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St. John’s got dumped on by 35 cm of snow today, so the roommates and I stayed inside, lit up the fireplace, made pea soup and dumplings, drank minty tea, and decorated the household.
Then we decided we had to share our holiday fun with our loved ones!! If you guys would like me to mail one of these family photos to you, please email with your name, address, desired photo size and a cheque for $20/photo.
You have no friggen idea how hard it was not to laugh through this. I couldn’t stop doubling over with tears streaming down my face, it was just so ridiculous. The best part? People are totally taking this seriously on Facebook.
Ridiculous weekend. Updates later.
I came downstairs this morning to find three men passed out on my futon, spooning each other in suggestive positions, and scantily clad in their skivvies.
George Street Fest has begun. Let the shitshow commence.
I have discovered that camping is a lot better when you’re surrounded by good friends, coolers filled with beer, and an endless supply of wieners as opposed to 30 or more children.
Friday evening, my writer friends and I packed up our gear and went. Impromptu and carefree. We headed to Fitzgerald’s Pond Park in Placentia, about an hour outside of the city. We were pleased to find our sites located near the beach.
We set up our tents and immediately started a fire, then spent the next several hours singing filthy campfire songs and roasting marshmallows and weenies. In an attempt to maintain my new, more responsible lifestyle, I only drank six beers before passing out at 2 a.m. The others stayed up until 5.
The next morning, KJax and I awoke bright and early for a refreshing swim in the pond. I lost feeling in my body from my va-j-j downwards, and only managed to swim for twenty minutes before I called it quits. Plus the little fishies tickling my nether-regions were a bit alarming.
By the time we headed back to town, I felt incredibly satisfied to have finally done something outdoorsy. I can’t think of a better aroma than the thick scent of campfire smoke mixed with greenery.
Anyway, from the wilderness to the club scene…yesterday marked Chef’s 24th Birthday, and so I was forced to party my ass off despite only having two hours of sleep. As soon as I came home from camping, I crashed face-down on my bed for two hours and awoke in a puddle of drool.
A few of us headed to Chef’s friend’s place for a joint-Birthday celebration. Most of the people there were from Iran, and boy do they ever love their Persian dance music. The party host had even bought a smoke machine and some strobe lights…I haven’t seen those since my first year of university! But they were a jolly crowd and really dominated the dance scene, so we all had a blast. Until I felt myself approaching SEIZURE and had to sit down for awhile.
We journeyed to The Loft, then Lottie’s which alarmingly smelled like fecal matter. But fuck we love that place! The White Stripes never gets old.
And then, after arriving home for bed time, I was trying to close the bathroom door and discovered it was broken.
“I’ll help!” said Chef, and with all his strength slammed the door shut with a violent crash. ON MY FINGERS.
I screamed bloody murder and fell to the floor grasping my hand, then rolled around in exaggerated pain. The truth is, I have an extremely high threshold for pain, and it actually didn’t hurt at all. But HOLY FUCK my fingers should no longer be attached!!!! In fact, I woke up today and they were just fine, WHICH CANNOT BE POSSIBLE. I am made of STEEL, don’t fuck with me.
Well, it hurts to touch my fingers and there’s a rather large, purple swollen area around my knuckles. But I can still type. At the time it happened, all I could think about was “OMG I’m gonna get fired!! My fingers are my livelihood!!!!”
So here it is, Sunday, and I am officially taking a social hiatus. For five days. I do not want to be involved in ANY shenanigans for FIVE DAYS, until the official kick-off of the George Street Festival. And at that point some of Chef’s friends are visiting for the weekend, and I might fall off the celibacy wagon.
Well first I have a coffee date with PAB, and Muffin and her friend are coming for a visit…but THEN I’m on a social hiatus. Yep.
Brit over at Blunt Delivery has bestowed an award upon me, which let me tell you, is probably the greatest thing to happen to me all year. Not even kidding. The fact that someone out there actually enjoys reading about my life is beyond pleasing. Plus it couldn’t have come at a better time, when I’m feeling a little wiped out and down in the dumps. THANKS Brit, you totally made my day! Now if only I can figure out how to display said award.
Oh yeah, where was I? Canada Day rocked my world.
