The Longest Day of the Year

I knew my travel day was going to be long, because I have seen a map and understand the distance/time relationship between Portland and Copenhagen; but, 20 hours is a lot longer than it sounds.

I have known-traveler status and pre-check on my trips so I got to the airport about an hour before my flight from Portland to LAX. What I hadn’t counted on was Alaska requiring me to see a desk agent instead of using a kiosk to get my boarding pass, nor the long-ass line waiting for the desk agents. I put on my best puppy dog eyes and apologized to the desk agent about skipping into the first class line but could she do me a favor? And, in fact, she could.

I whizzed through security and got to my gate just in time for my flight to be delayed by an hour. On the flight to LA I ordered coffee. I figured my best bet for fighting jet lag in Copenhagen was to try and sleep very little on the flight and then when I got to Denmark at 22:00 I’d be ready for bed. I am really thankful that airlines serve coffee at drinkable temperature, that way it burned less when three seconds after my coffee was served I spilled it all over myself, my carry-on and my neighbor. My second cup managed to get mostly in my mouth.

LAX is now in my top 3 of worst airports ever. When I got off my plane there was no gate agent and the departures board did not list my flight to Heathrow. My boarding pass had no information about what gate I was at because I had gotten it way before there was a gate assignment. I wandered around looking completely lost for about 15 minutes before finding a gate agent. As I approached the counter the window behind him glared sun right into my eyes and I was blinded. I blinked for a second, opened my eyes and the gate agent, like an oasis in a Bugs Bunny desert, disappeared. I turned around to see where he’d gone. I looked behind the counter to see if he’d ducked out of sight. I turned 360 degrees again and there he was. It was like Alaskan Airlines had hired David Blaine to help me find my connecting flight.

He sent me to the Tom Bradley International Terminal, which was approximately in San Diego. I got my steps for an entire month at LAX, and got to my gate just in time for my flight to be delayed by an hour. When life gives you lemons, do yoga. I went through a yoga routine from my new favorite yoga app, Daily Yoga – turns out yesterday was International Yoga day, so it was appropriate. Also, I was in LA – so, really….

I snuggled into my plane seat, turned on some podcasts and played stupid games on my phone until about midnight. Then I watched the new Triple X movie – Vin Diesel is my new boyfriend, sorry Andrew. Then I watched Jack Reacher. This may be controversial, but I love Tom Cruise. The movie was totally mediocre, but Tom Cruise – he’s a good actor. In fact, other than Eyes Wide Shut, I cannot think of a movie he is in that I have seen that I did not enjoy. I totally want to hate him because he’s a Scientologist and a nut-job (redundant, I know), but, I can’t. He’s really good at his job.

I got three hours of sleep on my flight and it was early evening in London. Normally, Heathrow is the worst – it, in fact, is also in the top three of my “the worst” airports. Maybe because my expectations were so low, maybe because I was tired and not feeling super feisty, or probably because my departing flight was in the same terminal as my arrival flight, I had a breezy time getting through customs and getting a salad and coffee just in time for my flight to be delayed by an hour. For those of you math wizards at home, you would think that 3 one-hour delays would mean my 20 hour flying day was 23. However, you are not taking into account that airlines lie about how long flights take so that they can make up time in these cases, and all told my arrival was only 30 minutes later than I had expected.

For those of you comedy nerds at home, yes, that is the third beat – which meant it was funny instead of frustrating.

I got to my gate to board my final flight to Copenhagen and felt like I was in the Redwood Forest. Every single person getting ready to board was at least two heads taller than me, and blonde. It got me a little excited in a way because I just assumed that the seats in the plane would have more room, I assumed wrong. Those poor Danes, if I’m uncomfortable on a plane, they have to be in agony.

I got through customs rapidly, got in a cab and headed to my AirBnB. I asked my taxi driver, “What is one food I have to have while in Copenhagen?”

“Shwarma.”

“I’m sorry, I must be having trouble understanding your accent, it sounded like you said shwarma, like the Middle Eastern dish.”

“Yes, shwarma.”

Then he proceeded to tell me all of his favorite shwarma places near my AirBnB – common theme: they are all called “[someone’s name] Shwarma House”. To be fair, when I walked around this morning, I could not actually walk a block without seeing a shwarma or kabob place.

