Dear Elly G,
The biggest reason A and I went north last weekend was the M.S. Chi-Cheemaun. Ojibwa for Big Canoe, the ship is the only way to get from Tobermory, which is a town at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula, to the island of Manitoulin. We didn’t know anything much about it other than its prow being heavily decorated with colourful Native American art, and an advertised relaxing view. (Most of this research was done via quick, cursory glances at ads on the subway; pretty boat, Adirondack chairs, white people in shorts holding beer? Advertising works!)
Continue reading “Gorgeous George and Chi-Chee Rodriguez, Part Une”
Dear Elly G,
So this is why that night was epic. Not only did you write, produce, direct and star in your own version of The Best Party Guest Ever, you also got hugged by a guy you are attracted to. And not just a boring, wimpy, ass-out hug either. A hug tight enough for you to feel his back muscles and biceps. We all know this is how you get your kicks – lingering physical contact with handsome, fragrant men you have a big crush on! After all that, I can only imagine the amount of pudding in your panties if you somehow finagled your way into XX’s arms at our looming high school reunion. I feel like someone would have to stand by with a defibrillator in case things got spastic. After the heady rush of that dinner party and its subsequent ending, ending up in a VIP booth with free drinks in a nightclub straight out of a Baz Luhrmann fever dream could only be the icing on the cake.
(Speaking of cakes, coming out of the kitchen with a candlelit cake, coyly singing Happy Birthday? Not the star of the night, my fat ass. If you weren’t, you certainly earned points for trying. You do realize you just negated your claim to being self-conscious when you channeled your inner Marilyn, right? If I had been at that party, I would probably be Janeane Garofalo.) Continue reading “The Choices We Make”
Dear Elly G,
I don’t know why they call it the Dirty Thirties. I certainly haven’t dirtied up this first half of that decade. I hope you have, though. If not me, at least you should.
My thirties so far have been so clean they’re squeaky. Much, I imagine, like what the next decade is going to be like. Squeaky. As in rusty hinges in need of oiling. Because this is it. This is my last day being thirty-four. Being on Halifax time is only postponing the fact. In the Philippines, it’s already happened, and I am already thirty-five. That’s it. I’ve hit the the peak and I’m teetering on the edge. Everything after 35 is just going to go downhill, like my boobs and my chin and my butt. I’ll deflate like an old balloon.
It probably won’t be that drastic, at least I hope not, but I’m starting to have days where I look in the mirror and I just…
I guess I’ll have to embrace aging gracefully, like Madeleine Ashton – except with less money. This means I’m never going to be like the patron saint of life at seventy… I invoke thee, dear glorious Jane Fonda, I invoke thee! But I will at least attempt not to hasten the process overmuch. I’m buying a treadmill.
Yes, a treadmill. It was that, or gastric bypass surgery. Yes, all my remedies for losing weight involve invasive procedures. Why? Because I like my results the way my father likes his coffee: instant. I want to pop a pill and be reborn immediately without the work, the blood, the sweat, the tears. I want to wake up the next day and be resistant to gravity again. Isn’t that what we secretly whisper into the ether as we blow out the candles on our birthday cake? I know it’s what I whisper. Except as punishment for having no self-control, I am no longer allowed to have cake.
So enjoy your last four days of being thirty-four. You are the only one left, the last man standing. Fight that good fight! And when Father Time wins, as he always does, don’t despair; you can join the rest of us already in the last half of our Dirty Thirties. We’re waiting for you, but there’s no need to rush.
Love and hunger,
Dear Elly G,
I laughed because this time you included the lyrics, so I don’t get to say #anodaw. How thoughtful of you! You are the sweetest. Reading the lyrics made it seem better as prose than as a song. Maybe it was just a shade too slow for me. It gives Michael Learns To Rock a run for its money. Is Enemy by Angel Olsen your song of defiance for Salo Who Must Not Be Mon-ed?
Continue reading “Did Michael Finally Learn to Rock?”