dear 2008,

I'm not a huge fan of you, I must say. As two-thousand great as you were supposed to be, you fell short in many ways, as far as years go. I mean sure, you were chock-full of travels, and those were pretty cool. There were road trips to Quebec, New York, Atlanta, Portland, and a couple to Chicago. There were flights to Seattle, New York, and the big trip to Madagascar. You brought me some new friends who I'm grateful for, some who I'll stay in touch with forever, and others who were less exciting but who at least gave some good lessons about life. But even with all those interesting people and fun times in motion - yes, even though you brought me to an exotic country, (thank you, already, and don't get too full of yourself... can't you see I'm trying to cut you down? God, it's just like you to blow your head up while I'm berating you for your failures.) - I feel you just didn't follow through.

And so, since I am starting the new year in a new land, and will return to my own country with a new president in office, and once I do so will have a shiny new degree and will be called "doctor," and since you really gave me nothing in terms of life direction or staying power, I'm gonna go ahead and say it, as much as it may hurt. I won't miss you, and bid you good riddance.

(Okay, that may have been unfair. I might possibly miss a moment or two. And I guess I should thank you for granting me the last exams I'll ever have to take. And, yeah, I suppose all those times you nudged me ever so slightly in directions I'd be grateful for later, like landing me in Quebec City, for instance. Ugh. Stop making me feel bad. I didn't say you were horrible or anything. Just that, you know, I'm ready to move on. Yes, I know, the last couple of weeks have been pretty awesome. It's just too little, too late, don't you think? Fine, I was in love you. Satisfied? It's just, those feelings faded a while ago, and I need to let you go now. And I'm counting on your neighbor in time to be a little more fulfilling, if you know what I mean. No offense.)

It was fun while it lasted, but I bid you adieu.

- Lauri

...

And NOW, in a few hours, I look forward to new beginnings (a bunch of them, the way the next year's looking), to the grand year of two-thousand divine. Two-thousand shine. Two-thousand laugh line. Two-thousand port wine + redefine + intertwine = equals sign, bottom line.

Welcome, two-thousand nine. I can tell that we are gonna be friends.

the worst way to die

I am currently watching Planet Earth with my roommate, and have suddenly realized my new idea of the worst way one could ever die. Even worse than vomiting to death. What could be worse than involuntary gut/gag contractions that lead to foul, undigested stomach contents leaving your body through your mouth, until you shrivel up and die? I'll tell you what: drowning in your own shit while being eaten alive by cockroaches. (Pause for shudder effect.) This is how a very, very unfortunate bat is leaving this world. Right in front of me, on the TV screen. I must say, it is truly, disturbingly, and disgustingly fucked up.

Quote from Michele that saved the moment from being unbearably horrifying: when the narrator describes the 100 meter mound of guano upon which millions of roaches rummage and root, she said, "100 meters of bat shit?! That's bat shit crazy!"

new-found respect

I had a realization this week that made me feel even better about where I currently live. I have made the mistake of thinking Quebec is its own country numerous times since coming here - asking Michele about the elections ("for President?"), asking about the national language, etc. After the fifth time she corrected me, the source of my confusion finally sunk in: Quebec may only be a province, but its independent attitude totally makes it a nation at heart. It was then that it hit me:

Quebec is the Texas of Canada.

To prove my point:

Exhibit A - Here in Quebec, a sign just outside of the capital city alerts drivers to the national capital. And in Texas, of course, we have the national beer*.

B - There is no doubt about Quebec pride. The fleur de lys is ubiquitous, the Quebec flag is seen everywhere, and I'm positive the reason behind all the white and blue xmas lights is unadulterated Quebecois patriotism. (See? There's no other word for this kind of pride than one meaning "love for one's country.") Nowhere in the states have I seen more pride than in TX. I know no fewer than four people - and possibly more, if I'd only seen more of my friends naked - with the state shape tattooed on their person. And everyone knows nothing says "I'm proud and I fucking love you" like permanent ink injected into your skin.

