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.