Attack of the Redneck Mommy

I’m back baby. And never happier to be here. Not because I didn’t enjoy my virgin trip to the states. No, quite the opposite. I loved it. Looooooooved it. Those Yanks certainly know how to be an accommodating host. After all, they put up with us rowdy Canucks almost shutting down the hotel and trying to overtake the conference with boob pasties and Canadian chocolate.

(Note how I’m including myself with the rowdy Canucks. I was totally sleeping like a pathetic, ageing loser and avoiding all the phone calls for the Redneck to come out and play. But it sounds cooler when I say I was a rowdy tourist instead of a sleepy one.)

Turns out, I’m NOT the tourist you want to be rooming with. I had a small problem with my bowels. As in I decided to spray the insides of that Yankee bowl with some good ole Canadian shit. My poor room mate. She couldn’t escape the foul smells I emanated.

I tried to make it up to her by being her sherpa for the rest of the trip and packing her schwag bags around, but I started getting funny looks. Turns out I was less Paul Bunyon looking like I had hoped, and more ‘greedy schwag stealer who can’t keep her hands off others bags.’ People were starting to see me as a clepto, wandering around, helping myself to any unattended gift bag. I swear, I was just toting Ms. Chicky’s crap. Honest.

I knew before ever having set foot in the hotel, this trip was going to be a good one. I had an easy flight, seated beside an American businessman who was more interested in his spreadsheets and the occasional look down my shirt than actually making conversation. My type of guy.

When I made it through the vast and never ending O’Hare and managed to find a cab for my tired ass to sit in, I knew I had hit the jackpot. My cabbie was a handsome fella, with an easy smile and went out of his way to show me some Chicago landmarks on our way to the hotel.

The people I was sharing a cab with were a little annoyed with the cab driver and myself, we were loud and brash and we completely ignored them. But it was like sharing a cab with two people who had sticks shoved up their asses and pinched expressions. Dammit, this was AMERICA. The land where I can be FREE.

Apparently, I may have been a little too free. After dropping off the Yankee party poopers, the cabbie set off to take me to my destination. It was a short distance and we chatted comfortably about our opinions of President Bush. (Don’t ask, I ain’t telling…) Imagine my surprise when he hopped out of our cab at the hotel, got my luggage and then handed me this:

That’s right. 45 minutes on foreign soil and I had my first phone number. Apparently, Mark had high hopes that I would need his, um, services sometime during my trip. Because what the husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him. (Sadly for him, I was not interested in his offer. He may have been cute, but he was no Boo.)

If that wasn’t enough, he refused to accept my cash. A free cab fare and a phone number. Have I mentioned how much I fucking love America???

I learned some stuff at the conference, mostly that we Canadians truly know how to party, and that the marketers of Oops wine really might want to rethink their branding strategy.

I learned if you put a lot of women writers in a large room and provide free booze, bad things will happen. And boobs will be grabbed. By me. Frequently and without apology.

I learned how much I love my blogging pals, more so in person. They are tremendously talented, funny and beautiful. Not a cheap bimbo in the lot. Well, except me of course.

I learned that the biggest bloggers, the ‘A-listers’ are just like you and I. Ready for a good time and a cheap feel. Even Mom-101 and HBM.

I learned I am more than willing to accommodate those women. A lot of boobs passed these palms and I’m okay with that. I was squeezing for all you daddy-bloggers who couldn’t be there. Or get away with it.

I also learned, if you put me in a children’s museum, have meat on a stick and free wine, my dignity will fly out the window.

For those of you who actually saw my boobs, I apologize. I don’t know how it happened. The girls were just dying to be free. After all, it was the land of America. What better place to gain their independence?

I may have lost some dignity there on the Navy Pier, but I gained some wonderful friends, a free dildo and memories that will carry me through my loneliest hours.

All for the cost of a flight, hotel room and a random body search at U.S customs.

I can’t wait to do it again.