Recently dear friends took us to a wine tasting, a treat for Rich’s birthday and a chance to leave our neighbourhood. Although Roncesvalles is fast becoming a Mecca for every brunching douchebag from Mississauga, at least for the moment, it’s familiar. But in crossing the pristine threshold of the Summerhill LCBO we stepped out of the wardrobe: So many clean, white people in one room. A veritable casting-call for Williams Sonoma. I caught Rich eyeing a man beetling around in tight denim and red gingham.
“Wear socks, you prat,” he breathed; hoping a cheeky rioja would wash the image away.
It’s September soon and I’m longing to turn back time. Not to when Dan was little—I still shudder when I cross through our local park with its elephantine graveyard of extruded plastic toys and loathsome Strollertariat.I don’t want to relive his babyhood or be a new mom again, but rather, I want to be the one finishing high school and courting universities.I’m jealous of his youth. Middle age certainly has its perks: financial solvency, unconditional love and better stuff, but being blasé over the new IKEA catalogue is cold comfort for the phantom pain of imagined regret.
Again I saw That Woman with one of my rez dogs. She’s with That Man, the one who had a cable access show on Toronto architecture; the one who crawled up his own arse to retrieve his triangular scale and got lost. She won’t let her dog play with other dogs. In a First World quandary, I spend the afternoon wondering why her behavior bothers me. Is it because it’s antisocial and cruel to the dog? Or is her snub proof that she senses, and is repulsed by, my debilitating need to be liked? Either way, she’s an epic twat.
Have your ever wanted someone so badly you grew at the merest thought of them?
Whereby, your daily bike route has you cycle past a row of brownstones not knowing, yet innately aware of where they live?
Not obsessed yet comfortably possessed by them. Their air, their smiling nod from across the room. Their musing ways falling suddenly silent, focussed, gathering thoughts before delivering a beguiling reply bringing the house down in bubbling laughter.
Azure blue eyes, hair like a wheat field that crowns an effervescent spirit.
Have you ever had a parched heart quenched by the memory of another?
See Girl run. Run, Girl, run. Don’t look back.
Don’t see Charles run. Seeing Charles will put a Girl right off her pace. Scary scary Charles.
Charles is married to Camiller. Camiller wears scary scary hats. You have to wear scary hats if Charles catches up with you. That’s what happens to a Girl if a Royal gets too close.
Or she gets like Dianer. The first wife. Thin, then dead.
So, run, Girl, run. Get a gold medal at London 2012. Gold medals are better than glitter. Gold gets Girls lots of shiny endorsements! No scary hats! No dead!