C - The language laws in Quebec are different than all other provinces. Okay, Texas may not have its own language, but the anti-litter slogan has to count for something. Don't Mess With Texas. It's a phrase so catchy and famous and awesome that it doesn't need its own language, it's original enough. It is tough, pure, and amazing. Just like the state.

D - You can say you're from Canada, and you may get an "eh??" to poke fun at you. But you say you're from Quebec, and you get a different reaction. People think, Sexy! Baguettes! Cheese! Berets! The language of love! All the things that make this nation - goddamnit! province - great. Similar to how "American" means one thing, but "Texan" is a whole other ballgame. Hospitality! Tex-Mex! Cowboy boots! Guns! And an air of proud coolness that makes other states wish they could have it so good.

Anyway, once I had the above realizations, I felt a little more at home here.



* Lone Star, it has been a long damn while, but I have not forgotten you. I think of you when beers from other lands touch my lips. However far away, I will always love you.

my apologies to emus everywhere

This is a little gross, and I feel sort of bad about it, but emu oil is a new favorite of mine. It's the only substance that's ever been able to calm my bitterly-cold-weather-hating skin, which tends to chafe and flake and crack in painful, irritating, and highly unattractive ways. And the stuff is everywhere here. As an ex-vegetarian who still eats meat only rarely, I feel a little odd (/guilty/shameful/disgusting) about rubbing what's essentially dead animal juice on my face and hands. But this stuff is like a miracle in a bottle. I gotta say, Mr. Emu, your juice is the shit. (I mean to say that it is awesome. I do draw the line at rubbing animal shit on my body, I don't care what it cures.)



So yeah, I know you're kind of cute, and I'm sorry, but... my skin's never felt better.

broken hearted

I made these awesome muffins that were delicious in batter form and smelled amazing while baking. Looked good, too, when I pulled them out of the oven. But turns out they are filled with completely uncooked batter, which, contrary to logical inference, actually doesn't taste as good when encased in a muffin crust-shell. I should have just eaten the bowl of batter with a spoon and called it a night. Now I have a dozen uncooked muffins that I don't know what to do with. I had two today, after nuking 'em for a minute and smothering them with honey butter. They're actually decently pleasant-tasting. But now, an hour later, my stomach is doing a weird little rumbly dance, and I'm a little uncomfortable in the abdominal region. Goddamnit if I still can't bring myself to throw the rest away.

Things are just not going my way... In other news, I cracked a beautiful, expensive-looking pitcher of unknown origin (probably irreplaceable) belonging to the man whose home I'm subletting. It had been a while since I felt that guilt-induced burning-on-the-back-of-your-neck you get when you're totally in trouble for doing something stupid. That feeling always sucked. I should have been more of a rebel and less of a teacher-pleaser in grade school so I could maybe enjoy some nostalgia during times like these, instead of feeling horrified, like I'm about to go to the principle's office. Crying.

I have sadly lost the ability to go ten minutes without spilling entire glasses of water across the apartment, on my face, or down my shirt. I think I was able to go a full fifteen minutes before, so it's going downhill. It might be a premature age-related clumsiness, as I ever so slightly approximate 30.

Also, I've been here three weeks already and still begin sweating and stuttering when spoken to in French. I am convinced that everyone around me either a) hates me because I don't know their language and they assume I am an asshole, or b) thinks I'm retarded.

Finally, my roommate may be allergic to me. Since we started sharing a car, house, bed, and work space (I forgot to mention, I have a husband now), she's gotten all itchy and her eyes water for no reason. I think there's too much Lauri-dander in the apartment. Or she's developed an allergy to round-the-clock charm. Either way, I can't help but feel guilty.

a tres bon thanksgiving weekend

There was delicious food, excellent company, the traditional yearly viewing of "Home for the Holidays," and three days with no work, complete with sleeping in and lazing about in bathrobes sipping coffee. I also explored a lovely new Quebec neighborhood delightfully close to home, and laughed my ass off to a never-before-heard (by me) Mitch Hedberg CD, possibly the funniest material I've heard of his, and that's saying something. And, and, and... tomorrow it's December! Xmas light sightings are increasing in number, and the indie xmas playlists have been busted out.

