon us. It's sneaking up and bringing with it pumpkin lattes and a desire to make slow-cooker soups and stews. No more jetting off to Saskatchewan, or rushing around worrying about weddings and birthdays and fitting it all in. We're back to a slower pace. Relaxed. Sweaters worn to football matches. Scarves in the morning. Seeing your breath. I love this time of year so much.

The weekend in the Okanagan brought two rounds of golf, ten visits to wineries, fifteen bottles to bring back with us, and many, many hours spent together in a car. It was camping in the rain (B spilling his beer in the tent) and our first bed and breakfast. It was fresh fruit and coffee which ranged from very, very bad (McDonalds in Revelstoke, I'm thinking of you) and very, very good (oh B&B with your locally-roasted, grinded in house deliciousness). It was my first darts victory. Poker and beer. B being forced to put up with my dance party tunes while the radio was out of commission in the mountains. It was fall romance, despite the rain.

B likes my blog because so often I'm probably annoying people by talking about him. Ego stroking at its finest.

I've had some rough times lately. Summer drama. The things one goes through when one decided that maybe a friend is no longer a friend. Wanting to keep that person around for the good times, but realizing that you have to take the bad with the good. When she started telling people I love (and who I can only assume love me) that she thinks I'm depressed and that the Boy and I are not good for one another -- he's changed me -- I started questioning what she's telling those who don't have such close ties to me. To us.

"I don't think you've changed, and I've known you my whole life," says the Little.

I joke about it with B. I've ended more than a few sentences with, "Oh, it's just because I'm depressed." And we giggle.

"She doesn't read your blog, does she?"

If she did, there'd be no question.

You make my dreams (come true)

[David Perez Facorro via the Photographic Dictionary]

Love [luhv]
-noun
1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child or friend.
3. a sexual passion or desire.
4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
-verb (used with object)
5. to have love or affection for: All her pupils love her.
6. to have a profoundly tender, passionate affection for (another person).


I'm getting rather pathetic, cupcakes. The Boy went to Saskatchewan for the fourth week in a row (alone this time), and I missed him a ridiculous amount. The joy that raged through me when I got his "I'm coming home!" text message on Wednesday morning was off the charts.

Being without him though, did give me time to assess things. It's also gave me time to feel like I live at our place. Having to rely on buses to get around our fine city and find our way to the north end when it'd be so much easier to hang out at the old pad is a big part of that. Oh downtown, why do you have to be so appealing?

Back on point. It gave me time to talk to an old friend. A friend who really should not be my friend. We had our own messed up love story back in the day. Out of control emotions made us do things like send lyrics to each other and cry via webcam because we just couldn't be together. He was a boy who had been broken by previous relationships, a self-proclaimed robot. I was a girl (and still am the girl) who always wears her heart on her sleeve. I was sunshine and rainbows and he was a giant storm cloud. There was a long period of time where I didn't talk to him because he decided to date our mutual friend and I couldn't handle it (really, I told him he couldn't wax poetic to me and be with her -- it wasn't fair to anyone). We had a big discussion when he finally contacted me to say that he couldn't handle it anymore, he needed me in his life in some way because I'm just so fabulous (which is true). We've been friends ever since.

Back in the day, when I got out of a passionless, robotic, comfortable relationship because of some of the conversations we had, I thought that what we had was love. What we had was different, and I'd never felt that way before. It was both incredible and terrible. Everything was so emotionally-fueled it created some sappy feel-good moments and some major heartbreak. It was a rollercoaster.

It's not like that now. Love, I mean. The more days pass, the more confident I am that even though I'm kind of an l-word slut, the Boy is the only boy I've ever truly loved in a romantic way. No one has ever made me feel the way he makes me feel. He's someone I can tell all of my secrets to, someone who loves me unconditionally but isn't afraid to speak up if he thinks I'm doing something out of character, and someone who supports me in all my crazy endeavours (school, random committees, etc.). He's someone I miss an unbelievable amount when he's gone, partially because of the empty bed and partially because when anything good or bad happens, he's the one I babble on to about it. I'm attracted to him in every way, not just physically but mentally.

My friend told me about his own long-term relationship, and I feel bad for him that he hasn't found what I found. I feel bad that through all the conversations we've had about relationships and love, that he feels like he has to settle. His lady is lovely, but clearly not the lady for him. It reminds me of my own passionless, comfortable ex-relationship. The one he talked me out of, for the sake of my own happiness.

