For the record, I did not nibble anyone else, but I did sleep with this tempting mama because I'm easy like that. And maybe I rubbed up in an inapproriate way with this little sugarpants vixen, and then I told this double agent that she has a nice a*s, and then I inspired this chick to tell me about how well hung Dustin Diamond is, and that left me wondering how she knew.
I also spent time drinking with a huge group of ladies I will have to link to - because they are that cool - but because I haven't unpacked yet *cough* lazy *cough* and found that precious precious pile of cards that promise rabbit-hole like adventures (as in fall in and come back up for air four days later from reading complete archives), I cannot link to them at this time. My memory is shot, my inbox is full, and I'm full of about 40 posts that are stuck in blogstipation. Usually when I'm blogstipated, I have nothing to say but this time... I have too much.
Where to begin... how about the first few hours of the roadtrip?
Approximately three hours into our journey, I almost had Catherine arrested at the border after demanding - nay strong-arming her into taking a picture of the most hilarious sign ever - a sign that had the unfortunate placement of being right above a border patrol guard who was about to ask for our passports and why the hell should he let us into his country.
Guess what? You can't take photos at the border crossing. It's a no-no.
How do I know this fact? A border guard read us the riot act for taking the picture.
While praying that the riot act was just a lecture to scold us and not a preamble to "bend over and cough", these were some of the thoughts that raced through my head:
- we mean no harm, please let us in nice man
- screw that, he's an a*shat
- OMG - he wants the camera
- he can't be serious
- OMG - he really wants the camera
- SH*T he is serious
- woah, I totally must remember to blog this
He examined the photo, taking it in at every angle, and made some thinking noises. After he passed it back, out came the wagging finger and the "learning points" synopsis of his lecture on not taking pictures at the border. Because it's baaaaaaaaaaaad.
Then he finally started to ask some standard questions:
Border Guard: Purpose of your trip?
me: We're going to a conference sir
Border Guard: What is your profession?
me: Blogging, I'm a blogger (I kept rambling and muttering incoherent crap)... I'm going to a blogging conference... (something incoherent - kinda like one of my posts)
Meanwhile Catherine was saying perfectly normal non-trigger answers that he couldn't hear because I was in the drivers seat and squirming like a freak with four balloons full of heroin in my stomach.
Border Guard: What?
Border Guard: Clogging? You're a clogger? Where are your shoes?
Border Guard: You clog?
me: Blog, I do stuff on my computer. (I'm now squirming like the balloons have ruptured and I'm about to become the next storyline on Law & Order)
After a bit more of an explanation was made, it was still obvious he just didn't fully understand what our purpose was (in life or in visiting his country), and it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say he did not like us but it was clear that he had no real reason to hold a couple of exhausted looking folk dancers who do stuff with computers.
Border Guard: I don't know what you do but don't take anymore pictures of borders ya' hear?
I stepped on the gas and sped into New York state before he could change his mind. Dude totally never noticed the baby, sixty-eight parakeets, and side of beef we had crammed in the back seat.
BOOYAH! Totally worth peer-pressuring a friend into sparking off an international scandal.