I spent all of Wednesday scrubbing the house from top to bottom with TOR, who then accompanied me for a walk around town and a plate of nachos on the deck of O’Reilly’s. I had absolutely no intentions of partying, as I felt like a grease-monkey.
But then Chef’s friends were short a letter for their “CANADA” shirt-team. I don’t even know these guys…I went to France and when I came back, my friends had been casually replaced with a whole new slew of boys. Anyway, they didn’t really have to twist my rubber arm or anything.
So we headed downtown and TOR and I both agreed we would stay out until 12:30 at the latest. And just one beer. We stumbled home at 2:30 a.m, completely hammered.
The street was still open for the festivities, so we decided to do some bar hopping. First, we stopped at Whiskey to show Greener our support. We repeated this throughout the night: we’d stroll into a bar, scope out the scene, and after a few songs, we’d casually line up in front of the band.
Each time this happened, it was like sudden chaos erupted. People started dancing with us, snapping our pictures, and cheering us on. And at each bar, a spontaneous game of limbo underneath the Canadian flag broke out, completely at the suggestion of the other partiers in the bar. Even if there were just five or six people in a pub, we rocked it hard. Somehow we ended up at Konfusion, where TOR and I danced the skank plank. I haven’t done that in YEARS.
BEST NIGHT EVER. Totally prepared to take on Spirit Fest tonight. If you remember my entry about Beer Fest, it’s much the same thing…except with cocktail dresses and spirits. UNLIMITED BOOZE.
Last night was officially the best night I have EVER had on George Street.
Taking over the bar + limboing under the Canadian flag + having bands dedicate songs to us = amazing. Details later.
I cannot tell you how much I freaking love this house. I am home.
Saturday, the three of us dropped about $600 on household items. Most of it was stuff we actually NEEDED, but Chef did buy a large barbecue and all the accessories. Him and Hickman spent several hours assembling it today, and then we barbecued some giant sausages and had hot dogs. I love sausage. Mmm, sausage.
Yesterday, after the shopping was done, we decided to host an epic feast for Hickman and DirtySailor since they helped us move/drove us around. We picked up a shitload of groceries and let Chef work his magic. So while TOR and I assembled the futon (after trying THREE TIMES already) and moved around things, the boys began making supper. In this household, we believe in equality.
Supper took four hours. We actually did not sit down to eat until 12 a.m. By then, I was completely shitfaced because I drank a six-pack of non-light beer, and there was a party in full-swing at our place (well, by party I mean10 people). And since we have no table, we had to spread everything out on the floor to eat. I don’t even know what I ate, all I remember is spicy Italian sausage quiche. Again with the sausage. At some point, the alcohol seized my brain and I lost all recollection of the remainder of the evening.
I went to Whiskey’s with the gang to see Greener’s band’s debut performance. Crashing Carmine is their name. It was fantastic, I think. I had a blast, I think. I did dance a lot and drink a lot because Beer was there and he enjoys shoving Molson Canadian down my throat. Jagerbomb’s Dad was also there again to witness my ridiculousness, but hopefully I was smooth. I didn’t vomit anywhere, at least.
I enjoyed WALKING HOME from George Street. My God, I fucking love living here. Love love love it. Sketchy neighbours aside.
I am NEVER moving again. I am here for fucking life. I don’t care if my roomies hate me or if I hate my roomies, I am staying. It’s good that I came to this resolve at this time, because I love this place anyway and I don’t miss my loft at all.
Moving was a nine hour ordeal. Chef and I loaded all of our belongings into the U-Haul, which was also supposed to hold TOR’s stuff, but ours took up all the room. So we had to drive halfway across town to pick up TOR and the new house keys, drive all the way downtown, move all of our belongings in, and then head back to get her stuff. We loaded the U-Haul with her belongings, drove back to my old apartment to take apart my futon, drove to the OTHER SIDE of the town to deposit TOR’s old bed with its rightful owner, then moved all of her stuff into the new apartment.
Epic. Totally fucking epic.
But we’re here. My body is screaming at me. The palms of my hands are bruised. I have open sores and wounds, and bruises on my legs.
Everything was tossed in the living room by 12 a.m., and by 1 we had dug out the corkscrew, two wineglasses, and the boys’ homemade wine (delicious, btw). We toasted to a job well done, and then shot back some Zambuca-type liquor.
