MELLOW GOLD STATUS (DESIGNER BAGS vs. DESIGNER DRUGS)

Sometimes, you climb into a sparkly spandex jumpsuit and a three-hundred dollar k-hole, convince yourself you have a tail, and live to tell the tale to your one-thousand closes friends across the ravephotoblogosphere...your one-thousand closest friends who came into the ravephotoblogosphere looking for pictures of you and your tail rather than looking for pictures of themselves doing sexy growling faces and also maybe searching for clues as to whom they might have lent their keys to when they were...busy...thinking.







Other times, you go to a so-so house party dressed as a Brownie, complete with authentic badge-covered sash and are met with "Are you a beatnik?" just because you are wearing something beret-like, and you think if you're going to jump to conclusions about berets, you should probably start with "Are you Parisian??"

You wake up before noon on Saturday to go antiquing with your parents in the Gay Village, dabble in farmer's marketing and look at things made of pewter and stuff blown from glass in the Old Port. Then you read cooking magazines over a lunch of roasted red pepper soup with a side of ciabatta laden with brie, asparagus and pecans...and what your dad insists is the best espresso he's ever had in Montreal...and he's had his share. For the record, this went down at SoupeSoup on Duluth and my dad thinks bread pudding is making an ironic yet chic comeback in the world of culinary arts. Apparently, "It's EVERYWHERE!"














Wait, it's not over. You think about putting one of the eight pairs of fishnets your mom gave you and being a sexy...something. But instead, you eat more brie for dinner, call your sister for your dad's pizza dough recipe, laugh for ten minutes about how funny it is ('Top with...whatever.') and then made said pizza dough with your dad in the Cuisinart he souped up for your birthday. I guess he should know his own recipe if he made it up, but my dad is pushing forty so we'll let it slide...





You bid those that created you adieu, and think that if you were to turn out like them, you'll probably die happy and you also think you're lucky that you never really found them that embarassing!





Sure, they gave you weird stuff in your lunch when you were a kid but the teasing toughened you up and you're pretty adventurous nowadays and dinner party is your middle name you respect that!


It's like that Raffi song...


"All I really need is a song in my heaaaart...food in my belly! Looove in my family!"





My dad's favourite song goes something like this: "Caviar comes from a virgin sturgeon, a virgin sturgeon's a very fine fish! A virgin sturgeon has no urgin', that's why caviar is my dish!"





Your brother even called you on Saturday, which is rare and eventhough he just wanted to know what time he and his dinner guests should cover up their naked bodies and hide the ecstasy tabs/nipple rings from your mom and dad, you're still touched. Sort of...








You make one half-hearted "So...what are you doing tonight?" phone call, knowing full well what this person and a good 74% of the people you know are doing tonight, just so you feel like you tried to have a crazy wild holy fuck I lived to tell the tale of my tail time. You tried. Sort of...


You say fuck the fishnets, dress up as a lumberjack (read: don a flannel shirt, long underwear and steel-toe boots...minutes the steel-toe boots)...





...and watch Election while making a to-do list for the week ('Write superscary Halloween blog, drop off disposable cameras, drop 10 pounds of disposable thigh flesh by Tuesday'), read In-Style (see page 356 for rare sexy pic of Mark Ruffalo, thanks Hilary.), paint your nails (fingers and toes, Pink Shock! and Revlon Red respectively.), and throw a hairy fit when you discover that the only special feature is director's audio commentary but get over it quickly, eat more brie and call it a night but not before caling it a really great day.





You might jerk off before REALLY calling it a night but what, no you didn't and to imply such a thing would be rude, sacrilegious, and probably not the best way to make hot guys give a shit about your lonely existence.


Please excuse the previous sentence. We went out for oysters on Friday and you all know what THAT means...it means master chef Nathaniel Heaney prepared them with love at Maestro on St. Laurent (right next to Euro-Deli) and if you like seafood and your parents want to take you out for a fancy meal, go there and order the Louisiana platter to wash down your oysters and you'll feel downright dreamy...


[SIDENOTE: Nicola Jane Young really liked The Maestro by Tim Wynne Jones when she was ten and that is why she chose it for her first book report of the grade 5 season.]


If you like hearing about cool things I eat, you should read my dad's e-mails about what he heats because his descriptions are considerably more elaborate and exciting. If you don't really care about my awesome meal, you should probably turn away from me while I'm in the midst of describing my awesome meal like some lumberjack I briefly conversed with at that so-so house party I went to on Friday night because that's cool, I don't even care, you're just hungry, I understand! Sort of...and that is why I sometimes catch you checking out my rack when you think I'm not looking.





In conclusion, Carré St-Louis is a really nice play to be on a Sunday afternoon in the fall if you want to free your mind and it's also perfect for picking up pretty leaves to make a bouquet for your Sunday evening dinner hostess.





I am going to have pumpkin pie for dinner at my friend Hillary's house. I am going to bring some cinnamon whipped cream.



And one of my favourite games. Thank you and goodbye.