My AirBnB is on the 6th floor of a 5 story walk up – they don’t count the first floor landing. I settled in after chatting with the landlord. I asked him how to pronounce Copenhagen (is it cope-in-HAY-ggin or cope-en-HAH-ggen?). He laughed at me immediately and said that either one is fine, but that it is coop-en-HAWen. He walked me around the very spacious apartment, then showed me the bathroom which is a closet sized shower with a toilet inside – very efficient.

I slept in until 4:30 AM, when I realized I hadn’t eaten since my LAX salad. It’s also when I realized that while I am excited about this adventure, I am a little overwhelmed. I want to do a lot of things; but, I am in a strange place alone and have not yet learned to navigate it all. I think today if I make it to the gym and the grocery store and don’t go to sleep until night time, I am going to count it as a win.

How Nice

I think when pressed for reality, as opposed to being funny, my friends would say that I am a nice person. I care for my friends and am compassionate towards acquaintances and strangers alike. When I go out I generally tend to entertain people with witty banter and jovial jibes.

But, Florida, I have met my match.

People here are aggressively friendly. They go out of their way to be nice to each other and it is unnerving.

Two days ago I went to the nearby Starbucks and somehow the lady at the window cajoled my life story out of me and then bonded with me over being from Oregon (she was from Salem, has been here for 5 months and seems to have forgotten that 60 degrees and sunny is shorts weather and not wrapped-up-in-3-layers-and-shivering-like-a-chihuahua-in-Alaska weather). Yesterday while out with my sister the same woman recognized me at the Drive Thru window and chatted both of us up until half our coffees were gone. I think she’s coming over for dinner next week.

Later that day, my sister, Tamar, started pulling out of a parking spot and didn’t look both ways. She immediately had to stop because someone was trying to pull into the open spot next to her. They both stopped moving and had a five minute wave off until Tamar finally pulled out of her spot and then waited for the other lady to park and get out of her car. Then the two of them had a 10 round apology-off. They were just shy of flagellation. No one was the winner.

Then we went to the grocery store. I had to use the restroom while Tamar continued shopping. When I got back we were already checking out and the woman in front of us saw me get behind Tamar in line. She then proceeded to ask me if I’d gotten over the culture shock of being in Florida and how my boyfriend and three cats were doing at home and if my appendix scar from when I was 8 had healed well.

I turned to Tamar and asked how she knew this lady.

“Oh we just met. But we shop at the same Publix!

525,600 Minutes

How do you measure a year? Is the opening day/week/month the tone setter? If so, Andrew and I are very likely fucked.

It’s only day 3 and already we need a roofer, an arborist, a plumber, a sports medicine specialist, a masseuse, a fireplace person (do they have a trade name? if not, I propose chimcheree), and a cat-analyst.

Two minutes into the New Year and Andrew and I were on our First Run 5K in downtown Portland when he started feeling like he was going to cramp. He pushed through and we found a steady pace. On the last 50 yards, however, we basically had slowed to a walking speed while looking like we were still running. I was having visions of Andrew pulling a Sian Welch & Wendy Ingraham – impressive on an Iron Man finish, but maybe a little melodramatic for a 3 miler. He pulled through and we high fived, concerned that a lip lock in 25 degree weather might make getting back to the car inconvenient to say the least.

To be fair, both the arborist and roofer issues stem from the wind storm prior to the new year. We’ve attempted to get the roofer out here by calling and making an appointment for them to come out – one would think this would suffice in getting a roofer to come out – they were slated for December 26th. But, Legit Roofing never showed and didn’t call. Then they called the next week and said the reason they hadn’t shown was no one was working that day because of the holidays. This was a lie as I work ou right next door to them and had seen them in their offices on the day “no one was working” with the open sign lit up. But whatever, we needed roofers, they stated they would come by that same day but again never showed and never called.

This just goes to prove my theory that you need to beware of choosing a company with a suspicious name. For example, if they have to say they are legit in their name, it is likely they are not legit – and in fact are the opposite of legit. Same goes for selecting a restaurant – if the sign says authentic Mexican food avoid that at all costs, it’s not only not going to be authentically Mexican it probably won’t be food.

The problem we are having with getting an arborist out here is that they don’t know we want them. We (read: Andrew) have not called to make an appointment yet. And so, we have pieces of tree debris in our yard and the bottom half of a wind shorn tree still standing back there begging to become firewood.