Excuse me for looking like a grease monkey. It’s been a long day. More to follow, I’m about to climb into my incredibly amazing new bed so I can stare at my fireplace.
Bahaha, I love how genuinely enthusiastic my Mother is.
how are u today? excited about moving! I wish i was young and pretty and moving into a new place!
So wistful. I miss my family a lot.
Today marks a significant milestone in my life. I am leaving behind the slums of college days, and moving into a mature apartment. I feel incredibly sad about it, actually. The year at 239 has been a blast. Often I would wake up during any morning of the week to find a new body sleeping on the couch in the living room…sometimes two bodies. Sometimes I didn’t know who they were, and sometimes neither did anybody else.
We had barbecues and an enormously successful kegger. We had the cops called on us several times. The booze flowed freely and our time spent with Beer the Molson representative meant free access to all the major events, including box passes to concerts like Avril Lavigne and OLP. We drove around in the Molson van all summer and ate at Boston Pizza at least a dozen times. We owned more mongrels than we could count.
I’ve had my entire room flipped upside down, my ass slapped from forty different angles, and my va-j-j referred to as a piece of rental property. I’ve seen various lovers and multitudes of skanks come and go. At one point, there were SEVEN of us under one roof.
I’ve had a terrific mesh of roommates. Despite Chef and DirtySailor being complete strangers when they moved in, we bonded within minutes. And we didn’t even sleep together.
Jagerbomb, you’ve been like a sister to me and you’re one of the most loyal friends I know. You’ve put up with a lot of shit from me, including drunken shit and boy shit, and I appreciate it. If ever you need a bed to crash or a bitch to slap, I’ll be there. *chokes back sobs*
I’ll be without Internet for a day or two, so I apologize to my two sole followers.
Quote of the night from one of the Girl Guides: “Boys…they just don’t think.”
We went to visit a nursing museum tonight. It was pretty interesting what with the 100 year old shock therapy machines and iron lungs, etc. The woman who gave us the tour was 90-something and absolutely the sharpest senior citizen I have ever met. Nadda touch of senility. I wandered into a super cool old doctor’s office and found a bunch of antique books and old ink-wells. When/if I get my own home some day, I want an office exactly like that.
The best thing EVER happened today. We got evicted. Sorta.
I came home from work and discovered there had been some mishap with the landlord. On Howie’s way to class, my landlord stopped him and told him that we had to move out because the Chinese people downstairs called to complain that we were being too loud at 12 a.m. Howie was stunned and argued that me and him were the only ones awake in the house at that time, and we were simply watching television (i.e. he was watching LOST and I was drooling over shirtless Sawyer who DID make an appearance and told some missus “Shut it Ginger, before I shut it for you” which nearly made me wet myself because there’s nothing I love more than sexy assholes like shirtless Sawyer). So Howie proceeds to walk to class all flabbergasted and my landlord starts thinkin’ “Gee, why did the Chinese folk get their panties in such a knot?”
So when my landlord gets to our house, he decides to call up the missus who had contacted him. He asks where she lives, and she gives him a different address than ours. Turns out he has more Chinese tenants than he can keep straight. We’re all having a laugh about it, my landlord leaves, and Howie is still in class shittin’ bricks.
When he gets home, we decide to play along with it, and boy can my roommates lie. Dirty rotten liars. Not a flicker of a smile or a hint of deceit. We’re waiting for hell to break loose and Howie’s pacing back and forth talking about how he’s gonna “rip them a new asshole,” when the landlord calls.
Howie: “Hello? Oh hi. Yeah I’m home from class now. When do you want us out?”
(long pause, Howie turns to us)
Howie: “Landlord says you’re all sons of bitches.”
(cue uncontrollable laughter while the landlord tells Howie the story)
BUT that’s not the best part…oh no, not in a long shot. The BEST PART is that our landlord feels SO BAD about the torture he’s inflicted upon Howie and for some reason feels guilty about our own personal attack, he tells Howie he’s going to knock a month off his rent. Not a fucking joke. Can you say backfire?
Anyway, still funny. Ha ha. Ha.
Went out for a romantic drive with Agent-T tonight, parked at Signal Hill and took in all the pretty lights. Then we bitched about life until my throat hurt. Seems to be the theme lately.