You deserve more, he used to say. I don't know how to get it through his thick skull that he deserves more too.

Brightsand Lake

The final Saskatchewan weekend of the summer, for me anyway. We didn't let the rain ruin the fun, as the pictures of the boys' football game show. Baseball while the sun shined, football when it didn't. The only casualties: a flip flop and my poor sprained finger. Which didn't stop my team from winning. Pilsner. Feeling like part of the family. Wishing my camera battery wasn't dead as we traveled the backroads in a parade of motorbikes, ATVs and the littlest tractor. The fresh country air. Being the only ones in aforementioned parade that didn't get doused in mud. The tightness in your face you get from laughing too much. Poker and fresh fruits and veggies from the garden.

Going to the lake makes me homesick a little. Only because I love the quiet of it. I love sitting around the campfire looking up at the stars. I love being away from everything, and everyone (other than the people you're stuck there with). The smell of the air after the rain. Puppies running around everywhere.

That being said, it's good to be back in Edmonton. Back to the busy life, but with a weekend on the horizon filled with city fun. The market. The mall. Drinks on the patio. Most importantly, the baby sister. This weekend will be the last we get to devote completely to each other before she leaves me.

Dwight Schrute knows best

[via flickr]

Our vacation this year is short. We're expanding the September long weekend by taking two vacation days so we can frolick through the mountains to the Okanagan and drink some wine.

This morning I nailed down a (very affordable) reservation at a little B&B in Kelowna for two nights which includes a full day wine tour with the proprietor, a wine writer and educator. We had planned on camping, but with the recent fires (and the resulting fire bans) it just didn't work out. So now, we'll be camping in Yoho National Park, hopefully staying with some Edmonton friends in Vernon, and enjoying this adorable little B&B. I was worried a bit, I've never been to a B&B before and it's just so cheap.

This little snippet from the Boy this morning, via email, made all my concerns disappear. It's all coming together. I checked the place out on trip advisor, as Dwight Schrute said Trip Advisor is the lifeblood of the B&B industry. It has four reviews all 4 or 5 out of 5.

He's a spider on the web

The Boy reads my blog (hi honey!) so it's not uncommon to have a conversation that stems from what I've posted during the day.

We were talking about just how many people commented on my request for music post (thank you, thank you, thank you*) when I pulled up my Google Analytics.

"Oh wow, you can get all that info?"

I thought I'd show him one better and pointed out where most of my traffic comes from (his work server) and how people find me. We found some weird search terms.

a part of you has grown in me
admiring the struggle it takes to be human
boob mail banner girl
boys resting on girls boobs photos
engineering girl boobs
never judge people
New Zealand picnic pictures
small girl boobs
And my favourite... small talk makes me want to cry

I made some comment about how many people seem to be looking for boobs and he comes out with this little gem, "Well, you know, when you search for 'misadventures of elle bee' a porn site comes up."**

Ah, frack.

*I officially have a girl crush on Jenny Lewis.

**Of the entire page of search results, the porn site is number three. I am the rest of the page. Also, in case you think I've been posting my more scandalous misadventures elsewhere, that site is totally not me. That I know of.

On my Albertaversary

[flickr]

Approximately two and a half years ago, I told my "from there to here" story. I read it again on Sunday, my three year Albertaversary.

As I'm packing up all the things I've accumulated over the past three years, it's strange to be transported back to the days where my sole piece of furniture was my bed. As I look forward to my "Kentucky Derby"-style birthday extravaganza (hats and horses! gambling!), it's hard to remember the tears on my twenty-second birthday when I had no one. Moving out here was a big shock to almost everyone who knew me -- except maybe my Daddy, who had been telling everyone for months that I was going to take the plunge. I had never been a risk taker, so it was a big deal for me to move across the country on a whim, with the promise of a writing test for a job... not even an interview. I had a feeling.

With my university and high school friends spread across Ontario, and North America, it wasn't too hard for me to pack up and head somewhere by myself. It made sense to go where the jobs were. And the jobs weren't in Ontario, not for public relations anyway. It was empowering to come out here and be handed jobs, my experience lauded rather than being dismissed by the Toronto PR crew.

It was exciting to have the roomie join me a month later, even though I had only known her for a couple months. It was fun to have someone to explore with, to get lost with, to find new hot spots and have new adventures. Though we've had our ups and downs, it was necessary that I had her to get me through the homesick days and help me celebrate small victories.

