Alaskan Death Flu and Debbie G.

In the timeless words of Monty Python extra John Young, cast in his classic role ‘The Dead Body That Claims It Isn’t’: “I’m getting better!” But oh, have I been sick. Spine aching fever sick. Cold sweat shivering sick. Raw mangled throat sick. While technically undiagnosed by a medical professional, I insist that I contracted the rare ‘Alaskan Death Flu’, brought back from the northern wilds by my current houseguest, Mr. Philip Westoby. Damned sailors! Always spreading disease from port to port. At least this one has the decency to hold over for a few days and care for the woman he’s infected with cold compresses and the like.

I stayed home from work Tuesday and slept for 17 hours. It was awesome. The only thing I bothered to wake up for was a delirious stagger along Bloor to pick up brunch, reading material from the Beguiling, and medication from Shoppers. Yesterday I went back to work, and I think I can honestly say that never before has the OPS received less value for their money. I was so doped up on DayQuil that I looked like the new poster-girl for zombie chic. People coming by to drop off file folders at my desk kept fidgeting with their bangs and sideburns, doubtless worrying that I hungered after their brains. Mmmm… brains.

Now I have to get my recuperation on, since there’s a lot of stuff happening in the next few days. Joe Sacco is talking at the ROM tonight, and I bought my non-refundable ticket last week so I’m going come hell or high fever. And this weekend is all about Paul & Amy’s wedding in Belleville. The wedding should be… interesting. I’ll be sharing a hotel room with my friend Chrissy, whose birthday party I nearly unforgivably missed last Saturday. You see, my burly men-folk and I had already been out celebrating Edward’s recent birthday at Las Iguanas with Mexican food and margaritas, so I lost track of time and needed a reminder, in the form of an aggrieved phone call from the birthday girl, that I ought to be at HER party at the Bull & Firkin. Well, three phone calls, actually. But I digress.

The exact details of how my wardrobe change happened are pretty foggy, but I recall offering up my all-time worst outfit as a sort of apology for tardiness. There had already been some cheeky garment shenanigans earlier in the evening, when Phil brought forth his trove of pirate treasures from Alaska, including a large quantity of salmon, booze, chocolate, and oversized tacky souvenir t-shirts. I immediately set to defacing my t-shirt, which was a lovely grey cotton XXL number featuring a cheerful red and yellow tugboat on the front. First, we trimmed the dangling, elephantine sleeves to make a fashionable cap-look and stylin’ gloves from the excess; then, we tackled the ballgown-like length, trimming the front up to my waist and snipping the back into a retro tailcoat divide, to add some swing to my sling. The neck was widened slightly to allow for décolletage, and extra fabric from there made a Karate Kid headband that screamed “who wants some?” I wore that outfit up to Bloor Street, but it was decided that I needed to be even more garishly attired to really show myself as a penitent soul. Like a hair shirt, but uglier.

My Mum, bless her, has a gift for finding the tackiest possible item of clothing at any given garage sale. Even more disturbing, they always seem to fit me. One of her more recent discoveries was a pair of 80s cocktail dresses, complete with flared ruffle skirts and tight, low-cut bodices. It was a close call, but in the end the yellow/red/green toucan-and-hibiscus dress lost out to the acid-wash denim/white-lace Debbie Gibson number. I got corseted into the couture of choice, donned a pair of jeans underneath and a beaver fur coat on top for warmth, called a cab, and within moments arrived at the Bull. I sat at the bar and made merry with old friends, while the gents amused themselves with pool and video golf.

My act of contrition was a success: Chrissy forgave me, after dishing out some mockery about the eye-popping amount of cleavage that my slutty eighties attire cantilevered into view, and making several obvious but well-deserved comments about my beaver. We drank cider together and all was well. Our hotel room this weekend will be a space of peace and harmony, not a hotbed of bitterness and revenge. Now if we can just keep from saying or doing anything really out of line at the reception…

Today I am listening to ‘The Teaches of Peaches’ and reading Michael Chabon’s ‘The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay’.

Pre-Boarding: How the NY Weekend Began

(Saturday and Sunday entries will be posted in a few more hours, with photos! Sorry about the wait, I caught some sort of cold in NY and I feel woozy and icky.)

First, to catch up, I’ll have to backtrack to Thursday night. That’s when the madness really began. Christie called at quarter to seven, sounding as though she’d pretty much given up on life, since she’d experienced a hellish day at work, that was quickly devolving into a hellish evening at work. She wanted martinis at Blur, and she wanted lots of them, pronto. I zipped over to meet her as quickly as I could, bringing Ed and Jamie as cheering squad. We proceeded to soothe her troubled brow by mocking her cooking skills.

I must admit (and never let it be said that I casually or without good reason talk shit about my mates) she has mad skillz, but not so much with the cooking. I believe the phrase “Ah, spaghetti! Incense for the poor,” nicely summarizes a recent attempt on the part of my beloved girlfriend to combine Italian and Cajun cuisine by actually setting spaghetti on fire. This, following closely on the heels of a spectacular experiment involving microwave popcorn in an innovative Emeril-styled melted plastic sauce, which I will refrain from narrating to protect the dignity of the innocent. But I think I’ve proved my point.

The bar hopping continued down to Sneaky Dees and then over to the Free Times Café, at which point we remembered that it wasn’t actually Friday yet. Oops.

Estimated hours of sleep on Thursday: 5.5 —- Inebriation level: high

Friday night was Dr. Darcy’s housewarming. Our genial host made it different from your boring, run of the mill housewarmings by actually assembling large sections of his house before our very eyes, including his stereo and light fixtures. There was, of course, a large crew from the chemistry department there, and a number of University College alumni. The UC kids exhibited their smarts by migrating out onto the freaky “shimmy-shimmy shake” sixteenth floor balcony, which conveniently overlooks a large cemetery near the DVP. Darcy grimly pointed out that it was a very “no fuss, no muss” set-up if anyone got a little too drunk and decided they could fly. At that point I decided to abstain from the booze and retreat back inside.

Also at the party was my friend Dr. Aly. Now, I’m no hagiographer, but it seems to me this guy should be shortlisted for sainthood. We got to talking about our coming weekends, and I mentioned I was taking an early flight to New York the next day. He asked how I was getting there, and I told him that due to budgetary constraints I was planning on going home to pack, then taking public transport to the airport before it stopped running, then sleeping in terminal 2 until check-in at 5am. He offered to give me a lift. I mentioned this would mean driving at 4:30am. He shrugged his shoulders and said he’d call when he left the party.

After picking me up at my front door and letting me nap in the passenger seat on the way to his house, he then went WAY above and beyond the call and served me a three-course dinner at 3am (I’m not even making this up), let me have another nap while he stayed awake drinking Diet Coke and studying for his med school exams, and finally drove me to Pearson on the silent, empty highway at the ass-crack of dawn.
I wish to go on record as saying, Aly rocks the mostest.

Estimated hours of sleep on Thursday: 2.5 —- Inebriation level: medium

On to New York…