There were many reasons I started this blog, but none of those reasons included making friends. Not real life friends. I expected to make a few cyber-acquaintances and perhaps a handful of funny pen pals but my imagination never stretched so far as to include actually considering meeting fellow bloggers and loving them so much that they simply had to become part of my reality outside of the computer.

But then, through bravery, brazen public drunkenness and a blogging conference or two, I made many friends who no longer are simply email buddies or online personalities. No, these people are the food that fills my soul and I’ll risk poverty and airline security to join them for the chance to sit under the stars and sip a minty mojito with them while telling salty jokes.

This past weekend, one of these friends of mine, braved Canadian Customs agents and possible detainment for the opportunity to frolic in the wild winterland of my Canadian North while holding my hand.

It was the first time I opened my home and my life up to the scrutiny of someone who doesn’t share DNA with me or my husband or hasn’t cheated off of me in the pursuit of academic advancement.

I was more than a little freaked out. Mostly because I knew this would mean I’d have to clean my house and coral the army of dust bunnies that were threatening to overthrow us humans. 

Thankfully my darling Boo gets off on slapping on a maid’s outfit and twirling his feather duster as I sit on the couch, twitter and point out all the spots he missed. Soon the dust bunnies were contained and my husband was a satisfied man the house was sparkling clean.

(Here’s where I can see my husband’s head all but spin right off his body cuz I made it sound like it was just that easy to hold up one end of the couch and vacuum under it when a certain wife may or may not have refused to get up because she didn’t like the bossy tone of her husband’s voice. I may or may not have bounced a little while sitting on said couch just to watch the beads of sweat pop out on his forehead as he struggled to keep from dropping his wife and couch on his foot.)

This was our family’s first American visitor and my first chance to prove to my children that mommy really does have friends and I’m not just talking to myself while I sit at the computer. We were all eagerly awaiting Jen’s arrival.

Which was only slightly delayed because she unwisely choose to try and smuggle illicit Mexican sex toys across our border, confused our customs officers with our R.C.M.P officers and kept asking them when she could expect to get mounted.

Silly American.

After I extracted her from customs, which by the way is not as easy as it could have been if she hadn’t been confused for a Georgian drug dealer, I promptly did what any proud Albertan would. I took her to get our drunk on in the afternoon and set her loose in the world’s largest (or second largest…who can tell nowadays) mall.

There is nothing more fun than going to a shopping mall with a girl who is shunning North American culture and moving to the jungles of Belize to escape our capitalistic consumer driven life style. How’s that for thoughtful holiday planning?

It soon became evident to all the shoppers around us that Jen was out of her element in the big city mall what with her mouth hanging open in obvious shock and awe. Such a rube, she was.

As she marveled at the gigantic waterpark and begged me to frolic naked amongst the families in the indoor beach, I tugged on her arm to show her the many other wonders of merriment that did not require showing off my pasty white jiggly thighs to the prepubescent crowds of thrill seekers.

I distracted her with giant performing sea lions, a big ship and promises to take her gambling if she would for one second roll her tongue into her mouth and try and at least act cool. 

She managed well for a while until I made the mistake of showing her the indoor amusement when suddenly she turned into this thrill-seeking ride whore who all but drooled when she saw the vast sea of roller coasters just waiting to be ridden.

I am not a rollercoaster type of gal. At least not while I’m slightly tipsy and the mere thought of hanging upside down like a cave-dwelling bat makes my stomach revolt and threaten to return the alcoholic beverages we had just consumed back up.

But I am nothing if not a cheap easily persuasible drunk gracious host and soon I found myself strapped into my very first rollercoaster ride ever.

Why yes, I’ll do anything while drunk. Why do you ask? After listening to her taunt me as we waited in line for our spin, I wondered what in the world I had gotten myself into. Images of me hurling my stomach contents danced before my eyes.

Turns out, I loved it. But my big rollercoaster riding American friend may or may not have screamed like a little schoolgirl the entire time. Just so y’all know.

After collecting our dignity and smoothing down our hair which now stood straight up, I figured it would be a good idea if I had time to sober up before making the long drive home so we decided to go take in a movie and gorge ourselves on candy, thereby rehashing a timeless argument about Red Vines versus Twizzlers as the reigning licorice champions. 

(Twizzlers, and I’m not even going to argue it any further, peoples.)

True to Jen and my history, we managed to pick the worse damn movie in the entire theatre complex and almost found ourselves in the middle of a popcorn brawl when the two of us howled with laughter during the scariest scene of the movie.

We really shouldn’t be allowed out in public, the two of us.

I still giggle when I see the picture. But if my grandfather suddenly decides to start crawling on all fours and his head spins upside down, I reserve the right to scream like a small child and run straight to the nearest church for an exorcism. 

Soon we had partaken in enough consumer happy capitalistic actions to carry Jen through the next several years of jungle imposed isolation and we headed back to my house located in the middle of butt-fark Alberta where my husband and children were eagerly awaiting to meet my imaginary friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nixon, like my children, was more than a little excited to meet Jen. Thatcher, like my husband, tried to play it cooler, but ended up piddling in excitement at her feet.

After I finally muzzled everyone’s excitement we settled in for a long night of drunken revelry where Jen and Boo discussed religion, education and Prop. 8 while I may have drunkenly argued with the two of them sat quietly and drank my wine like the proper host I am.

All in all, the visit was tremendously successful if you over look the fact my husband kept trying to entice Jen into a three-way and Jen perhaps encouraging him. 

Picture me showing her to my daughter’s bedroom and threatening to publish nude photos of her if she so much as tried to slip under my covers during the night.

(Don’t get the wrong idea, peeps. I’m totally down with that, and find Jen extremely attractive, but my children were sleeping under the same roof and I already have a tough enough time trying to explain what that purple looking penis toy is doing in my bathroom sink.)

Before we knew it, I was driving Miss Daisy..er…Jen back to the airport and explaining to her once again how just because someone wore a kevlar vest and a billy club on their side in Canada it did not make them a Mountie and wishing her luck as she flew her way back home and towards her adventure in a Belizean jungle.

My family now understands my imaginary friends are indeed not imaginary, Jen got an inside view at Redneck life up close and personal while taking in a slice of Canadian culture and me? Well, I got a three day hang over.

I can’t wait to do it again. 

Who’s coming over next?