I've made a life out here. Originally the plan was to come for a couple years, lap up all the experience I could, and return to Ontario. Last weekend my parents said, not even really a question, You're not moving back, are you? And I don't think I am. There's too much for me here. I've made a good group of friends, I've found the Boy, I'm starting my Masters. I've got an incredible boss, the best mentor I could ask for, and fabulous co-workers. I'm involved in things I'm passionate about, even though they stress me out sometimes. I managed to get together a motley crew of friends and acquaintances to raise over $5,000 for cancer research this year alone. If the right opportunity came along, who knows? But I'm happy here.

This weekend, as I move away from the downtown core (sob!), I'll begin a new adventure. It will be me and the Boy (and for a couple months, Kitty), 24-7. It will be less walks across the river to Whyte Avenue and a new section of the river valley to explore. It will be deliberate girl-dates with the roomie, rather than merely running into each other at the apartment. It will be a twice-daily trip on the LRT, instead of a six-block walk to work. It will be study time and essays instead of nightly walks to Starbucks. It's wondering how I'm ever going to get my Christmas shopping done when I'll be with the Boy all the time, and when I'll only be in this city for two weeks between mid-November and Christmas. It's erasing all traces of my old address and home phone. It's separating three years of accumulated furniture, dishes, and decorations. It's removing the skeleton from our front door who's changed to suit the seasons since the Halloween party we had where I first made out with the Boy nearly two years ago. It's moving out, without moving on.

And I couldn't be more excited.

Escape

The entire city has been battered and bathed. It's okay because we need it. The forecast is anything but sunny, which makes me crave my heavy bedding and a book. Or melancholy tunes. Or tea and granny squares with A. Instead, I slave through the day knowing how it will end... with the unpacking of boxes, like nearly every other day for the last, and next, couple of weeks.

So, amidst the moving madness, it was nice to escape this weekend with the Boy to the mountains. My (other) greatest love. Head over to Flickr to see my other shots from our travels this weekend.

Best friends 4 evah

Courtesy of CMT

I spent the weekend drinking too much champagne in the afternoon, eating appetizers for supper, imbibing in barley and hops, frolicking in the sunshine, and hanging out with two of my favourite people in the universe. The Boy sent me an email this morning that said, "It's good to remember why your best friends are your best friends." This weekend definitely served as a fabulous reminder.

They are two of the only people I can find to listen to country music with me. The only two people would would squeal and jump around with glee to find out that the Road Hammers were opening for Montgomery Gentry after a lot of detective work to find out who the opening act was. Dancing around the house. Watching bad teen movies. Being happy, and positive, and free of eye-rolling. Remembering good times and creating new memories. Meeting each other for the first time and becoming fast friends themselves.

Even though I have no voice, and have spent the weekend trying to push away the plague that has been wracking my body, this was the best weekend that I have had in a very long time. It was exactly what I needed.

I mentioned to the Boy a little while ago that I feel like I'm falling into too much negativity. I'm finding myself becoming an eye-roller. A cynic. A bit of cynicism is good, but it's gotten to a bad place. I made a vow to surround myself with positive forces to balance out my proclivity to the negative, and this weekend was the best thing that ever could have happened. I feel refreshed.

It's good to remember why your best friends are your best friends.

Best. Week. Ever.

I don't have any friends (other than my sisters) who I have had in my life forever. I went to highschool with two of my best girls, but I don't have the same stories as other people. We became friends when we were eight when we had sleepovers and step on (and broke) each other's glasses.

I met Erin in university. She lived three rooms down from me in residence (ah, good old Saugeen-Maitland). Though my floor was pretty close and we all did fun things together, Erin and I were merely bonded by mutual friends. We didn't spend any real one-on-one time together.

It wasn't until I graduated university and began my post-grad that we actually hung out alone. We were the only people from our crew in London that summer. We were both in relationships that were falling apart. We sipped champagne from individual-sized bottles and frolicked down the street to Richmond Row. We always, without fail, ran into the "breakup kitty" on the walk home from the bar and stopped to sit on the sidewalk and pet him (or her). It was after the first breakup kitty experience that Erin and I decided she needed to break up with her toxic boyfriend. Hence the name.

