That Travelocity Gnome Gets Around

You know how you walk around a bit in the daze because you're not sure whether you're coping well with everything, or if you just don't give a shit anymore? Yeah. That's about where I've been for a little bit.

To see whether I really was sad or really was coping well (odd that there might be a fine line between both, don't you think?) I decided to book a vacation for myself-- just me, all alone, single status.

The Travelocity Gnome was looking
forward to a warm baguette.

I started off with all these grand plans; two weeks travelling in France, with one full week spent in Paris touring the Louvre, Versailles (which is not actually in Paris, but whatever), buying amazing fabrics and accessories from Hermes, Yves Saint Laurent and Colette. Oh yes, the fun I would have. But then I realized that I would miss all this fun with Husband and the kiddos, so I nixed that Travelocity search.  Plus, two weeks is a really long time to have to put together enough childcare so Husband could still work while I was away.

Oh Gnome, there's no Kory Kardashian.

Then I decided to look into a fantastic one-week all-inclusive resort in Jamaica. One week would be much more doable. And, frankly, despite my ongoing disdain for The Sun and all things Hot, Jamaica sounded quite good while my feet were sitting on the cold basement floor.  So I clicked and found a wonderful resort with an amazing spa-- even a treatment for kids, so Kiddo #1 and #2 could be little Stars -- as in, they arrive on a red carpet while "paparazzi" take their pictures and ask for their autographs. They'd get a special badge they could flash to get unlimited pop and ice cream anywhere in the hotel, as well as a "mini" mani-pedi-colonic version of whatever I booked.  And don't even get me started on the couples massage/botox combos. I was getting really excited until I realized the spa I'd found wasn't in Jamaica, but in Los Angeles, and frankly, I didn't want to potentially run into any of the Kardashians or Lohans; who needs all that drama? 

So I moved into something more local. Surely something not too far away could be a deluxe as what they've got in LA, without the riffraff; as fashion-minded as Paris, without the two week stay to justify the jet lag. 

Ok. Thinking...

Ok. Uh. Yes. Thinking... 

Um. Almost there... 

Poutine? Yes, please.

Montréal?  Yes! That's it! Montréal is everything you love about Europe without the 7 hour flight. I'd get to wear my stilettos on the cobblestone, like a real European, without needing my passport!  Plus, the buildings are old, they speak French (uh the people, not the buildings) and there's quite a little fashion district there, too.  Yes! But, I wouldn't have to worry about annoying things like whether Europe will still be financially solvent by the end of my two weeks, or the general rights of women, or like, spending way too much money on cool shit and not being able to sneak it all back into Canada without paying scads of duty. Not that I do that, but Europe makes me temporarily crazy. Plus, (back to the solvency thing) if I got a chance to buy myself a Picasso (or a Garfunkel <-- that's some Canadian/Barenaked Ladies humour) for cheap to keep Spain afloat for another week, how could I refuse? And you KNOW that shit doesn't just go through the x-ray without being questioned. Gah.

Where was I? Ah yes. Montréal. So I started looking into 5 days in Montréal-- there's this amazing Jazz festival, but that's not until the end of June, and really, I can't wait that long. I need to know whether I'm depressed or fine as soon as possible. I can't just be walking around not knowing whether I should be laughing or crying. I mean, limbo is not an appropriate place in which to live. (as an aside, I wonder if I could get an original copy of Inferno now that Italy's for sale?)

So I nixed my 5 nights in Québec and decided on two nights in Our London, which is to say London, Ontario, Canada.  I looked up some art shows that will be going on over the Mother's Day weekend and where a girl could find an outdoor market and then I realized that it's stupid Mother's Day this weekend, and LORD KNOWS it's entirely inappropriate to leave the things that make you a Mother over Mother's Day.

All I wanted was 45 minutes where no one was touching me, covering me with bodily secretions or banging on the bathroom door while I hide, with the lights off, so I can figure out if I'm mentally stable or fricking not.

Wait a sec. I've been writing this wee blog all by myself for at least 45 minutes.  I've been sitting here without so much as a sneeze in the next room. ... Glory, glory hallelujah! 

Clearly I'm ok, because if I weren't ok I'd be sobbing while writing this, right? Rock on! Yeah me! I'm a pillar of normalcy and happiness! I'm so excited I'm almost ready to bust out *two* exclamation points! (but not three, because we all know more than two exclamation points is a sign of mental instability!!!)

Quickly, I decide to celebrate by going to the grocery store. I grab my purse and decide my new ME needs a new look, too. I dump the contents onto the bed and scour my closet for a different handbag. I find one (chartreuse if you care) and begin reassembling the interior. With the addition of each lip gloss, I feel more powerful, more alive, and even, yes, more mentally triumphant.  

Hold the phone: what is this tiny envelope amongst the random crap that came from my other purse? 

Seriously? A thank you note? To Friendy Frienderson? What is this even for? 

I open it up and realize the note refers to the excitement I have that Friendy is finally having a girl (after 4 boys!!!) and thanks for the mani-pedi-colonic gift card you gave me for my birthday.  For my birthday. Nice. That was uh, well, my birthday is coming up again. Next month, actually. And, Friendy has had the baby; the baby is already crawling and is trying to talk. Dear Lord. 

So I do what anyone who is mentally stable and normal and happy would do.  

I walk downstairs, get an identical envelope and put the ancient card inside. I then take the ensemble outside and run it over with my car 4 times. I cut the engine, pick up the grimy, rock-pierced card and carefully put it in my bra between my boobs. Then, I switch into my jogging shoes and jog around the block.  

Once I am revived by some nice passersby, I limp home, taking care to put a stamp on the card after I remove it, wring it out, and shove it in the mailbox. Baa haa haa. I'm so slick I look like I'm made of grease. Wait. That actually doesn't sound good. But it's kinda appropriate. Anyway, I chuckle to myself at my genius; obviously that card got stuck in some post office machine and that is why it's almost a year late, not because my purse is a black hole from which most things never return.  Ha.

Ha ha. Haaahaaahaaa!!!!

And with that, I realize without a doubt, that I don't need a vacation to figure out if I'm ok. Clearly this is the case: only a completely sane person would go to so much trouble to look good for her friends. The crazies would just laugh and hand the card over the next time they saw you. 

Wait... uh...