Speaking of firewood… a friend of mine came over last night to knit. I started up a fire in our fireplace and about 20 minutes later the entire house (especially the bottom floor) was filled with smoke. unsure what to do I opened the flue for the bottom chimney (the fire was in the second floor fireplace) and that really helped – if by helped I mean added far more smoke into the house.

I was certain that we’d need a chimcheree to come and shake our hand and step in time, but it turns out after we (read: Andrew) did some Googling that it’s just that our house is too well sealed. The two flues go up through the same chimney. Because the fire needs to pull air to burn it pulls it from wherever there is less of a seal – that’s the second flue. But that flue air the house is pulling in is right next to the smokey air coming from the flue that has a fire burning in it. All we need to do is crack a window open when having a fire so that the fire can breathe. This seems a bit counter to having a fire, but Andrew says it’s fine and I have now had a physics lesson – so it can’t be that bad.

Because the cats seemed to be getting along a little better and Widget and Pixel even started playing together a bit, I moved Pixel’s cat litter downstairs near the other boxes. While down there I noticed a puddle of water in front of the washing machine. I got a little excited and called Andrew down for inspection.

I have been wanting a new washer and dryer ever since we replaced our stove, dishwasher and microwave last year. There was nothing wrong with what we have, but new appliances are kind of sexy. But now there seemed to be something wrong with the washing machine. I was giddy with the thought of a front loader when, after further inspection, Andrew broke the news to me that there is actually something blocking our piping system and the downstairs shower has four inches of water in it too. No new washer for us. But I have made certain that the landlord (read: Andrew) is aware that a plumber needs to be brought in.

Meanwhile the kitten was too dumb to remember where we’d put his litter box and peed on the bathmat which we couldn’t launder because of the plumbing issue. So the litter box moved back upstairs.

So, in the end, I’m not sure, is it better to get all the bad stuff out of the way at the top of the New Year, or is this a sign of more bad things to come? One thing’s for certain, whatever does come about, you’ll hear it here first.

 

Snack Attack

About a month ago I accidentally discovered my new favorite snack. Andrew and I both like beets. They take forever to cook though, even though we quarter them (bake with olive oil and salt and some rosemary). So in the interest of saving time, I sliced up about 4 beets put them in the oven and promptly forgot about them until Andrew asked me what was burning (about an hour and a half- I think).

Turns out, what was burning was the ingenious snack of beet chips. I tossed them with a bit of olive oil and salt and we Hoovered them down like Kobiyashi bolting hot dogs on the Fourth of July. I tried making them once again before we left on our cruise but didn’t manage to forget about them in the same way so they were a little soft. I am attempting them again tonight.

Because of my recent stabbing injury – with my middle and ring fingers taped to each other I look like a reverse Vulcan* which is totally appropriate due to my lack of logic – I am a little knife shy and put the mandolin to use . Unfortunately, it slices too thin and we don’t have the right width extension (about 1/8″). While slicing the beets with the butcher knife I thought how bad it would be to cut myself because I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between blood and beet juice.

On the last beet I found out that was wrong. You can totally tell the difference between blood and beet juice. Not so much in color; beet juice stains, blood runs.

This cut is also on my left hand, just a little nick in my pinkie. In light of this, I have about +3 degree of difficulty in typing and have blog-leveled-up.

I am going to try to make it to the New Year with no more injuries. Wish me luck, a lot can happen in one week.

*Reverse Vulcan also sounds like an incredibly difficult gymnastics move or a sexual position. Wait, I think I just came up with a great game.

Sometimes I Get a Little Stabby at Christmastime

Edward Scissorhands eat your heart out. I am now Hadas Vajhand.

It started innocently enough – as all tales of self mutilation do. I was making a smoothie on Christmas Eve Eve (12/23 for those playing at home). Andrew and I agreed to get a new kitten and I was on my way to pick up my girlfriend who was going to help in the selection process mostly by making all the squees in stereo with me.

My smoothies are generally a mishmash of fruit, veg, and nuts. This day it was banana, cashews, kale, almond milk and half of an avocado. However, once I cut the avocado in half I saw it had a ginormous pit and not much avocado, so I decided to put the whole avocado in the smoothie. I was having difficulty getting the pit out so I stabbed it with my knife point instead of blade.

