shelley

Today, the plan was for Shelley, The Wren and I to pile into our car and head off to Montreal for an evening of hanging with the hot girls of Montreal. We were going to leave early afternoon, hit an art opening, get Shelley a lezzie haircut, dance the night away.

And then the party happened.

Man, for the first couple of hours last night, I was the fuck off my game. I'm never easy in situations that require small talk. Small talk is not my forte, especially when I don't recognize the person that I'm small talking, even especially when the person I'm small talking is hardly recognizable as human. For a little while, I wandered around feeling a bit lost, hiding behind the people I knew, bouncing between Shelley and Steve and Tracey and Mitch and the Born Ruffian.

Then the dancing started, and thank god, since, as Steve put it, "More dance means less talk."

Much hip swinging and flask sipping later, I was having a grand time. The dancing also gave me the opportunity to use my wiles, which last night involved an apparently convincing combination of maribou and cleavage, to lure the Born Ruffian - the Monkey
to my Lady - back home for a spot of cavalier activity.

I bought this dress years ago, in Winnipeg, and have only worn it twice before. It's not an obvious costume, really. People asked me what I was, and I spent most of the night saying "Well, I had a tray, and when I had a tray I was a cocktail party hostess from 1960." By the time the last person asked me, I said "Cleavage. It's all about the boobs."

It was a late night, and we were part of the first exodus. Other people were not so well rested this morning.

When Shelley called me not too long ago, to ask if I'd be disappointed to miss Montreal today, my
List Of 100 Things To Do flashed before my eyes. Hang zines, wash towels, run, groceries, story, hang hooks, hem curtains, wash dishes.

It perhaps says something about where I am in my life that I'm willing to give up a night of dancing to run, do laundry, and write. But I'll tell you what: this is a comfortable chair.

I love a good outfit, and I got to wear two this weekend that I don't normally get to go out and about in. I got to wear these outfits with two of my lovely friends, doing two very different but very fun things. On two different days.

+One+

Saturday night, Shelley and I went out on the town, but not before we had our prom picture taken. Aren't we handsome?

Though before we went to our amazingly delicious dinner at Domus, I removed the necklace that looked like a collar and put on a more demure scarf. I asked Steve and Shelley if it looked more appropriate, and they both allowed as how it did. "It looks like you're trying to be more demure," Steve said, "Nice."

At Domus, I knew our server from yoga, and it took her a second to clock me. "Oh wow! You look, uh, great!" Normally, she sees me red, sweaty, and frustrated by my short hamstrings. A coworker of mine, who passed not two feet in front of my face, twice, did not recognize me at all.

I had no idea that lipstick was a disguise.

After our amazinly delicious dinner at Domus (Truffles? Yes, please! Pear strudel? I won't say no.) we went over to St. Brigids to watch the contest portion of Mr Leather Ottawa. I've always wanted to go, but tickets are $25, and that's a fair amount of money for something I'm only moderately interested in. I've never seen so many assless chaps in one church.

+Two+

The main reason I was up so early on Saturday and Sunday was to write the Q and A section of the workshop that Matilda and Edwina were giving at the 160 Workshops. We, as we said to each other more than once, are Manner Ladies, not Get Things Done In A Reasonable Amount Of Time Beforehand Ladies. But get it done we did.

Part of why I love being Edwina is that I get to write with old fashioned grammatical constructions and tell people how to act in what I feel is a reasonable manner. Another part is that I get to work on creative projects with Matilda.

Another big reason is that I get to wear pencil skirts, blouses with many buttons and my spectator pumps. It is hard not to feel damn sexy in spectator pumps and a pencil skirt. Especially if you're holding a clipboard.

I can't vouch for Matilda, but I might say it's the same thing for a cinch-waisted full-skirted dress with a car coat layered fetchingly over top.

Along with our fabulous miens, I think the workshop went pretty well. We're not entirely convinced it's the venue for the Manners Ladies, but everyone seemed to have a good time. One of the YES People took a whack of photos of us and the people there, and this is my favourite of the whack.

