Weekend at Rachel’s

While not as slapstick hilarious as Weekend at Bernie’s, I enjoyed a lovely long weekend at Rachel’s. We went with some other friends to the Royal on Saturday night – we had been on the guest list at Plaza, but apparently you can only get into Plaza if you are on the guest list, which means that “guest list” translates to “you are allowed to stand in the stupidly long line up.” Hence, we ended up at the Royal. We didn’t have to wait to long and once we got in the music was pretty good. So far, so good. We were dancing, having fun – Angie even danced in the cage* (completely sober, since we’d been in the line up at the Plaza so long that we effectively had no alcohol in our systems by the time we got into the club). I was fulfilling my contractual obligations as Rachel’s wingman** for much of the evening, but when I sat down from dancing it totally hit me that I was not well. It was very strange, because I’d only had 3 drinks and that was over about 3 hours or so, which should not be a problem at all. It was so sudden that I even recall asking Rachel “did someone slip something in my drink?” But I was drinking out of a bottle and my drink never left my hand, so I don’t see how that could be. I hadn’t really eaten much that day and perhaps it just hit me once I stopped dancing because I was sitting still for the first time in hours. Who knows. Long story short, Rachel took good care of me, got me back to her place where I could pass out in peace. And refuses to go out with me again unless I’ve eaten beforehand. Fair enough.

Sunday we spent on the beach. The weather was absolutely gorgeous all weekend, which is almost unheard of for a long weekend in Vancouver. We went to Kits Beach, which is within walking distance of Rachel’s apartment. But we went to the “ugly section” at the far end of the beach – we just really didn’t feel like dealing with the 90210 kids at the busy part of the beach. And I actually managed tone down my farmer’s tan by getting some sun on my shoulders and midriff. Just in time for it not to be summer anymore! Since I hadn’t brought any of the books I’m currently reading with me, I borrowed “He’s Just Not That Into You.” It was definitely an entertaining read and there were things in there that totally resonated with me (e.g., if he tells you he cheated on you because you are too fat, you should run, run away; and all men are basically cowards***) and other things that I just didn’t buy (e.g., a woman should never, ever call a man. Ever). Sunday night was spent just chillaxin’… well, I was chillaxin’, Rachel was flying a Cessna.

And today we went to the PNE. I’d never been to the PNE before – Rachel hadn’t either, although she had been to Playland. We went with a couple friends of hers who recently moved here from England. It was a nice sunny day and it was fun to be hanging out with cool peeps, but I can’t say that the PNE was all that impressive. We saw cows. We saw mushrooms. We saw a monster truck. I refused to go on the rides at Playland on the grounds that I am morally opposed to paying $9 for a 45 second ride. Especially one that looked so bloody tame. On the plus side, the poutine was vegetarian and we had mini donuts.

And then I came home. And Danielle is back! Danielle is the girl whose place I subletted for the summer and who is letting me stay with her until I figure out what I’m going to do with my life. Danielle is cool like that.

*conveniently (for her at least), she had the camera with her, so I have no photographic evidence to back this up.

**disclaimer – while checking out the the definition of wingman on Urban Dictionary, there seems to be a disproportionate amount of attention paid to the fact that the subject of the wingman‘s attention is “ugly,” so I feel the need to state unequivocally that the guy whose attention I was occupying so that Rachel could spend time with her boy was not ugly. About 2 and a half feet taller than me, yes, but not ugly.

***I’m totally kidding about that one. I think 😉

Comments |3|

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  • Hmmm, the wingman thing is interesting. I’ve performed that duty maybe five times in my life (all for the same friend, all no less than six years ago), and I was always under the impression that the point was just to riff with your buddy and kept conversation going in general– until it’s clear your aren’t necessary. I never knew part of it involved jumping on the grenade that is your friend’s new interest’s ugly friend. Maybe that’s why Pat never got any on my watch.

    In other news, I’ve just discovered that if you upgrade your Blogger account to Blogger Beta, it won’t let you comment in the usual way to a non Beta Blog (using your Blogger identity). While I was pretty excited about the upgrade before I did it, it starting to dawn on me that this Beta version is a complete and utter balls up. But don’t tell Blogger I said that.

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  • Why would Pat need a wingman?

    That’s like Jesus needing help catching fish.


    Oh wait.
    I get it now.

    Bethie, you’d be the worst wingman ever. All the guys would just go after you!

    I wish you could come to BlogHurl.

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