We supported each other. We laughed when my ex-boyfriend stopped by my house to take my vibrator, forgetting his big television in the process. We drank and had drunken rants about how much boys sucked. We sat on the patio at the Barking Frog in our newly-single state, wondering how to go about dating again. No doubt scaring off all boys within a mile radius.

We did a lot of tequila shots. We flirted and danced. We went home with each other to spoon. I call little spoon! I left her screaming about how she was doing to die (between her yelling for me to order pizza with mushrooms!) while I frantically wrote papers for my PR class, which were due the next day.

For my birthday, we created "Yard Yahtzee" and made passersby blow on our giant, misshapen dice for luck. We drank cosmos and laid on the front lawn. It was one of the greatest summers of my life, regardless of the break up and the hardest schooling I've ever done, and working three jobs.

Though she moved to Ottawa, and I moved to Edmonton, she's still one of the closest people in my life. She's the only person to ever have me cry happy tears. We cry when we see each other in the airport, but not when we're separating... it's strange, I'll admit.

There have been a lot of emails and drunken phone calls, but I'm happy that she's here now for a legitimate visit. I'm so excited to step outside to meet her for lunch, frolick through the city (past the bull she fell off of the last time she was here... when a kind stranger boy carried her to our door while I soothed her bleeding knee) and enjoy the sunshine.

Tomorrow the littlest sister, Kaye, moves to Alberta for four months. This will be the longest amount of time I've lived with any member of my family for approximately seven years. I could not be more excited.

Best. Week. Ever.

I think Facebook just called me a fierce bitch

Elle completed the quiz "Which crazy bitch are you?" with the result Sinead O'Connor.

You are one fierce bitch. You are very independent and will take no bullshit from anyone but your personality is actually sort of quiet and shy. You are a natural beauty and you are very comfortable with your feminity. You don't feel the need to overdo it or go out of your way to fuss over your looks. You don't want to distract people from what you stand for and the talents you possess. You are very idealistic and will go to any extremes to stand up for what you believe in even if it creates controversy and people don't understand. Relationships can be hard for you sometimes because men feel threatened by you but time again they come running to you and realize that you are actually very sweet and motherly....until they cross you.

The sad thing is, it's pretty accurate.

I am obviously ready to own a dinosaur

Elle [9:12 AM]: UofC scientists found a dinosaur that's half the size of a domestic cat. I'm so over getting a puppy... I now want a tiny dinosaur. Rawr!
C [9:13 AM]: omg! that is soooo great!
Elle [9:13 AM]: I know. Too bad the damned thing is extinct. The nerve.
C [9:13 AM]: i know. shit. you could try to pull a jurassic park and find some dna in a mosquito and then clone a mini dinosaur. but it sounds like too much work.
Elle [9:14 AM]: clever, C, clever. I would just have to make damned sure that that DNA is from a little dinosaur and not a big one. It's like, one day I come home from work and am like, "oh Rex? Where is that little guy?" And he's not home because he's A GIANT DINOSAUR TERRORIZING THE CITY!
C [9:15 AM]: it's true. you'd want to be double-sure you weren't getting giant one. the cost of food alone would be astronomical.
Elle [9:16 AM]: There's got to be some kind of dinosaur DNA store. I want an extended warranty. If it turns out to be a big dinosaur, you'd better believe I'm taking that sucker back.
C[9:17 AM]: "uhhh...sir....yes, i'd like a refund on my dinosaur"
Elle [9:18 AM]: DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A MINI DINOSAUR TO YOU?!
C [9:18 AM]: hahahaha
Elle [9:18 AM]: And then the dinosaur eats him. So I consider keeping him for a little bit longer, because he'll eat anyone that pisses me off. And that saves on food.
C [9:18 AM]: true
Elle [9:19 AM]: but in the end, he's a HUGE DINOSAUR and that's a lot to deal with. RAWR.
C [9:19 AM]: wow, you have this all worked out. You are obviously ready to own a dinosaur.
Elle [9:19 AM]: You'd better believe I am. As long as it's little.
C [9:19 AM]: let me know how that goes
Elle [9:20 AM]: I will. I'll just have to keep it away from Josephine [C's cat] because as much as he'd be half the size of her... he might just eat her. It would be quite the hair ball.
C [9:21 AM]: then i'd be pissed. i'd kick your dino to the curb, man.
Elle [9:21 AM]: I wouldn't blame you.