I am not sure how familiar you are with avocado pits; because they are shaped like an everlasting gobstopper, one might assume they’d be as firm as one. In fact, they are surprisingly soft, and with a sharp knife and an affinity for klutziness, one might pierce right through a pit and into ones own left hand in between the middle and (never again going to be a wedding) ring fingers.

I looked at what I’d done and immediately started screaming bloody murder. There wasn’t any pain, I just had never seen so deep under my skin. For those of you who don’t perform surgery or watch surgery shows, I can tell you that under our skin we humans look a lot like chicken meat. Andrew raced out of the conference call he was on to see what had caused me to howl like a Banshee. As he was approaching, in my mind, I quickly went through what I knew about shock symptoms to see if I was experiencing any of them so that I could talk Andrew through treatment if need be.

Andrew is great in a crisis (he’s had a lot of practice), but the thing is, when I injure myself (frequently) my main concern is the comfort of those around me. I don’t want to cause concern or fear. So, if shit was about to get real, I wanted everyone to be prepared.

Although the gash in my hand was about 1/4 inch deep nothing was really concerning me about the matter. I stopped screaming and asked Andrew to get some gauze and tape. As he came back from the bathroom I turned ghostly. In his hand, along with the bandaging equipment, was a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Somehow I convinced him that water would suffice to clean the wound and worst case scenario if it were to get infected I could take antibiotics or have my hand amputated but that would be much better than Napalm Peroxide.

Andrew offered me a ride to the ER which I declined because as a current unemployee I would have to go to the VA and if we’d gone there, I would miss prime kitten acquiring time and probably Christmas and would likely be there through the New Year before being seen. I opted for home remedy gauze and finger taping, finished making my smoothie – a girl’s gotta eat – and headed out the door to collect my friend.

On our ride to the humane society I told her of my morning stabbing and she convinced me to contact ZoomCare. I made an appointment for 1:45 finding it hard to explain to the person on the phone that I cut myself but not in an emo way.

We got to the humane society and found out the kittens were getting their bits surgeried and would not be available until 3. We grabbed a cup of coffee and went to ZoomCare where I proceeded to unwrap my fingers and look inside my bloody gash (and if you read this in the British way – that’s exactly what it looked like) while waiting to be seen.

My bloody gash. Or Vajhand if you prefer.

ZoomCare lavaged, glued and taped me up gave me a tetanus shot and sent me on my way.

We headed back to the Humane Society where I almost got a full size cat instead of a kitten because he was so sweet and cute and fluffy and a little bit drooly.

Drool Cat

But I instead fell in love with and got this kitten:

Meet Pixel

His name is Pixel.

We knew Lola and Widget would not really love him at first, we are hoping they will grow to love him. In the interim, we now have first hand practice in case we need to deal with one of them getting a little stabby.

Klutz Out of My Pants

Andrew’s office is almost done. I love the colors we chose a beautiful purple and a buttery beige. During the painting everyone has had to modify a lot of their daily rituals. Andrew moved his office into my craftroom/office; Lola and Widget reached a detente after about three days and that room seems to have become Lola’s hang out space with Widget being allowed intermittent visits. These visits usually take place while Lola is helping me paint Andrew’s office. She has managed to get the primer and beige on her. I am assuming the purple just doesn’t contrast enough with her black fur for me to notice where she inevitably dipped herself into the paint.

My craftroom/office is also where I have books, important paperwork, extra bags, yarn, scale, games, clothes that don’t fit in our dinky closet space, and other tchatchkies that I have yet to find a place for or the gumption to get rid of. I have to negotiate around Andrew sometimes, but I am probably usually more cautious than need be. In fact he has explicitly told me to stop knocking on the door and just to come in when I need to.

During my work hiatus I have not only taken up painting the house and working out more, Andrew and I started trying meditation and are on a 12 day streak. We use an app called Calm. We went through the 7 days of training and are now at 15 minutes a day. The meditation is guided, which means we are often reminded to stay in the present, to let our respective bodies feel heavy, and to stifle giggles when the soft voice says buttocks (we’re 13 year old boys). Meditation time, no matter when we do it, is also the exact same time that Widget wants attention. She could be in the dead of sleep, but will come out to scratch on whatever seat Andrew is on when the meditation music starts.

Andrew and I have also started reading a minimum of 15 minutes a day.  This “rule” is really a tactic to get us started at reading each day. For me it has reawakened my inner bookworm and I have been staying up a little (a lot) late (the wee hours of the morning) to read. Last night was one of those nights I stayed up – which made this morning one of those mornings where I slept in.

