Winding Down

Holy fuck am I tired. A couple of nights out boozing with Trish and CT, and last night, also the Plone boys, as we call them at work. And that gender assignation is mostly very true. Trish and I are two of the three women out of about 70 at the conference.

Trish and CT and I have been moving around as sort of a unit. People keep assuming that we’re all co-workers, and then give us a bit of an odd look when I say, No, I’m from Ottawa, in Canada. Oh, you’ve been to Kelowna? I hear it's nice.

Last night, in addition to looking confused, someone also said,

'Oh. Then how do you all know each other?" We three slid our eyes at each other – we didn’t have our how we met story down. I decided to improvise. "We were all in Bootcamp together and they looked nice so I glommed onto them."

It made me happy that they both laughed surprised laughs when I said that. Much better than silent nods. Not that they would do that, because they are sweet and kind people.

After the Redwings won the Stanley Cup, I bought CT a celebratory Canadian beer – a St. Ambroise Pale. I’ve been drinking the local microbrew, Abita. It’s okay. I even fooled myself into thinking it was good. And then I took a sip of the St Ambroise and remembered what actually good beer tastes like. Fucking heaven, is the answer.

What is not heaven is the food here. It’s mostly deep fried or covered in butter or both. One local delicacy is beignets, which are sort of like a cross between a cake doughnut and a French crueller, served in triplicate and covered in icing sugar.

This is one of those posts that doesn’t have any kind of story. I’m tired. My brain is full of information it doesn’t yet have the neural pathways to handle. It’s full of the names of new people. It’s full of seafood and lust.