We've heard one too many over-used pick up lines

I haven't been to a bar to shake it like a Polaroid picture in some time. One of the last times I put on the high heels and sauntered out of the house while showing a bit of cleavage to entice the fellows was way back in the summer of 2007 before I realized I had a colossal crush on the Boy.

I remembered this story when my friend and I were contemplating locales for drinks on Friday eve. One of the possibilities (Stir!) used to be Overtime. A bar we discovered that summer because it was a) within stumbling distance of my apartment, and b) a mid-twenties crowd -- we were sick of drunk 18 year olds... a side effect of the low drinking age in Alberta.

You better believed we picked up that night.

We don't do one night stands. We don't do skeezy boys. You can do it, I don't judge, it's just not my style. We had been chatting up cute Maritime boys, recent imports to Alberta. It was a situation Roomie and I remembered all too well. We all giggled together at the fact that their female friend was making out with a really short boy, really hard. And then, when the night was over, Roomie asked Twinsie and I if we wanted them to come back to our place.

Duh, duh, duh.

We tumbled out of the bar, and I collected my flip-flops from underneath the porch of a nearby commercial building -- an act that made the boys' jaws drop in awe. "What? I'm not walking home barefoot, and my feet hurt", I commented while holding up my beautiful houndstooth heels. Apparently they were impressed with my foresight.

We discussed the Maritimes, being new Albertans, and trash-talked how badly we were going to whoop them at boys versus girls Cranium when we got home. Roomie made after-bar snacks, we had a couple more drinks, and laughed until nearly 5 in the morning, when we proceeded to send the boys home with hugs and the exchange of phone numbers.

We hung out with them a few more times, and talked fairly often, later befriending their sweet female friend, who had been too busy making out to play games with us. It was a legendary night, one that would be later be referenced in that time we picked up a girl at the bar. Memories like this one remind me of summer, good friends, and how refreshing it can be to meet those who aren't about hooking up at bars, but who are truly about getting to meet new people.

That, and I miss flip-flop weather. *sigh

Not quite the first

I've already told the tale of my first kiss, but it's Monday Memories day, so I thought I'd share my second.

I went into tenth grade with a plan. The Ontario government had decided that it was doing away with OAC (grade 13) and that the year I finished highschool would be its last. This decision would result in a dramatic influx of students graduating my year, and because I am not fond of competition, I was going to get out fast. It would mean a lot of trickery, like taking my necessary grade 13 credits in grades 10-12 and taking grade 11 and 12 English at the same time. It would mean missing out on things that I would have liked to do, but that weren't necessary courses to take, such as photography and family studies (aka the class where you carry around the screaming doll). I wasn't in love with highschool, so the thought of getting out in four years rather than five worked for me.

Grade 11 English Writing (which I took that year, in grade 10) was quite possibly my favourite class ever. Mr. B was the most hilarious teacher, he once forced my grade 9 class to purposely snort while laughing just to send us on a laughter rollercoaster (once you start laughing at people snorting, the laughter is impossible to stop), he opted to have us act out the whole of Midsummer's Night Dream rather than doing any grammar, he plied my friend and I with chocolate-covered coffee beans when he spotted us in the hallways, and we had a class where we did nothing but turn out the lights and tell ghost stories. With my love of writing, and my adoration of him, this class was bound to be a success. I didn't even anticipate meeting my first "official" boyfriend there (more official than having your whole relationship last the length of recess, or longer, but without actually hanging out or talking, as was the style in elementary school).

Brent was a comedian with a sensitive side. We sat beside each other, spending much time reading Matt Good's manifestos, and chatting, and not quite so much time writing. This was fully acceptable in this class. I worked with Brent's ex-girlfriend. Customers constantly mixed us up, thinking that they had been talking to one of us when really it was the other, regulars would think one of us had been working the longest shift in the history of coffee-pouring, merely because we looked somewhat alike. It didn't hurt that we both had the hideous uniform and a ponytail. Sarah and I became fast friends, and it's only 900-and-something days until I'll be walking down the aisle at her wedding as her Maid of Honour, a job she bestowed upon me because "any trouble we got into we did it together, so I know you won't give yourself up and tell embarrassing stories about me!". She ended her relationship with Brent because she had a thing for one of his best friends, the man she'll be marrying in July of 2010.

