The game’s over…we lost, but it was a high scoring game, so lots of interesting stuff happened. On the way out, we run in and out of the street like crazy women, trying to find a taxi that will take us five minutes to the Hilton. One finally will, but nearly kills us in his haste to drop us off and head back for another fare. Literally, saw death breathing on my neck. Seriously…no drugs…REALLY GUYS!! >: (
We go back up to our room, add more eye/lip makeup for a “night” look, and change. Lauren looks super cute in dark glittery capris and a black boat neck top…very classy and hott. I, on the other hand, slut it up in pink and purple lingerie camisole, jeans, and super high heals. Lauren makes several comments about the size of my breasts. Eh, what can I say, I’m a little girl, and when I’m premenstrual, the things take on a life of their own. We decide to enlarge them with some creative shadowing. Amazing, who needs augmentation when you’ve got bronzer?
As planned, we head down to Barristers Bar and use our comps. First round is champagne, which we cheer to ‘good life, good love, good luck, and good friends.’ Second round gets switched up a bit…Lauren opts for a pint of something…and I get crazy and order a cabernet sauvignon. We watch in diluted horror as the bartender—who, ahem, has some sort of glass eye or something—tries to open wine bottles. I say tries, because I don’t think he opened one out of five. The two men to my immediate left are discussing some website that is completely about poo and scatting.
My goal in life at this point is to a) not think about poo, b) keep Lauren awake, and c) decide whether or not it’s rude to ask the bartender if he wants help…in that order. A couple rolls in…I *hope* intoxicated, speaking in BLATENTLY faked English accents. Like, really, really bad, my friends. Lauren perks up after that, hitting me with a few great snark filled observations.
At this point we’re trying to figure out what to do. My phone rings, and I don’t recognize the number. I answer it, thinking it’s my uncle—who lives downtown—calling to hook up for a drink. I start talking to him with the intent to meet…then he says something, and I have no idea who it is I’m really talking to. I’m thinking it’s this bouncer/security guard guy who has seriously left me six messages with no return calls from me. Come on dude, that’s just embarrassing for everyone. Realizing that I’ve given our location, I freak out, and back petal, hanging up the phone as soon as possible.
Lauren and I head to the concierge to see if they’ve got any recommendations for lounges nearby. (It’s cold, so we don’t want to walk far.) The guy asks us what kind of music we like. I tell him we really aren’t going out for the music, and just want to chill and do the ‘lounge’ thing. This is the conversation, pretty much verbatim:
Concierge: Lounge?
Me: Yeah, you know, like, drinks/chill/have conversations.
Lauren: Places to sit and not scream over the music, possibly small dancing area, you know.
Concierge: ???
Me & Lauren: Like, a place where young professionals go.
Me: Where most people are over twenty.
Lauren: Yes, no children please.
Concierge: What, like a Yuppie bar?
Me: Uh…I guess…
Lauren: Is that an actual category in your little computer look-up thingy? Yuppie bar?
Concierge: (shifts his weight from foot to foot while Lauren stares him down)
Lauren: Yeah, didn’t think so.
Concierge: Would a jazz or piano bar be okay?
Me: If that makes it easier for you, go for it.
He runs away, and my phone rings…same random number. So I hand the phone to Lauren…who realizes it’s her friend in from DC—Kevin—whose number we forgot to bring downtown. He’s taking the subway down and wants to meet us somewhere. We still have no clue where we’re going. Things start to get a little sketchy, as my tiredness and Lauren’s tiredness and Kevin’s arrival puts a whole new spin on things. This is not helped by the concierge…who brings me the names of two piano bars twenty minutes away. Frustrated, tired, and cold we head down Queen Street to find our own entertainment. Yeah, still nothing. I call MGFM, whose definitely “got company”. I try to ignore the random shouts from guys—most of which is not in either national language (English and French)—wandering past us as I try to figure out MGFM’s directions. We find MGFM’s recommended club…but it’s definitely a too cool for school place…and LOUD, not the best of places to meet up. Eventually, we find some random divey place, meet up with Kevin and head in. I figure we’ll be around for awhile, so I offer up round one. I get a vodka martini, Lauren a bottled bear, and Kevin a gin and tonic. We do a lap, walking up the stairs…back down the stairs…around the eating area…and end up sitting at the bar.
Kevin and Lauren play catch up…I try to find something interesting to look at, because I can’t hear what they’re saying. As if this weren’t bad enough—for my insecure retardedness—my martini is the worse thing I’ve ever tasted. You DO NOT use bottom self vodka for an effing vodka martini. Absolute is acceptable, but Grey Goose or similar is expected. So, I’m trying to choke down the bad drink, looking around, when I find my savior up on one of the three TV screens.