It is very satisfying to make people laugh.

What would be nice would be to go swimming this summer. I would like to take a book, wrap up some food, pour some white wine sangria into a juice bottle, bike to Britannia under the sun and wind. Once there, I would like to sit under a tree and read, runnning off into the water for a paddle and float whene'er the mood struck.

Before last night, I had two bathing suits with which to do this.

One from six years ago: bright yellow bottoms and a black sports bra. I associate it strongly with falling in love with Mike. The yellow is a terrible colour for my skin, and I must have been in a very thin phase when I bought that bra, because now when I wear it my cleavage gets uncomfortably and unsexily hot.

The other suit is a crazy 1950s number with nice shorts and a waistline that suits me, but a ginormous boob cavern that does not. Not that this matters particularly, since the suit is structured such that it stands up on its own. It feels weird to wear a bathing suit that moves a half second after you do.

The Committee of Necessity deemed a new suit an acceptable purchase. Those two are both in the thrift store pile.

I made a date with Shelley to hit the mall.

++

Our first stop was American Apparel. As I was picking suits out, it hit me that I'm over my post-gain body malaise.

"What are you looking for?" Shelley said. I'd practically begged her to come shopping with me, making half-jokes about needing someone to pass tissues over the door when I started to cry. "A one-piece?"

"Nah. A two-piece."
"Like with a tank top? Boy cuts?"
"Nope, bikini top. Boy cuts, preferably, but regular bottoms if there aren't any ones I like."

She raised her eyebrows a bit at me. "A bikini, then?"

"Yes, a bikini."

Rather a brave choice for someone professed to be worried about bursting into tears in the change room.

But there it was. That's what I wanted.

Shelley and I were in and out of a whack of change rooms, bottoms and tops slithering over benches and chairs and floors. Normally I am scrupulous about re-hanging clothes neatly. But these bits were all so fussy and complicated I didn't have the patience. I'd just gather them all up in the crook of my arm and dump them on the nearest flat object, feeling guilty about the clerks' work as I did so.

I did find a bikini, with sequins and hibiscus and little ties at the side. That one I handed over neatly for the clerk to put aside.

Why you should take a friend bathing suit shopping? Because not only might she say "Right now, that ass can do no wrong," she might also keep you from spending too long in front of the mirror. I wanted to look at a lot of different options. So each time it was on with the suit, look over the shoulder, straight on, to the side, oops, don't do that again, back to the front, another over the shoulder, "is it okay? the colour? how does my ass look? i like that it doesn't bite in here. are you sure it looks okay?"

Every time I spent more than a few minutes in a single suit, twisting from angle to angle, I started picking out my flaws. I could catalogue those for you too quickly, but repeating them would only make them more true.

When there's someone else around, that kind of self-hatred becomes self-indulgent real fast.

I start in with the nits and the picking. Shelley might wander back from the front of the store, or I'd become conscious that I'd been staring at myself for too long and I'd snap out of my hateful fugue and say "No." or "This one's a maybe." or, eventually, "That brown one's the best."

The body-comfort still feels new. Dragging Shelley around allowed me to keep it alive, since it's still too weak to breathe on its own.

++

Late last summer, you might remember that Eric and I had some kind of stomach disgruntlement whilst on vacation. I lost probably 7 or 8 pounds, dropping me under 120.

I spent last fall mildly unhappy, tightly wound, and very worried that my boyfriend was falling out of love with me. When I'm that wound and worried, I can't gain weight, no matter how much oil I cook with, no matter the cookies I stuff into my maw. I didn't lose much more weight, but by the time Eric and I broke up, I was down to about 116.

I've said it before, and will probably have reason to say it again: when I'm that thin, I'm not at my healthiest; when I'm that thin, I'm not at my most attractive; when I'm that thin, I get a lot of societal approval for being that thin.

The approval comes in subtle clues I won't take the time to catalogue here. It comes from pop culture, from friends, acquaintances. It's pervasive and deep-seated.