Apparently, Brent saw the similarities in Sarah and I. As we started to hang out in a group, he started spending more time around my locker and wrote me love notes. One day, he had a pack of SweetTarts in class, and I took a blue one when he offered, telling him that they were my favourite. The next day, he brought me every last blue SweetTart that he had uncovered in the roll. It was the sweetest thing my 15 year-old self had ever experienced. It was young, dizzying, puppy love.

My aunt and uncle lived in town, and I'd stay there when I had to work in the morning, to save my parents the trip. It became routine that he'd walk me back to their place after hanging out with the gang. We flirted constantly, he poetically attempted to woo me, the only thing stopping us from being an out-and-out couple was the fact that he didn't have the nerve to break up with his short-term girlfriend. I know. Me, being the good girl I was, refused to let him make a move while she was in the picture.

Eventually, she found out that he liked me and took care of things for him. We were in the clear. The butterflies that had accumulated all of that time had been easy to tame with the constant reminder that he was taken, but now that there was nothing restraining us, those assholes were fluttering around all over the place. One night, he walked me "home" as per usual, stopping to kiss my hand and be his charming self, and we sat on my aunt and uncle's porch for hours talking. Hours. As the sky started to lighten, he finally got the nerve to place his lips on mine. And that's when the bathroom light went on and I nearly jumped out of my skin thinking my aunt or uncle would come outside looking for me. God forbid they find me outside kissing a boy! A couple sweet, innocent kisses later, I was sneaking into the house to catch a couple hours of sleep before work, completely infatuated.

Our little relationship didn't last long, as I don't take peoples' crap and he ended up being fluent in bullshit, but those moments of anticipation and innocent flirtation made my little heart beat, beat, beat.

Putting the 'fun' in dysfunction

The ugly sweater party was a blast. I was voted ugliest sweater and I didn't even rig the voting process! I had first, second and third place prizes to award. All booze. Good times. Also, the present swap was a fabulous time, it got a bit more interesting near the end when people started stealing presents from each other... which is how I got a sweet 80's Bon Jovi poster. Framed. And "autographed". Swoon. Though quite a few of our usual party guests were absent, we were blessed with a very full condo full of friends new and old.

Boy, oh boy, am I ever looking forward to two 5-day weekends. As soon as we get the go-ahead today, I'm leaving the office and heading to Cypress Hills, Saskatchewan with the Boy to see his fam. Secret: I hope to see another moose. I met his parents on the Labour Day long weekend in September when we traveled down to Cypress to help them move. Not the ideal situation to meet parents, but it worked out rather nicely. As I was kicking the Boy's ass at bocce, we had a mama moose and her baby cross in front of us. Boy pulled out the soccer-mom arm save to ensure that I wouldn't be attacked.

Me (jaw on the ground): Wow. Just wow.
Boy (arm shoots out): Don't get too close or you will DIE!

Anyway, that's where I'll be for the next four or five days, hiding out in the park, maybe venturing outside at some point depending on how bloody cold it is. After another two days of work upon my return, we'll be heading to Canmore to ring in the new year in the Canadian Rockies. I am so excited.

Work has been a madhouse lately, which has been completely unexpected. So crazy that my boss called me at work to make sure I was going to come in today, because she needs me. Hopefully we'll have some admin staff back soon so we don't completely lose our minds.

Happy holidays blogosphere. Wishing you much love, laughter, and good times with friends and family this holiday season.

The REAL city that never sleeps

Even though we slept a lot (because we're old and lame like that), it seems as though Vegas is the real city that never sleeps. A city full of stimuli and decadence. High-end designer shopping, lots of food, drinking on the streets, smoking in the casinos, gambling non-stop, the lights, the noise. It was interesting to experience, but I am glad to be home (though it feels like I'm going through nicotine withdrawl).

We walked from the Imperial Palace to Mandalay Bay on a 6-hour round-trip trek through casinos, reveling in the fact that I was able to get a sunburn at a time of year when I'm usually immune. All that walking is enough to make your body ache, let me tell you.

For our anniversary, Boy had bought me [us] tickets to see the Beatles' "Love" Cirque de Soleil while we were in the city. The costumes, the dancing, the special effects, the acrobatics, the music... it was all absolutely stunning. I highly recommend it.

We gambled -- sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but never very much of either. We took in the sights, traveled to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and had a good time on our first real "vacation" together. A trip that was purely designed for pleasure, not to see friends (though we did) or family or fulfill any kind of agenda. It was glorious.