You see, an interviews going on. There are three guys on bar stools. Now, the two on the outsides are reporters or whatever, but the guy in the middle is a hockey player. I’m guessing—because the sound wasn’t loud enough to hear over the music—that the player had just finished a game. He’s sort of disheveled looking…and a little too sweaty for TV…all of which would have been perfectly acceptable…if not for the fact that he’s wearing gym shorts…short, gym shorts. And he’s holding a cup—of water?—right in his lap. The guy looks naked from the waist down. Not only naked, but naked and trying to cover it with a cup. I burst out laughing and share my observation with Lauren and Kevin, which brings me into the fold. We hang until 2ish, ordering no more drinks, then head back to the hotel.
I wanted food. RIGHT THEN, please and thank you. Of course, room service after 11pm is not so accommodating. Frustrated, I flop down on my bed and flip through local restaurants to see if any have late delivery. We have an awkward moment where…uh, how to say this?…it’s obvious that Canadian television is much less censored then US. After that, Lauren and Kevin become mesmerized by the “Magic Bullet” infomercial. For nearly an hour, I listen to them mutter things like, “Look, you can do salsa! I would do salsa!” and “Oh my gosh, they’re cups too! With color coded screw on lids.” See, this is one of those situations where it really was funnier if you WEREN’T there. After they pondered ordering it and splitting (because if they ordered in the next fifteen minutes they would get two sets of everything), I start frantically searching for something sharp or metal to stick into my brain...
Right about then, we wrap up for the night, Kevin catches a cab home, and Lauren and I settle in to our cloud like beds. I sort of have this moment of…I donno, uncertainty mixed with insecurity, maybe...anyways, not a good feeling settles in to me, and I wonder if Lauren regrets coming…I try not to think about it and go to sleep. Then Lauren calls out from her side of the room. “Thanks for bringing me, Christine.” I smile and fall into dreams.
Morning is much more shocking then I would have liked. We get a false alarm—haha, literally—when the radio clock turns on at 7am…my phone is set to go off at 10:30, so neither of us are pleased. One of us…I’m pretty sure it was Lauren, figures out how to shut the damn thing up and we get the next three hours. My phone goes off, and I feel like two seconds ago Kevin left. Lauren, obviously feels the same because she’s not even pretending to think about getting up. Groaning, I climb out of bed, do the standard morning stuff and switch my plaid pj pants for jeans…I would have gone down in pj’s but Lauren did not approve. We hit a hitch when Lauren, for the fiftieth time, kicks the metal bed frame under the mattress. This time, it actually hurts, and she’s down for the count for a little bit. You’d think—considering her height and all—that it’s just a big foot thing. No, no, my friend, Lauren has cute feet that I would say are small for her size. You see, the frame doesn’t line up with the bed, so the depth perception is off a bit.
Eventually we head down to the restaurant, where we get a free buffet breakfast, and I eat far, far too much food for someone of my stature. Lauren steals cream from the next table. I’m starting to see a trend here, really. I mention it, and she nearly kills me with death ray eyes. Adding to the splendor of the moment, is the fact that the table behind us, is being photographed. Honestly, do you have to do that with the place full of people? Can’t it wait? No, apparently not. After a rousing discussion about what—exactly—ROOTS is, we head back to the room and get ready to leave. I turn on show jumping…a sport few people can handle on the best of days. Lauren goes into commentary mode and I’m thinking again about getting the girl her own show.
Right at noon we check-out and make the drive into Scarborough. I make a quick stop to grab some allergy medicine and Lauren uses the opportunity to pick up some Canadian candy. We get in to my place, greet the grandparents…who get a rundown of our day and the game and such, before releasing us to drop our bags and get ready. Lauren gets a taste of Canadian humor with a really hilarious Pop Tart commercial that would get lost in translation if I wrote it here. We freshen up, Lauren showers…we straighten our hair.
Next time on Running Commentary: “Meet the Guyetts” and “MGFM should really be M-V-GFM”
Quote of the Moment: “I've been to Canada, and I've always gotten the impression that I could take the country over in about two days.”
Soundtrack of the Moment: A mix cd I made back when Napster was free and legal…
TV/Movie Quote: From Cruel Intentions, “God forbid I exude confidence and enjoy sex. Do you think I relish the fact that I have to act like Mary Sunshine 24/7 so I can be considered a lady? I'm the Marcia fucking Brady of the Upper East Side, and sometimes I want to kill myself. So there's your psychoanalysis, Dr. Freud. Now tell me are you in, or are you out?”
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