When I start gaining weight, when I get happy, when the amount of food I've been eating to maintain my thin weight stretches my skin out to its big size overnight, I always have a period of mourning: the loss of my old skinny jeans; having a body something like what people are told they want. Even if they don't actually want it, even if they find it's thinness unattractive.

Each time I've gained weight - this time about 12 or 14 lbs, depending on the time of day - I go through this dissatisfaction. It's crazy, because I look at the bodies that I'm attracted to, and while some of them are very thin, some of them are not. Some of them are round and luscious and belly-lovely. So why I mourn the loss of something that was thrust upon me by random bacteria and sadness is hard to fathom.

Each time, the layer of dissatisfaction peels off and I come out feeling not just heavier. Weightier. More connected; more here; more willing to be here. Happy to take up the space my well-being needs.

The morning did not start well. When you've rolled out of bed around 10 am for 4 of the past 5 days, 6:30 is way fucking early. I didn't recognize myself when I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, due to, 6 of one/half dozen the other, either my disarray or my inability to focus my eyeballs.

But I finished my bits of packing, including getting all of my christmas presents into my two wee bags. Shelley and Steve gave me all sorts of lovely and delicious things made in Halifax, including a top which is a brighter colour than I normally wear, but makes my tits look almost shockingly large. And then these slippers, which I fucking love. Maybe I'll wear them with the merino socks my uncle gave me. Apparently, word on the cold feet has gotten out.

My cab was supposed to come at 7:20 or 7:25. I booked it yesterday, talking to a slow-talking and kinda confused sounding man. It worried me. My choice for the Share-A-Cab was to get there for 7 am - 1 hour early - or 8 am - 10 minutes late. I generally don't like to cut it too close, but the difference between 7 and 8 feels like more than an hour.

At 7:24 my nerves had nerved up and I thought "Okay, they've got till 7:40 and then I'm calling." At 7:37, I thought fuck it and dialed them. The slow-talking man came on the line.

"Hi, I'm Megan Butcher. I booked a cab to show up at Number Number This Street at 7:20 this morning."

"Oh. Huh. What's your name?"

"Megan. Butcher."

He's flipping madly through what sound like scraps of paper.

"Oh. Huh. When did you make the reservation?"

"Yesterday. With you." I was not my nicest self.

"Well. Well! It's just gone! I don't have your name anywhere. Huh!"

Silence.

I break.

"Oooohkay. My flight is at 8:50. Can you get me a cab?"

"Oh. Huh. Well. Unh, I can maaaaybe get someone to you by 8:20 or 8:30."

It takes around a half hour to get to the airport.

"No. Thank you. I will call someone else."

The first cab company I picked at random from the yellow pages had someone already in the North End and at the house in 5 minutes. I got to the airport with time to spare, but paid more than twice the price for the privilege. On the way there, I was thankful that I am now in a financial situation where that is an inconvenience and not an impossibility.

While I was waiting for the first cab, I flipped through the cookbook I gave Shelley: a copy of my go-to cookbook, The Vegetarian Express Lane Cookbook. It is getting damn hard to come by these days, and that is a damn shame for lazy cooks everywhere. 10 items or less! A limited but tasty palette of herbs and spices! Crazy that's it's out of print. After she opened it, I used bingo dabbers to mark the recipes I particularly liked. Last night, I made the White Beans and Sage, and we ate it at the beautiful table that Steve made, with a nice Pinot Grigio and candlelight. Like a date without the incipient heartbreak.

Steve's present wasn't necessarily the most thoughtful gift I've ever given him, insofar as it was originally a present for someone else. But these mittens are the most beautiful things I have ever knit, so I hope that fact and warm fingers makes up for the lack of thoughtfulness. I also gave him a scarf to match, though it came with the needles still in. The bazillion episodes we watched of The I.T. Crowd ("Hello? Hel-LO! Hel-lo, Computor!") helped me get through nearly another ball-unit of yarn. There's gonna have to be a lot more TV before the S's get here in a couple of weeks if'n I'm gonna get it finished.

If I'd been smart, I wouldn't have written much over the past few days, cause now I got these pictures, but I'm all storied out. Enh, it's late, so no story, just two of my favourite creatures on a spit of land at Cow Bay.

