Monday, May 9, 2011

Ooot and abooot

Today I blog to you from a foreign land.  Out of the country.  Far, far away.

But not really. 

I am just in Canada, land of the hockey-loving maple leafs.

Aside from a few trips up to Montreal as a teen (hello, age 18 drinking laws), my perceptions of our friendly northern neighbors were predominately based on comedians and TV shows.  

Imagine my surprise when I stepped into the city of Toronto and did not see a city falling apart due to socialized medicine (and GASP, I was even at a medical conference.  People were not being hospitalized in hospitals with falling apart ceilings.  They look just like our pricey US hospitals.), folks were not walking around drinking maple syrup out of jars in the streets, nobody was wearing head to toe denim.

Just about the only two stereotypes I did encounter were that the Canucks love their hockey and they love, love, LOVE to say "oot and aboot." (Eh?)

I am having a great time in Toronto, a city with so much diversity and culture.  Who knew?  I assumed that Canada, like all of it's snow, was a white country.  But even that is not true.  I am headed out tonight (in 65 degree weather, no snow in site) to Little Ethiopia to grab dinner.  I could have chosen little Afghanistan, Little India, Little Portugal...but when in Rome, errr, Toronto (3rd largest Ethiopian population in the world)...

Funny story about my visit to Canadaland...I am here for business.  Which is nice and lovely.  But ironically, my dear friend, Clayton, was here visiting as well.  Within SECONDS of arriving at the Toronto airport (another weird thing--the airport, though EXTREMELY small, is on it's own island in the middle [edge] of the city) dear old Clayton started calling my cell phone every 3 or 4 minutes.  Even after I told him "I am being detained at customs, I will call you when I get through," or "I am on the bus to my hotel, I will call you when I am in my room," or "CLAYTON, I AM CHECKING IN AT THE FRONT DESK, I WILL FUCKING CALL IN YOU 3 MINUTES WHEN I AM IN MY ROOM!"  Still, the Dbag kept calling to see where I was.

I finally made it up to my room, in between answering the phone and wiping my brow from lugging 60 pounds of luggage across the city, and I told Clayton I needed to hop into the shower and I would meet him downtown in 25 minutes.  Exactly 25 minutes later, I called him back to say I was walking downtown and...he had already left and gone to the apartment he was staying at.  That Clayton, he is a gentleman, I tell ya.

I eventually made it to said apartment (he called me 3 more times while I was in the cab.  Speaking to my nice Ethiopian cab driver) and found Clayton surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women.  I immediately asked Clayton (tall, dark, and handsome) how he felt being surrounded by so many gorgeous gals.  He just smiled a big smile.  I told the group of ladies "Don't worry, girls, just tell him you are all lesbians!  Then he will not bother you." 

They all smiled at me and said "we ARE all lesbians."

Insert foot in mouth.

Cut to hours of Clayton and the lessies drinking heavily for hours.  I head back to my hotel, perfectly content after discovering apple pie vodka, but certainly still coherent.  I wash up and fall asleep happily in my large hotel bed.

And then Clayton starts his phone calls again.  I got a call at 1:04 am.  Then another at 1:54 am.  And 1:55. 1:56.  2:01.  2:02.  I ignored them all (duh) but the next day found out from my mother that Clayton had called there at 2 am as well (It is important to note that I have not lived at home with my parents since 2006...).

And the next day, much like all of the other men in my life who do stupid drunken things in the night (please refer to my last blog entry), Mr. Frat Boy himself had not a single memory of his drunken dials the night before.

Even "overseas" I cannot escape the drunk escapades of my male comrades.

That's it for now,

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