May 19 Weekend Review

   In the spirit that inspires this blog I visited one of the events from this past weekend. I give Victoria Day Weekend Celebration ZERO out of eight elated children but nine out of eight disappointed and emotionally damaged children.

   This weekend was set to be the perfect weekend. The weather was beyond gorgeous, the city was a-buzzin’, and I finally convinced the boyfriend to tag along on one of the blog activities.

At laaaaast

    We decided to head down to the Victoria Day Weekend Celebration (VDWC) on the corner of Preston and Carling. There were throngs of people wandering around, couples lounging in the shade under trees, and kids running up and down the boardwalk on Dows Lake.

   The park we wound up in was in full Tulip Festival bloom. It was so beautiful. With no real schedule and the unfounded confidence that we would eventually find the entrance to the VDWC we leisurely took in the sights:

adorable lemonade stands…

the Man With Two Hats…

how many hats do you have?

    After our third tour around the park we were still not in any VDWC. No midway, petting zoo, or carnival games in sight. We became unnerved. Paranoid, even. We turned and turned, returning to locations we had checked before, followed an Indian family from a distance, and stood on the corner of Preston and Carling with our necks craned and our eyes strained. All the while, the wretched Tulip Festival was swallowing us whole and not being the VDWC.

   

   Lost and beaten, we gave up on ever finding the celebration. We found a neighbourhood patio instead and drowned our sorrows…

… until we went to go to Absolute Comedy (on Preston) to have some yuks!

   The only other time I’ve been to a comedy club I can’t recall because of the beer. I was excited that a heckler might be there. A sick little part of me was frothing to see an awkward public failing.

   There was no failing. The comics were ridiculously funny. I slapped my knee! I wish I could recall a single joke to steal for my own use.

   The opener was a gentleman named Guido Cocomello. If you ever get an opportunity to see him — GO*. I wish his set was longer and that he lived in my pocket.

"aaayyyy."

      The emcee (Harry Doupe…?) was adorable and the headliner, Ryan Belleville, was really great from what I was told, though I can’t be sure. They should water down the beer at comedy shows.

   Absolutely exhausted, we piled into a cab to finally head home. We sat reflecting on our day when the car took the first turn toward home...

...

*June 11^th, keep an eye on the website for details

Cheneka's Birthday. An Evening To Remember That Noone Does

    In the spirit that (hopefully) perpetuates this blog, I attended one of the events from the past weekend.  I give Cheneka's Birthday experience a rating of 11 out of 11 dodged date rapes.

    Historically, St Patrick's day has passed resentfully under-celebrated while making sandwiches or hawking retail. This year, in the intense anticipation of Cheneka's birthday, the sense of jubilation was so strong that I woke up 12 hours before I would see the fille d'anniversaire and headed downtown to join other Ottawaians in this the day of misplaced nationalism.

   
The first stop was The Mud Oven where my mug was finally unveiled (see update) and then to Wag Pet Shop/Cafe with a friend and her socially retarded Great Dane, Olive.
    Olive is a well-intentioned gentle giant. One might describe her as the Lennie in any relationship. One of the saddest sights is watching a scruffy dachshund with a Napoleon-complex angrily defend his family against this tall, misunderstood dog/horse. To be fair, Olive's physical appearance epitomizes the symbol of despair, sorrow, and impending death in the English Language, which may stir some feelings of panic when she's galloping at you.

    As the noon-hour loomed, we made our way to James Street Pub to get St Patrick's Day underway (with a stop at the liquor store for good measure) and met up with my favourite (and notorious good sport) St. Patrick's traveler.

    St. Patty's garb is stupid. Anyone with any dignity wears a green shirt or some pants (if you're really kooky) and leaves the green beer-shaped goggles, tall hats, and dumb beads at home. However, a very persuasive and charismatic waiter came around with green and free foam hats. I wore mine until my hairline was warm and sweaty. 

 

Not Pictured: my sopping forehead.

 

    As the beers drained and our little group dispersed, I found myself back in Nepean to prepare for Cheneka's birthday. There were adorable Irish folk everywhere. I had a nice conversation with a slightly inebriated gentleman who looked exactly like your pot-of-gold leprechaun:

But actually probably looked more like:

    I finally made my way to Cheneka's house where the festivities began for her and continued for me. The plans were to go to the bar for some dancing and fun, but our friend was having a get together at his place. It was decidedly the polite gesture to go there first and exchange some pleasantries with old/new friends.

    As with any celebration in the spring, the matter of choosing a flattering outfit that you won't freeze in is an emotionally daunting task. I, by some sort of medical anomaly, was no longer affected by the cool air but Cheneka was still faced with the problem of dressing. Luckily, she sorted it out for herself as the evening wore on.

   Though we never did make it to the bar, we had a grand time at the house party where such exciting events as this

this

and this

happened.

   A mere six hours after we had returned to our respective sleep-holes, the call to action came in.