r-a-n-t
Summer is the most disappointing of seasons. The promises of fun, slush and cotton candy are replaced with heat exhaustion, vacation envy and noisy air conditioning units. Gasping for air is not my idea of a swell summer time. I genuinely hate the weather ladies who cry at the sight of clouds on a summer weekend, and say it couldn’t possibly be summer if we are not drenched in sun rays.
I miss the cool lakes of the Madawaska Valley and the chilly evenings spent lounging one of those chairs you always see on the cover of Cottage Quarterly, cozily wrapped in a blanket reading the Atlantic Monthly. Purdy Lake was nice, we had a lot of time to read, look out the window, or bike around. But that was two weeks ago and today I’m looking for a pool I can swim in for about a mile, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell. This seems like the obvious solution to my little problems, which are: I don’t sleep well, I have nightmares at night, and I feel like I need ten kinds of leave: vacation leave, sick leave, personal leave, etc.
These things helped me make it through the season:
- My new Creative Zen MP3 player. Worth every penny.
- Michael Palin’s shows on traveling on TVO, Fridays at 7pm.
- The band Keane.
- A daily Grande-Double-Espresso-Iced-Latte-With-One-and-a-half-Raw-Sugar
- Yellow Tail Chardonnay
- Defamer, The Superficial and Gawker.
- The idea that retail is an effective form of therapy.
In other news, I’ll be hitting a new decade next month. The scary thing about turning 30 is not that I’m getting older, it’s that I’m not much different than when I was 23. Oh sure, there has been slight physical change and much soul searching, but deep down (or right on the surface) I’m still the adorably odd student who likes to read her Star in the bath. I still don’t like the 9-to-5-living-for-the-weekend lifestyle (which I thought before was just a hard time adjusting), and my taste in books, music and art has not changed an iota (except I dropped Tori Amos).
As I’m hitting the thirties, I wonder a lot about what will change, if, when, how, and what will it cost?
I’d like to take my twenties, plant them in a jar next to my kitchen window and name it George. Maybe George will grow to become a beautiful and accomplished 30 year-old.
I miss the cool lakes of the Madawaska Valley and the chilly evenings spent lounging one of those chairs you always see on the cover of Cottage Quarterly, cozily wrapped in a blanket reading the Atlantic Monthly. Purdy Lake was nice, we had a lot of time to read, look out the window, or bike around. But that was two weeks ago and today I’m looking for a pool I can swim in for about a mile, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell. This seems like the obvious solution to my little problems, which are: I don’t sleep well, I have nightmares at night, and I feel like I need ten kinds of leave: vacation leave, sick leave, personal leave, etc.
These things helped me make it through the season:
- My new Creative Zen MP3 player. Worth every penny.
- Michael Palin’s shows on traveling on TVO, Fridays at 7pm.
- The band Keane.
- A daily Grande-Double-Espresso-Iced-Latte-With-One-and-a-half-Raw-Sugar
- Yellow Tail Chardonnay
- Defamer, The Superficial and Gawker.
- The idea that retail is an effective form of therapy.
In other news, I’ll be hitting a new decade next month. The scary thing about turning 30 is not that I’m getting older, it’s that I’m not much different than when I was 23. Oh sure, there has been slight physical change and much soul searching, but deep down (or right on the surface) I’m still the adorably odd student who likes to read her Star in the bath. I still don’t like the 9-to-5-living-for-the-weekend lifestyle (which I thought before was just a hard time adjusting), and my taste in books, music and art has not changed an iota (except I dropped Tori Amos).
As I’m hitting the thirties, I wonder a lot about what will change, if, when, how, and what will it cost?
I’d like to take my twenties, plant them in a jar next to my kitchen window and name it George. Maybe George will grow to become a beautiful and accomplished 30 year-old.
posted by Kine at 2:38 PM
3 Comments:
allo Kine,
parlant de George, je viens de lui parler, en chair et en os, au vrai, à l'unique, l'incomparable: George Costanza!
GOERGIE!!!!
YOU HOSER! GET...OUT!
Comment ça? Est-ce qu'il fait un stand up act à Montréal?
I had a fish named George. He died.
did you know that if I had been born a boy, my parents would have named me that?
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