Also, side note: it's weird to see Christmas decorations all over the place where there's not only no snow, but it's not even remotely cold.

Eff YOU, Expedia

The travel itinerary, as of today (four days after the great flight debauchle of 2008) says that the plane we were to be on left Edmonton at 8:40 a.m.

When we were at the airport on Friday, we were told our flight didn't exist. This was after we were told by the airline (Air Canada) that they didn't even deal with Expedia in the first place. The airline that we were to fly on (we were directed here by the folks at Air Canada) was United, a company Expedia said they didn't work with (they told us it was US Airways, US Airways confirmed that Expedia is on drugs).

After calling Expedia's customer service line, we found out we were booked onto a flight at 6:22 a.m. Customer service apologized profusely, admitted their error, and offered to reimburse our flight change. Then they gave us flights for Air Canada, which we could not book because Air Canada doesn't deal with Expedia (hello, CONFUSION).

Boy called Expedia back to try to sort out the flight thing. Again, customer service admitted their mistake and apologized. Then, offered to put us through to the flight people to get us booked on a flight right away (out of Expedia's pocket). Awesome.

Not so much. The flight people proceeded to tell us that it was our fault. That they sent an e-mail saying that the flight had been changed and it's our own fault because we didn't contact Expedia to confirm the change like we should have. I was pretty sure that I hadn't seen anything telling me to call Expedia.

Boy spent much time bickering back and forth with the Expedia agent, who refused to give him over to a supervisor or manager. As he was passed around from agent to agent, telling us we were in the wrong and we were trying to screw over Expedia, all we had was the itinerary we printed out pre-flight that said we were to leave at 8:40 a.m. We didn't print out the previous e-mails discussion a flight change, it's only reasonable that our latest itinerary would reflect any changes. After being apologized to by customer service, these flight people were being asshats. And they blamed us for not knowing that they had two systems in place to e-mail people (um, how were we to know?) and that we should have known something was wrong because it takes more than 40 minutes to transfer planes (I've transfered at the Winnipeg airport in under 10 minutes).

They didn't want to help us out, everyone in the airport knew of our issue with Expedia. A little old lady on her way to La Guardia, commented on the Boy's patience, strength and how Expedia was being absolutely unreasonable (she could overhear the conversation). So Boy paid the fee to change planes, in addition to a fee for a checked bag (pardon me?), and we told Expedia we'd deal with them later. We were frustrated and wanted to get on with our vacation (even if it was going to be five hours late).

Turns out, we were right. We didn't need to confirm anything. Direct from the e-mail from Expedia when they changed our flight time:

Dear Expedia.ca Traveler,
We have received notice from Air Canada that they have:
* Made minor changes to your itinerary
This change could mean a difference in departure or arrival times and/or a change in flight number on one or more of your flight segments.
Expedia.ca has accepted the updated itinerary, reflected below, on your behalf. It is not necessary to call us to confirm this change.

This updated itinerary was no where to be found outside of this e-mail. Logging into my account online provided the updated return flight, but not the flight to Vegas. It said we were to leave at 8:40 a.m.

I will never book anything through Expedia again. It was a ridiculous hassle to deal with them, and I don't really like breaking down in the airport because they're being jerks and it's early in the morning and dear-God-I-haven't-even-had-my-coffee-yet. I don't know what I would have done without the Boy. Well, probably cried a lot more than I did.

The flight home was better, but not by much. US Airways = an airline that makes Air Canada look good. Yes, they make the airline that overbooked my flight home for Christmas, bumped me from that flight, made me hang out in the airport for 8 hours on the possibility I might get on a flight other than the one my luggage was on, look good.

A broken plane, waiting around for them to fix broken plane, de-planing, re-planing on a different plane, no beverage or snack service, the least comfortable seats ever, no movie, and you have to pay to check a bag? Insanity.

Flights were bad, vacation was pretty good. But that's another blog. One that I'll write after I upload some pictures to share.

Real Mary hits Edmonton

My good friend Mary and her lovely hubby were in town this weekend to visit with the Edmonton contingent of the Western PR crew.