I am so ready for this freaking season. Bring on the eggnog and mothereffing sleigh bells. And don't forget the nutmeg.

first time for everything

I have officially become legal to stay here for three months (passport back in possession, nail-biting drawing to a close), and so I have been rejoicing all day. (Weeee! Or, to translate, Ouiiii!) In addition to that load off my shoulders, today was host to several French Canadian novelties. It was the day of ...

... my first big snow in Quebec! It was as if yesterday, it was just a very cold autumn with no snow on the ground, and overnight, an incomprehensibly large xmas snow-globe exploded over the region so that now Quebec is a full-blown winter wonderland. Something like 7 inches fell in one day. I say "something like" because I am a stupid American and centimeters don't make sense to me. (see below*)

... my first time driving in Quebec! Not too different from driving in the US, except I've only driven in a blizzard a couple of times, one of which resulted in a 180 on an Iowa freeway. And today was very similar to that fateful day. There were the mounds of snow in the middle of streets**, so much snowfall that everything just looked like blinding whiteness, and howling gales that were (and still are) both very loud and very strong. The gusts have been audibly beating the sides of this building all night, and the wind is totally (and pretty obnoxiously, I must say) whistling at me as I sit here in my sexy sweatpants. Upon exiting the grocery store tonight, a three-foot baguette was blown out of our paper sack and flew across the parking lot a little ways. Three feet long, I say! What if there was a midget in our grocery bag?! There could have been injuries, that's what. Even with all that, I'm pretty sure the Quebecois didn't count this as a blizzard, but just a normal day in November. Oh, and incidentally, today's driving experience resulted in other, related firsts, namely,

- first-time snow-planing in Quebec! (see above**)

and

- first-time getting lost on Quebec highways! That was fun. Not only are there insane-looking traffic-sign arrows that resemble mazes (even when their purpose is to simplify directions), and highway turn-offs that are part-exit ramp, part-parking lot, but also, there are signs that say things like, "[name of exit] 900 m," which brings to my mind an image of a meter stick*, and imagining 900 of those, which doesn't seem like a lot since I'm in a moving car, and so I debate whether or not I have time to pass the slow-mo in front of me, and then end up making bad decisions all around.

... my first time backing out of our garage here, which is a little what I imagine giving birth would be like: trying to fit something the size of, say, a Ford Escort through an opening the size of a smart car.

... the first xmas song of the season in a grocery store! These are exciting times, indeed. December, I know you already know this, but you're my favorite and I love you. And you're so close, I can almost taste you. Mmmm. And you taste like birthday presents.

the time i almost got deported

So here's a breakdown of events in the last 4 days:

After bidding Davenport goodbye, I arrived in Quebec Monday night. There were a few flight delays and a little bit of hauling-all-kinds-of-ass to make my connection, but everything turned out fine... before I landed, anyway. Once in Canada, I had to wait in line for an hour for an interview with immigration, and finally talked to someone at 11pm.

I found out in the first 5 minutes of my interview that although my preceptorship is "unpaid," I need a work visa (which I did not have) or I will have to go back to the US (which I did not want to do). The next three months of my life flashed before my eyes: I live with my parents in Pearland, TX and am forced to work at Starbucks to earn enough to pay my bills. No, wait... if I can't precept, in order to graduate, I'd have to go back to Palmer. So in my head I am now homeless in Davenport, wandering about with no patients, no staff doctor, more importantly NO PLACE TO LIVE, and am sad and bored and wishing I was in Quebec as just a week prior (to this fantastic nightmare), I was all, "Iowa, DONE. Next?!" and was so ready to leave the midwest and so I decide that suicide or dropping out of school and moving to another city are my only viable options.

