My visit with Ziva and and her husband M hit rock bottom when – in a slightly inebriated state – I decided to
drape myself drunkenly pose rather mockingly with a statue that turned out to be in front of a church or something (and had rice all over it, which I assume is some kind of offering to appease God or the Great Pumpkin or whatever) and which ensured that I completely sullied the global reputation of Canadians as a polite, respectful people and basically further secured my spot in Hell – not that there was ever any doubt I’d end up there, at least not according to my eighth grade English teacher, Mr. Crosby.
But who begins a story like this, right? Let me start over.
CheesyMike and I drove to New York city a couple of weeks ago to meet the long-distance love of my life, Ziva. Oh yeah, and her husband M (Who. Doesn’t. Even. Blog. Sigh.)
My excitement at meeting Ziva grew exponentially in the week leading up to the trip. I felt like a kid before Christmas, waiting eagerly to see all my presents. So, I took it as a sign that our weekend was blessed when Santa stopped into the Sarasota Springs diner where CheesyMike and I were having lunch.
And it seems that somehow, somewhere and at some point in my life, I must have done something to earn some clemency from the universe, or karma, or whoever’s in charge, because CheesyMike noticed that the window right by my head had a bullet hole in it. That’s right, just a little bit northwest of the sign that says “Sorry We Missed You!”
Had Ziva and M come to New York at some other time – maybe a day earlier, or a week, or a month, or a year or four years… well no, not four years because I didn’t know Ziva four years ago even though it feels like I’ve known her forever which is impossible because I haven’t been around forever and neither has she but I’m prone to exaggeration and it doesn’t really matter because I think you understand where I’m going with this. Who knew Sarasota Springs was so ghetto? And that Santa’s gone gangsta?
In any case, I didn’t die so we continued on our way. To New York. To Ziva. Oh yeah, and M. Who. Doesn’t. Even. Blog. Sigh.
And we did all kinds of things:
And while we were doing all these things, we were sneaking pictures of each other.
Besides walking all over Manhattan and trying inconspicuously to take pictures of each other, we also spent a lot of time laughing. I can’t even remember most of what we laughed about, but everything was funny. And that’s because Ziva and M are just about the most wonderful people you could ever hope to meet. Yes, even M. Who. Doesn’t. Even. Blog. Sigh.
You see, while we were walking, sneaking and laughing, I was busy falling head over heels for these two beautiful people. Literally. On Madison Avenue, I believe it was. Wearing my zombie heels. I think it was shortly after telling Ziva about how I fall a lot – even when sober – and how I once fell while standing perfectly still.
So we walked, we snuck pictures, we laughed, I fell literally and metaphorically and everything was absolutely perfect. And then we discovered Nikivas.
And I just realized that the glass in the forefront of this picture is slightly out of focus. Dammit. Nobody tell M, okay?
So, we may have had a couple of Nikivas. Or three. Or four. Or five. Whatever. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.
And then I hit rock bottom.
In my defense, love makes us all do stupid things. And alcohol makes us do even stupider things. And sometimes alcohol makes us look at a hooded statue and think it looks nothing like a religious icon but totally like Michonne in The Walking Dead and wouldn’t it be a great idea to take a picture with a zombie killer because how cool is that, right, and then you realize the zombie slayer is covered in rice and maybe you need to move your ass before you burst into flames.
Or maybe it’s just me.
Despite my disorderliness, I was not struck down by some higher being – probably because few beings could be higher than I was but that is besides the point – and Ziva, M and CheesyMike were kind enough to forgive me and eventually we all ended up in bed together, drunk blogging. Except for M, of course. He. Doesn’t. Even. Blog. Sigh.
I miss them terribly.