We suffered heinous service at 100/Hundred on Friday night. Bimboed staff were flitting around the restaurant in their extra-long tank tops sans pants, though it seemed as though our bimbo was no where to be seen. The food was great, the service was poor. Thankfully, we got on the discussion of "If we were the New Kids [on the Block], where would be we right now?" [The much-loved boy band is in Edmonton for their tour stop at Rexall.] Inquiring minds didn't lead us too far, but it lead to a discussion about favourite members of the boy band and how Donnie was the one all the trashy girls like(d). We concluded we needed a little help from the master, and wandered across the street to Sherlock Holmes' pub, hoping to at least get a few tips from Watson.

Saturday night was a flood of rum, vodka and pink cupcakes as a pre-birthday for Ms. Mary herself. The night was split between drinks at Roomie's and my downtown condo and a pub down the street where we did some shots and drank beer in bulk. At 5:30 a.m., we finally called it a night.

Yesterday, after much complaining and a lot of water, Roomie and I pulled ourselves together to head to the Jubilee to see Hairspray. The show was fun, hilarious and made us want to sing and dance. The Jube's new parkade leaves something to be desired, however, as it seems they didn't account for the fact that all vehicles would be coming (and later, going) at the same time. If you get the chance to see Broadway Across Canada put on the show, I highly recommend it.

[Mis]adventures in dating

Since Kaye has been on a dating binge lately, it’s been making me look back on my own dating [mis]adventures.

This morning, as I was crossing the street on my way to work, I spotted a guy who looked so much like one of these hilarious dating disasters I was immediately transported back to high school.

I like my boys nerdy. I don’t think it’s a surprise to anyone. But this boy had recently traded in his coke-bottle glasses for contact lenses and had the bluest most beautiful eyes my teenaged heart had ever seen. He was smitten with me, and because I had nothing better to do, I gave him a chance.

We didn’t do a whole lot other than hang around while waiting for our respective parental units to pick us up from choir practice. We may or may not have grabbed coffee with a group of other people at Timmy’s, we met up at a party where we went with separate groups of people. Usual high school things. We went on our first, and last, real date one evening to see a movie at the small theatre in town.

The J.Lo. flop The Cell was playing and we were the only people in the theatre. About ten minutes into the movie, the lights went on and remained that way for the remainder of the “film”. It was awkward to say the least. No funny business took place. I was a goody-goody book worm, virginal and pure.

But that’s not what he told his friends.

In a small town, in a high school where everyone knows everyone, it’s probably not smart to brag to your friends about something that never happened. Telling your friends that the girl you took out was all over you, and detailing the dirty things you wish she had done, is so not cool. Needless to say, I found out about his lies and refused to go out with him again.

That’s when the real fun started.

He didn’t want to accept that we were over, while I refused to acknowledge that we had even started. One night, after choir, he handed me a stack of loose leaf papers. Handwritten journal entries. About me. Only with my name painted over in Wite-Out. Also, anywhere that he had written “date”, he painted over and replaced it with “meeting”. I don’t know what he attempted to prove by giving me these private letters to himself, but they were absolutely hilarious.

And I showed them to all my friends.

Old friends in the new city

Technically, the city is no longer new to me. I have been here since July 12, 2006. My health card has long since been an Albertan one, my driver’s permit was traded in earlier this year. There’s not a whole lot which still screams “Ontario” about me. Not unless you talk to my friends anyway.

Then, it’s the slightly southern accent (from southern Ontario? Personally, I don’t get it), the use of 2-4 (as in a 2-4 of beer, or May 2-4), celebrating Pancake Tuesday, chicken souvlaki from a trailer, tales of university days gone by, a longing of maple trees, Mustang pride (see related: love of Andy Fantuz), knowing that a snow storm is not a snow storm until you can’t see your hand in front of your face… oh, and those old Ontario friends.

One of those old Ontario friends, from my Western PR days, is coming to visit with her hubby in a mere nine sleeps. Mary, from Real Mary Tales, is making the trek to see the Edmonton contingent of the old PR crew.

This tall, buxom blonde and I used to get into a world of trouble. Upon breaking the news to her about my pending desertion to the Canadian prairies, she thought for a second and then exclaimed, “Well, we need to go out every day you have left, so my liver is sick of you by then!” We only lasted for a couple of nights, but created enough laughs and debauchery to last a while.

Since that, the week my liver has been trying hopelessly to forget, Mary has visited Edmonton on one whirlwind visit, and Suz and I visited London on another… to celebrate Mary’s birthday last year around this time.

It should be a marvelous reunion; I can hardly wait to experience, first-hand, more stories for Mary to blog about!