Andrew woke me up at 8. Then again at 9. I laid in bed until 9:30ish reading some more until he gently coaxed me out of bed so I could get to my appointment. Then he went off to the bathroom. I got up, went into my craftroom/office for my morning scale shaming and then headed to the bathroom. As Andrew was coming out of the bathroom and I was going in I jokingly said, “You weren’t on a video conference in your office, were you?”

He looked at my naked body and said, “Actually, I am.”

I was mortified. I had just walked in front of his meeting. In. The. Nude.

“But, I muted it when I got up, so you’re probably good.”

Probably.

Killing Me With Kindness

I should have probably been more cautious when my friend, upon hearing of my job loss, offered to pull me out of my misery with a visit to Chicago. But, timing was right and, after all, she is a “friend”.

Don’t get me wrong, Chicago was fantastic. I saw some good improv and got to perform as well. I really enjoy big cities and as soon as I got there I longed to stay for good. There is something comforting to me about the pace of the city and the coziness of the skyscrapers.

Next time I go, I will just have to be more cautious in my lodgings so as to prevent choosing accommodations where the host is actively trying to kill me.

It started relatively innocuously, an offer of bagels in the morning with a cheery, “Oh, I totally forgot that you are gluten intolerant! What does that do to you again? Oh, anaphylaxis! Mmmm, sorry.” But, after the 5th day of being offered wheat products (at almost every meal – followed by giggling), I had to reconsider whether this was a mistake or a mission. There was also the morning cup of coffee retrieved from the building lobby. Sure, at first blush, this seems a lovely gesture until I open it and see the cream inside – though, to be fair, me having milk is as bad to those around me, as it is on me.

Then there was the consistent feeling of pending asthma attacks as I slept. It wasn’t until the 4th day there it was divulged I was wrapping myself in, and resting my head upon, down. How could I possibly complain about going gently into that good night – it was a cozy burrito of death.

Finally, I came down with some massive cold on Sunday. I am certain my drinks were laced with rhinovirus and that this cold had nothing to do with the man sneezing on me on my flight in.

Alas, her dastardly plan to do me in was thwarted by an impenetrable shield of ladybug luck. On my walk to the grocery store to get fixin’s for reparative soup on Monday, I came under attack – the cutest attack ever – by swarms of ladybugs. It was like the Pixar version of a Hitchcock movie. And, thank goodness! With all those ladybug luck-juices (that sounds dirty when I say it) all over me, I made it through the rest of my trip without any further incidents.

Although, I do still have that cold. And, if I am being truthful, a little schadenfreude at being the one on the plane ride home spreading the germs instead of receiving them.

Chchchchanges

One week before I started my Nike job I got into a motorcycle accident. I was merging on to one highway from another. As I was getting up to highway speeds traffic stopped suddenly. I slammed on my brakes and lost control of the bike. By the time I hit the ground I was probably going about 40MPH. Distinctly, I remember thinking, “I will ride again after this accident” as I slid with the bike for a bit and eventually came to a halt slamming my helmeted head on the asphalt.

Immediately I got up and assessed. No bones broken. The guy behind me had stopped and helped me right my bike. I was completely shaken. He called the highway patrol and proceeded to shout at the top of his lungs at anyone who looked put out by the traffic congestion I had created right before rush hour. He then explained to me that he had been in a motorcycle accident before as well.

I eventually got myself together. I called Andrew.

A: This is Andrew

(he always answers the phone like that even though he and I both know I am calling and he is answering)

Me: Hi, I am fine.

A: Uh Huh. Are you at the emergency room?

(It’s like he knows me)

Me: No. And I don’t think I need to go to one.

A: How many legs and arms are still attached to your body?

Me: No more or less than normal.

A: Okay

Me: So, there is no need to worry, but I got into a motorcycle accident. I am about to ride to my mechanic to drop the bike off and just need you to pick me up.

I drove my bike away from the scene and to my mechanic. I dropped off the key, Andrew picked me up and took me home where he filled me full of Motrin and a distinct lack of hovering or asking after me, just as I prefer it.

Eventually my bike was totaled and I bought a new-to-me bike with the insurance check.

