Urban Stupid – 5 Really Bad Pickles (Deep Fried, for Snooki)

This is what can happen when an uber-adventurous artsy space-case tries to conquer the world.

1. A few spring’s ago after a 2 week coastal road trip to Georgia, I did the unthinkable. The night before flying back to Toronto, after an attempted cleanse during the trip, I mega over-indulged in low grade vodka at a local watering-hole in rural PA. It didn’t help that my American friend was buds with the bartender, so things were doubles and triples. No time to sleep it off, and up and at ‘em at the crack of dawn to pack, I left my guest room in a horrible mess (sorry Jess!) and needed a puke break en route to PHL that only held me over until the freeway. With nowhere to stop and a major ‘white squall’ happening in my stomach, I tried to puke in a plastic bag while sticking my head out the window, going 100 mph. The driver was gaging at my sound effects, so that is why my head was out the car window, and that is why the puke flew back into the car (sorry again, Jess!) and onto my already fresh face.

At the airport, a sassy employee said without a hint of care that I had missed my flight, and an elderly woman helped me to a bench while I hyperventilated, disorientation and nausea taking over. Nursing a hangover in bed with Vice mag is one kind of hell, but attempting the logistics of getting yourself through a huge airport and onto a plane with your carry-on is another. To rub some salt in the wound, I was carrying this stupid huge yoga mat, Pilates ball (deflated) and accessories kit I got for a bargain in the US.

It took me several times to go through customs because I almost vomited on the staff, and would lose my place in line to avoid this. Once past the guards, I needed a personal vehicle to take me to my gate. The ride in the cart was hellish, and as the driver sped through the airport, with my back facing him I projectiled on the airport floor as we zoomed by people waiting for their flights, all through PHL. I’m talking pro-jec-tile, think garden hose. I kept trying to chug gatorade so my puke was just clear, and bright purple.

Horrible turned heavenly when once I boarded my plane, the sun beamed down on me, angels played trumpets, and the man sitting next to me turned out to be a doctor, and gave me medical attention on the flight home.

2. The other day I ordered pizza, and then realized I had lost my bank card, and had no cash on me. That was pretty bad.

3. When I finished high school I moved to a tropical island (St. Croix, US Virgin Islands) for about a year. I volunteered on an organic farm, became a living antioxidant, perfected my ocean-swimming, and had a brief psychotic relationship with a Lion-Tribe Hebrew-Israelite Militant Jew who thought he was the next Eminem/Charles Manson. Towards the end, I’m sure you can understand a born’n'raised city girl needed a break. So I hopped on a tiny sea plane, which took me from my serene farm community on a piddly island to the Caribbean’s biggest city, San Juan, Puerto Rico, population 2 millie. My brain pretty much exploded.

But I wasn’t in the city just yet – The Puerto Rican border guards had a hard time understanding why I had spent the last 8 months volunteering on a farm (to them, farm = grow-op), didn’t get paid (other then with a swank cabana and more coconuts than Jersey Shore), wasn’t even from the states, and had hundreds of dollars in cashish stuffed everywhere in my bag (inherited money; Jew perk). In that moment of being detained in a scorching “security room” -metal shack- it hit me how bad my story must’ve seemed. They kept asking if I had ever done cocaine before, and spent a good couple hours searching my record, my bags and making me sweat. They were kinda cute.

It turns out most of the world’s cocaine comes from Bolivia, Colombia and Peru, and a lot of it passes through “The Caribbean Corridor” – The islands where I was staying and Puerto Rico. That’s where people get it and take it back to the states, where it eventually reaches us in Toronto, filled with 90% baby aspirin. Anywhoo, bad part of the world to be wandering around “finding yourself”. My bicycle and debit-only Canadian lifestyle meant nothing to them.

I found myself in some doo-doo. Suddenly my red gingham capris and pin-up-girl plane makeup didn’t feel so cool. I knew deep down my story was legit, but from their perspective I screamed all kinds of sketchy. They must have taken pity on me, didn’t deport me back to Canada and we worked out an unspoken agreement that I would give them my stash of ativans and they would let me go into their great city where I did TONS of incredible $5 cocai ena off the bodies of delicious hunks.

4. One time in Toronto I went home with this musician/photographer dude who seemed ok enough to maybe be his friend. I’m good at drawing that line clear and he said he had weed. As soon as we got to his place he put Sesame Street on his huge flatscreen TV and left the room, only to return wearing an adult diaper with his bottle sticking out. Before I stood up and left, he jumped in my lap like a baby and tried to suck on my teet, while giggling and looking at the screen. His sexy talk was him speaking like a typical gay little boy, high voice, lisp, the whole bit, and he would say things like “You’re so hot, with your big glasses, ooooh ahhhh”. Let’s just say I got my heiny outta there, but not before laughing hysterically. Sometimes I see him on the street and I hide behind a garbage can.

5. I got the flu right after starting a new dog walking job and my pride prevented me from calling in sick. I toughed it out, walking dogs around town with an increasing fever and biking from one neighbourhood to the next all day and then guh – I get hit by a car biking at Queen and Spadina. Luckily, no injuries, just scared shitless and even more delirious and feverish then before, but couldn’t waste any time crying in an alley, had to go go go! Horrible Day.