For the first couple of days after Eric arrived in the 'fax, he and I had a running conversation about which one of us was on vacation and which one was on holiday. It went a little something like this:

"Nice to be on vacation, eh?"
"Or holiday."
"True." I paused to absorb the possible thesauratic implications of this. "Wait. Holiday?"
"Yeah. We're on different kinds of trips."
"Ah. Gotcha."

But you know, I didn't gotcha. I mulled it over. The next day:

"So okay. Which one of us is on holiday and which one of us is on vacation, then?"
"Well, you can't have a working holiday, but you can have a working vacation. You did the pride booth and you're doing a reading. So you're on vacation and I'm on holiday, because I'm not doing anything at all like work."

Right.

Conversations like that are one of the many reasons I feel unbelievably lucky to have found Eric.

Another couple days later, about 10 hours into our 36 Hours of Food Poisoning No Fun, I wandered into our bedroom from the living room, where I had been alternately reading the shittiest mystery ever, passing out, worrying that I might puke again, and feeling very very sorry for myself. Exhausted from the 15 foot trip, I sat heavily on the side of the bed. He woke up.

"Hi baby. How are you."
He blinked an owly gravol blink at me. It wasn't a real question anyway.
"So. Is this a holiday or a vacation?"
That got me a smile.
"This is a vacation from our holiday."

Neither of us had ever had food poisoning before. And even now, we're not sure. We spent a lot of time walking around out in the sun without hats and not drinking very much water. Because we're, you know, bright like that.

The trip actually ended up being quite a few firsts, the big ones being our first long trip together and the first sick together. Considering the fact that I miss him terribly after spending 6 nights and days with him in a fairly small room, I think we did alright.

The start of our Romantic Food Poisoning was Wednesday. Wednesday night was going to be a really fun night for Eric, Shelley, Steve, Aurèle and A's brother Phil. We were gonna see rock and roll on the high seas. Or, more precisely, the Maynards on the tall ship Silva.

Early in the evening, Shelley made us a delicious dinner of tofu and greens and rice, and then Eric and I wandered downtown for drinks with A. and P. We ended up at the Split Crow for power hour - a buck a beer from 9 to 10.

(This picture is the closest I will ever get to looking like a beer commercial girl. That is A. to my left, looking blurrily bemused.)

Ah! I can hear you saying, Megan! Sweetie! When you drink too much buck-a-beer beer, you don't get *food* poisoning.

But my response is ready: I was about to go on a boat and take gravol. So I drank only about a third of a glass to be polite, and then sat there, waiting to get anxious about being late for the ship.

We weren't late. In fact, we spent quite a bit of time waiting on the pier, where to pass the time I took a few picture of the stomach ache that was starting to get quite poky.

Apparently, the show was quite good. Nausea felled me early on and I missed it all. I did spend about 10 minutes of one band above deck, but I was shaking so badly that Steve lent me his hoodie to put on top of the sexy little t-shirt, 2 sweaters, jacket number I was already sporting, and A. gave me a fistful of ice. I stared stupidly at my fingers gripping it as my arm went numb. "It always makes me feel better," A. said, shrugging. The fact that it didn't totally give me the creeps meant that it felt pretty good.

Then I ran downstairs because I thought I was going to throw up. Eric came down not long after and stroked my hair and showed me the pictures he was taking of the actual party. I could hear the bands really well, so it was almost like being on deck. Shelley and Steve kept coming down for very nice visits too, taking care of me and keeping me company, even though the gravol had taken away most of my sentences. Though I do believe it is one of the few times in my life I have muttered "Yes, I would like to put my head in your lap," without the slightest whiff of salaciousness.

I worried for quite a while that I was wrecking people's fun, because E. and S. and S. kept having to come downstairs to visit me. But then, even in the haze, I realized that if I had said no I can't go, none of us likely would have been anywhere near the music. So this, really, was a happy medium.

That everyone was so nice to me is one of the many reasons I feel unbelievably lucky to have found my friends.