It’s now been about 4 months. I was riding my bike to and from Nike. I was taking advantage of the summer. I was enjoying riding again – almost. Except, I was scared shitless. Every time a vehicle in front of me would brake I would over-react. Every time I was going downhill I would slow to a crawl. Every time I got off my bike my hands would be sore from squeezing the grips so hard.

Then, about three weeks ago, a woman in a Prius tried to kill me. She was upset that I had moved into the right hand lane on the highway to go slower than the rest of traffic when she had intended to go to the right hand lane to use it as a speedway. So, she honked her horn at me after getting in the lane behind me. Then she got in the left hand lane, passed me, got in front of me and slammed her brakes. I was so scared. I am still scared now. As I type this I remember how it felt to be on that bike and to really feel the aggression and anger of having someone literally try to hurt me. I followed (at a safe distance) this mad woman. I was seething with anger.

She pulled into a gas station. I pulled up next to her got off my bike and opened her passenger side door – I am not proud of these actions.

Me: I am so glad to know that the reason you almost killed me on the highway was for an important appointment with the gas station.

CFB: You cut me off.

Me: You crazy fucking bitch – you almost ACTUALLY KILLED ME.

CFB: Shut my door.

Me: YELLING YELLING YELLING YELLING SWEARING YELLING GAHHHHHHHH SHUT YOUR OWN DOOR

I have no idea what we were yelling at each other in the end – we were both at the top of our lungs. There was a lot of swearing. But, I left her passenger door open, got back on my motorcycle and drove safely home. I pulled my bike into the garage and put it up for sale on Craigslist; it sold on Sunday.

Maybe in the future I will be over the fact that I got in an accident and get the motorcycle riding bug again – I do still love the feeling of it. For now, however, I am too scared to ride safely. I was sad when the guy who bought my bike rode off.

And relieved.

Oy, Canada

Before getting canned from my job (I am getting more comfortable with this circumstance) I planned a vacation in Vancouver, BC. – just for me, Thursday through Sunday. Then I got fired and decided to go through with it anyway, and in fact, I probably need it even more so.

I have never been to West Canadia. Having grown up for sometime in Niagara Falls I am well versed with Canadian culture like Molsons, niceness and Tim Hortons, but I have heard so much about how beautiful Vancouver BC is I thought it would be a good getaway. I got on AirBnB (my favorite company – for real) and found a space for rent nearish downtown.

With no real plans I packed up one backpack with a menagerie of clothes (I might want to wear while hiking at a hip-hop club during a warm winter) and one backpack of toiletries, got in the car and headed north.

Everyone I had spoken to told me it would be about a four and a half hour drive, but it turns out everyone I spoke to is a damned liar.

I left the house at 9:30 and stopped at the Starbucks at 9:45. Snuggled up to my quad tall breve latte and The Nerdist podcasts that I needed to catch up on, I drove on. Just north of Olympia I filled up with gas. The only slowness was around Seattle at 12:30. By 2:00 in Bellingham it was time for lunch. For those of you doing the math I had hit 4.5 hours but not yet Canadia. Yes, it was near, but then Vancouver was at least another half hour after the border. Luckily I wasn’t on a schedule so I found a brewery.

I ordered a cherry cider and tried to order a Caesar salad with chicken minus croutons, but, apparently the Caeser dressing had gluten in it. Andrew makes me a Caesar salad regularly at home. It has anchovies and olive oil and balsamic vinegar and lemon and garlic and a raw (coddled) egg and parmesan – but no gluten – and it’s perfect. When the waitress came back and told me the Caesar had gluten I practically gave her the recipe to go and make me the salad properly, instead I ordered the house salad with bacon and chicken. I was thoroughly disappointed and sulking until the salad came out and was good.

But the bacon. Oh my gosh the bacon. It was cooked perfectly. The right amount of crisp to non-crisp ratio, perfect smokiness, still warm but not too hot to make the salad wilt. It was fantastic. And the cherry cider washed it all down perfectly.

Just before I got to the border I pulled over on the highway to turn my cell data off. I don’t know why I waited that long, or didn’t wait until customs where there was the inevitable line, I can only guess I wanted to look like a suspect.

I got up to the lady in the booth, handed her my passport card and silently prayed that I was the only one of the two of us that could smell nothing but cherry cider as I spoke.

She: where are you from

Me: Vancouver, Washington

She: Have you ever been to Canada

Me: No. I mean, yes! But not on this coast. Only on the east coast.

She: When was the last time you were in Canada?