Twenty minutes later (which were spent sitting in front of the stoic immigration lady, wringing my hands, and contemplating death-by-boredom in my near future), I found out that I don't need a work visa, but do need a letter from the Ordre des Chiropraticiens du Quebec saying it's ok for me to learn in their country. And that I'm not stealing any jobs from able-bodied French Canadians. I am scheduled for a meeting next Wednesday, where I must present this letter, and some other documents. Failure to procure said letter will result in my deportment... hands still wringing! Failure to show up at said meeting will result in a warrant for my arrest throughout all of Canada... oh shit, oh sh-- wait. Huh. I actually find this rather exciting. It would be sorta fun to be an outlaw in a foreign country. I've always wanted to be wanted (by the law)! [Side Note: Shortly after these developments, I was termed 'Smooth Criminal' by a friend and immediately decided I'd like that to be my next nickname. I also realized that this is as close to 'thug' as I've ever been in life. So I concluded that I never have to say I'm sorry, ever again.]

I failed to mention that in addition to all of this, my bags did not make it on my flight. It wasn't too big of a deal, since I could borrow Michele's clothes for my first day at work. But she didn't have any extra hats or gloves, so that first day I froze my little tush off. The doctor we're working for was making fun of me for being cold in the office. He thought it was 90 degrees in TX this time of year. I politely set him straight.

So anyway, after the whole immigration mess on Monday, Michele and I finally got home after midnight, where for the first time, I saw THE apartment, our little piece of heaven. Seriously, there was that sunlight-peeking-through-parting-clouds scene and the soundtrack of angels singing from above as we stepped inside. The place we'll be living in for the following three months is absolutely wonderful. Other than the fact that it was decorated by a 60-year-old priest (Michele had already taken down the especially creepy religious figurines, and we are tolerating the plaid wallpaper rather nicely), this place is the bomb. It's two levels, with track lighting and wood floors throughout, the most awesome bathroom I could hope for (I don't know how I survived four snowy winters without heated tiles... my feet have never been happier), and a pretty incredible view of the villages below. It's beautiful, and I'm so pleased to be able to call it home.

Unfortunately, any lusty thoughts of making out with my sublet were rudely interrupted by two days of waking at 6am and working until almost 9pm, and both of us began hoping to bejesus we aren't going to be miserable, crumpled little masses of exhaustion for the entirety of our stay here. Luckily, yesterday we found out that we should be getting Friday afternoons off, and that we're gonna be A-OK on the money front. Of course, at this point, I feel as though I am in way over my head (as in what WTF was I thinking taking a preceptorship in a non-English-speaking country??) and a little bit like I'm drowning in a linguistic pool the size of France. Or Texas, which is bigger. I also am learning to despise Bio-Freeze. After using it to do some muscle work on some of the patients, my hands are fucking bio-frozen. That shit doesn't go away. It's like skunk funk in cat fur. Although I doubt washing my hands with tomato juice will warm them up.

Soooo... I still don't have a passport, but I do have a plan. All the kinks should be worked out shortly, and until then, I can at least enjoy entertaining Michele's family at fabulous chez nous and checking out the perks of Quebec City, incuding visiting the many, many chocolate/candy stores, cafes, and grocery stores - watch out, Whole Foods, because now you've got some competition for top spot in my heart.

laughing it off

Hi. I would love to make a more substantial first post, but this week has got me in a bit of a tizzy. A very, incredibly, ridiculously exhausted tizzy, at that. And it's only Wednesday. Next time I'll make up for it and tell you all about my wildly awesome new sublet (holy shit it's CRAZY awesome), feeling drowned in a language I don't fully (or even more than barely) understand, and how Quebec tried to deport me just minutes after my arrival (I am still passport-less 48 hours later).

Hopefully, you will be sufficed if I share a joke I learned this week, a new favorite of mine. I like it enough to try really hard to remember it for future use in a joke-sharing situation (but will probably end up re-telling all wrong and sucking all humor out of in a week's time). It goes a-like this:

The chicken and the egg are basking in the afterglow of some pretty hot sex, but the egg looks kind of down and out. “Hey, what’s wrong, Egg?” asks the chicken. The egg laughs hollowly and says, “Huh... guess we answered *that* question.”