New-FUN-land

Welcome to the Rock! Let me just say that I am so happy to have been to Newfoundland. It is beautiful, and quite unlike anywhere I've ever been.

We arrived Thursday morning, after a big rush to the airport (we were woken not by our alarm clock, set to give us a comfortable 45 minutes of getting-ready, but by the taxi driver buzzing up ...ack! ...run!) Cabbies on the Rock blathered at us in a bibbity-bobbity of language that made me think of early days in Glasgow (was that English?) Hotel overlooked the pretty little harbour of St. John's. We went up Signal Hill, not realizing it was a foggy day, and took pictures of ourselves peering into the thick cover. Went on a boat tour, saw some Minke whales("There's one over Starboard! Quick, everybody Starboard!" "Look! There's one on the Port side! Everybody Port!" Beth, standing in the very centre of the boat: "Where do I go!?! Where are the whales!?"). Got Screeched in; Had to eat some nasty bits of Newfoundland, kiss a cod, and say something in bibbity-bobbity.

We were really there for Ken & Sue's wedding though, and the main event did not disappoint.

The freshly-married lovely couple ...heading out into a fine, sunny Newfoundland afternoon.

The ceremony was deliciously short and sweet. Yes, I teared up. I'm just so darn happy that those two crazy kids got together. Afterwards, we had a wee bit of time to explore St. John's.

At the comic book store. Not only did I give them their first real-live-girl sighting in ages,

I was all dolled up, so it was a good one, too.

KFC.

Buying a lottery ticket. Somebody's getting lucky tonight...

First dance.

Ice, Ice Baby!

Bride and Groom gettin' down.

Those Newfoundlanders sure know how to throw a good party.

One more fun thing about the Rock - a couple of nights we were able to take in the George Street Music Festival. As far as I could tell, it was more of the George Street Mess, or George Street Drinking Festival. I did hear a couple Celtic bands in some of the bars, but I figure that happens anyway. Everybody now: "Her eyes they shone like diamonds..."

Pet peeve of the day

People who call and don't leave a message.
If it wasn't important enough to leave a message about, clearly it wasn't important enough to bother making my phone ring in the first place. I am a notorious call-screener. I'm using that call-display technology to the max. Please avail yourself of my answering service.

Five days on Georgian Bay

Two hours to Honey Harbour. Careful or you might end up in Orillia.
Overload the Boat Taxi. Don't worry, that cargo is mainly booze.
Luck out with the best campsite ever. Private beach. Big dock.
Sure we're on the way to the outhouses, but it means we get to meet our neighbours.
Is it beer o'clock yet?
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
There are cockroaches in these woods. What is up with that?
The dudes build a fire.
Have a hamburger.
Have a baked banana. Mmmmm....banana...
Boat of old folks invades our dock. Lady stomps right through our campsite on return from outhouse, causing outraged silence and thoughts of violence.
Jump off the dock - Last one in is a rotten egg!
Jump off the cliff - Overcome your fear - There is no spoon!
Catch another sighting of the beer-drinking beast. He moves real slow.
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
Giggle.
Read a book.
Operation Tan-Bum is in effect.
Was there a rain storm last night? Didn't notice.
Go for a hike in the woods. Be attacked by viscious biting insects.
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
Play Euchre. Eat Trail Mix and Pringles.
Have a six-person communal bathing experience. Be surprised by a floating raft with two little boys on it.
Read a book.
Sit in the hammock.
Jump off the dock - Kung-fu fighting, yoga poses and synchronized cannonballs.
Watch the sunset.
Last night just with the girls. Too much wine and tons of giggles.
It's sad to head home, but at least rock out with 80's pop in the car.

Yonge Street Pub Crawl '06

Yonge Street is the longest street in the world. It's a thousand miles long. The life-long goal of the ambitious Yonge Street Pub Crawlers is to have a drink in every drinking establishment along it. Last year, they started at Lake Ontario. This year, we joined for the second leg - Rosedale to Eglington. Sure, it's a mere four subway stops, but it's also a long, hot day of drinking.

The crew marching up Yonge Street. Not even half-way yet.

A respectful drink outside the Mount Pleasant Cemetary. Not a pub or bar? We don't care.

Woo hoo! I'm drunk in the middle of the day!

I always make this face in self-portraits when I've been drinking.

Dunno why. Ask me next time I'm drunk.

Here it is again. This time with Kramer.

Another bar, another drink, another few feet up the street...

At our stongest, the group took over an entire patio.

It's a titty-bar, but a bar nevertheless.

I am so bored of being drunk.

Eric, the organizer/instigator.

At this point the drinking has become very goal-oriented.

Like, let's all have a shot and please keep moving along...

The final stop: Historic site of Mongomery's Tavern< /a> .