Me: ummmm…  2 years ago. No! Last year in June? Or July?

My Brain: this is a lot of questions.

She: what are you doing in Canada

Me: Just visiting

She: Who are you visiting

Me: no one

My Brain: You just said you were visiting you dumbass. Jesus, Hadas, don’t you speak Canadian?!?! she’s going to think you are drunk or something

She: (raised eyebrow)

Me: I mean, I am staying with a person from AirBnB but I don’t actually know her. I, errrr, really it’s just a little vacation

She: Oh? Where do you work

My Brain: just say Nike, just say Nike

Me: Well, actually, I just got fired on Tuesday morning.

She: Oh? What did you do?

Me: Security…. I mean, IT security…. For Nike?

My brain: Why are you asking her? Oh my god, she thinks you’re drunk. Are you drunk? We are going to get arrested.

She: (handing me back a yellow slip and my ID card) Pull over to the left and hand this slip to the man standing there.

Which I did. Then I parked, grabbed my phone and purse and key and went into the lobby where I was summoned to the counter. The customs agent started grilling me like I’d been grilled outside only this time he was repeating questions like where did I live about four or five times. He asked me if I lived alone and why my boyfriend didn’t come with me and then when he found out I was driving my boyfriends car asked if he would find any of my boyfriend’s things in it.

Me: ummm maybe? There might be like some tire chains and maybe a yoga mat in the trunk.

My Brain: What a stupid question, everything you find in there is his. Unless it’s mine… DUH

He: I mean something illegal

Me: Hahahaha. Oh, you’re serious… ummm… no.

My Brain: They don’t think you are drunk, they think you are a drug mule. God I hope I don’t have to go through a strip search.

He: Okay. Go sit down.

But instead of going directly to sit down, I decided to do the one thing to make myself even more suspect than I already was and asked for the bathroom. I blame the cherry cider.

After about twenty minutes of rummaging through the car and my bags, customs determined I was not the drug mule they thought I might be and sent me on my merry way. I made it to Vancouver and my lodging safely.

Now off to find Tim Hortons.

Love Sick

Andrew and I have been dating for close to five years. We were discussing this a few nights ago and the fact that we don’t really have an anniversary.

Andrew: Well whatever it’s about five years, happy anniversary, or non-anniversary

Me: ooh naan anniversary is that five years of dating?

Andrew: I suppose it could be any flat bread

Me: Happy pita

Andrew: or Matzoh

Me: Here’s a Ritz cracker

We’ve really got our schtick together. Andrew and I are still going strong and what I have noticed is that our relationship has changed over the years (not unexpectedly). We’ve moved in together, grown accustomed to each other’s quirks, can practically finish each other’s jokes but most importantly (and likely most frequently) he has grown accustomed to my levels of distress.

The first time he saw me truly hurting was in a bicycle accident four or five years ago or so – back when our relationship was still new. I injured myself pretty badly and writhed around on the ground howling for a bit for good measure. Andrew’s first question back then was a panicked, “Are you okay?” his second, “Should I call 911?” My respective responses to him were, “I am fine, stop pressing on my hip.” and “If you dare, we are breaking up.” or something similar.

Now the years have gone by and last night as I lay writhing on the hardwood floor naked from the waist up trying to cool myself off and convince my seemingly semi-monthly food poisoning to subside, Andrew just left me to be and only came by when I called him to see that my cat Widget, alarmed by my mewling, had laid on top of me and started flopping her tail in my face. Not to make Andrew sound like a monster. This is the care I prefer. Take note I am dying, then leave me to doing it.

After what seemed like an hour, I got up and did my best Linda Blair impression into the kitchen sink (I figured the disposal would be beneficial in clean-up) and it really was a close variant of Linda in that the last thing I’d eaten was spinach salad, so the verdant color was close, if not a perfect match. Andrew steadfastly stood within a rooms length and cooed poor baby-s at me now and again.

When I finished I cleaned up and went directly into couch-fetal position. Andrew came by, sat next to me, patted me on the head and asked the first question, “Are you going to be okay while I go play hockey?” See, he really gets me!

This was followed closely with, “I feel like I should post this on Facebook because our friends like to be kept up to date on your health and well being.”

Well, I guess Andrew still has a little more to learn about me; because, as I told him last night, he is absolutely, not even a little bit, allowed to spoiler my blog.