Gimme one last drinking-face!

The last shot. Can I go to bed now?

Aren't I groovy?

I tie-dyed my own t-shirt! Check it out!

I knew I was supposed to do something...

Why does my condo hate me?

Last weekend, while to-ing and fro-ing up and down the elevator to our parking-garage storage locker, I had TWO residents of our condo building ask if I was "new to the building". New? I've been here for THREE YEARS. I smile when I pass you in the lobby! They hate me. I just can't figure out why.

Sure, my transition into the Midtown Address was not the smoothest. First, when J and I were just dating, and I would stay over lots but only just barely had a toothbrush moved in, the doorman used to confuse me with Beth, who actually did live in the condo with Jon, as J's roommates. We elicited noise complaints when I helped J assemble some Ikea furniture at midnight (everybody keeps different hours!). Then, when I did move in, I had to make certain adjustments from my old 'hood, The Beaches.

What you wear when you pop out to the corner store:
Beach: Sweats and flip flops.
Midtown: Twinset and pearls. If it's sweats, it better be Lulu.

Type of dog:
Beach: Family friendly big shaggy lab.
Midtown: Snappy little purse-dog.

Workout:
Beach: Cycle or jog outside on boardwalk.
Midtown: Choose one of FIVE membership gyms on the corner.

Neighbours:
Beach: Family whose kids you went to school with.
Midtown: No idea. Never see them. When you do pass them on the street, they ignore you (I'm talking about you, 702. I know you recognize me, bitch. The fact that our headboard hits the other side of your living room wall is all the more reason for you to be friendly. I'd be friendly if I knew the frequency and duration of YOUR sex life!).

Speaking of neighbours, one of my first encounters with some of the other people on my floor was early one Sunday morning. I was coming home from a party (I have only a few memories of the party. One of them is kung-fu fighting in the kitchen, barefoot, with Jessica), in that funny headspace between drunk and hungover, and I'm in the elevator still clutching my not-quite-empty bottle of Absolut (hey, if it's BYOB, chances are I'll be BYOBringing it back home with me!). The door opens and there they are - a middle aged couple in matching electric blue jogging suits. The brightness of their cheery attire causes me to wince and say "whoaaa" before collecting myself and saying "hi" bleerily. So, not off to the best start. But really. Who jogs at 6 AM on a Sunday?!

I have to point out that the whole building loves J. They smile and wave at him in the lobby, listen raptly to his suggestions at condo board meetings, and they even wanted him to be on the board (considerable, since he would be the only board member under 50). I'm thinking it breaks down like this: He's "that lovely boy in 703" and I'm "that hussy that lives with him".



This was confirmed for me at last summer's Condo BBQ. I went, despite my impulses which urge me to never be a joiner, in order to maybe make a few friends, or at least be friendly. I was also hoping that the only other potentially cool person in the building - the girl across the hall from us whose name I can never remember - would be there and I could re-introduce myself and we could hang. We got there promptly (big smiles for J, confused glances for me), helped set out the buns, grabbed some grub and looked for somewhere to sit. There's a really weird dude that lives in our building. He's like 300 pounds. Sometimes I see him out late at night smoking in front of the building. He's got bulging eyes, and he always wears an overcoat like a crazy homeless person. He stares. But I figure, he lives in our building - which is totally not a halfway house or subsidized housing for mental patients - so how bad can he be? I plop down at his picnic table, say "hi" and then we eat our burgers in uncomfortable silence. Meanwhile, our next-door neighbour -- the one who came over to complain that her cats were freaking out from the noise of us installing some shelves, not at midnight, but midday Saturday like normal people -- the one I can only assume is an old maid -- the one with the how-did-she-slip-that-by-the-condo-decorating-committee-ugly-doorknocker -- was chatting up J. She was actually sitting right next to me, not once making eye contact or even acknowleging my presence. I'm like, okay, Ugly-doorknocker-lady, you is GONNA talk to me. I throw myself into the convo. After a little bit of chatting, the following happens:
Ugly-DoorKnocker: So, Um, I don't know quite how to say this... Do you, live with...?
Me: (cheerily) Yup.
I let her scandalized silence draw out.
Me: We're engaged to be married next spring.
Ugly-DoorKnocker: Oh! Isn't that nice.

Why does that make it okay?! And do I meet with your approval as a suitable match for your beloved young gentleman in 703? Do I? Or is all the camping gear, camera gear and hockey gear that you've seen me hauling in and out just a little too much for you?

All this is building up to this year's BBQ. I'm going. I'm going to be wearing a sweet-as-pie pink sundress. I'm going to bake freakin' cookies. I am no longer satisfied with being the rebellious outcast. I am going to make them love me. LOVE ME.
And then I'm going to rip their hearts out.