Okay, so a lot more went on in Halifax than sickness and sentiment. But it's late and I'm still a little dragged out from being sick. Tomorrow, more.

I'm sitting in Shelley and Steve's kitchen right now. Shelley's making a delicious dinner (risotto!) and Eric and Steve are floating around making plans and having showers and Milo the adorable dog just barked because Mark just got home and Shelley asked into the air "Who barks too much?" and Milo was too busy barking to answer.

All in all, perfect. Last night Steve and I drove out to the airport to pick that very cute Eric up. The sunset, through which that very cute Eric was flying as we drove. One thing I love about Halifax is the skies.

One thing I will tell you before I sign off is that I fucking love my laptop. I have all my music, all my software, access to blogging, access access access.

I tried to blog earlier, and although we've been doing lots, my brain is on vacation mode and I couldn't think of how to frame it. So I likely won't be writing much this week, but instead, drinking, walking, reading, and seeing.

Maybe the occasional photo. To close, here are a couple of pictures of Shelley and I on the Lawrencetown Beach this aft.

I'm back at home now. Shelley and Steve are in Montreal. Next week they will be in Halifax. Permanently. Or pretty permanently.

A couple years ago, they moved from the middle of Centretown to Hintonburg.

"Will you still come visit me as much?" Shelley asked.

"Well, I'm sure I'll still see you as much, but I don't know about at your house. It's over the bridge."

I have a thing about bridges. They make what's on the other side seem that much further away.

We did see each other just as much, but I was right. I did not see them at their house nearly as much. Just too far.

Now, now I am kicking myself because there are a lot of bridges between Ottawa and Halifax and it seems very far away.

Shelley and I are at the cottage. At least, that's what it feels like. Truthfully, we're in an apartment in Montreal, but with the skylights and the no plans and the eating whenever we damn well please whenever we damn well please and the reading the paper and magazines and type type typing on my laptop, it feels more like we're on a relaxed cottage vacation than on the Plateau.

Just fine with me, since I have a migraine.

So I keep asking Shelley “What time are we picking Steve up?” and then saying “Oh right. 5:30.” And nothing I eat really tastes like anything. Except for the overwhelming raspberry of the new lip balm I had to buy because I forgot one of the 10 or so lip balms I have squirreled away around my apartment.

Come to think of it, I think maybe this migraine started yesterday. I got to Shelley and Steve's (now old) house and realized that I'd forgotten my water bottle, my reusable mug and lip balm. These are three things I rarely travel without. Me without lip balm is like. Well. I don't know. Something very anxious and prone to cold sores, at any rate.

We had a lovely slothful night last night. Shelley made a tasty stirfry, and I was very much in the mood for something noodley, so it hit the spot. Then we drank mint tea, ate chocolate and dried figs and Shelley read magazines, and I got decently into a book called “How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead.”

It contains some very good advice, but so far, what I've gotten out of it is that you should read a lot, you should write a lot and you should methodically send your stuff out and read it. It is ironic to be sitting reading a self-help book about how you should be reading fiction and writing.

Today has been nicely slothful too. Drinking coffee. Wandering down to look at a restaurant for our fancy dinner tonight. Brunoise is closed on Mondays, but I didn't find this out until I walked inside.

There was a man sitting at the counter with a white cup beside him, cappucino foam dried to the rim, and the paper spread out in front of him, almost finished. A woman had a laptop set up in the back corner table.

He noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, turned to me. “Bonjour,” he said.

“Uh, hi.” I said back. Not confident enough to speak French – is reservation a real French word, or one of them there faux amis? - which makes me unsure of my English as well. “Should we make a reservation for dinner this evening?”

He smiled, a small laugh too. “We're closed today.” Waved his arm over the counter. “As you can see, I am just in to do some very difficult work on our day off.”

“Ah, I see. I do hope you get everything done you need to.” I laughed too, and left.

Shelley was very disappointed. In my laugh, I had forgotten that we were both very much looking forward to eating there.

It is hard to find a fancy place to eat on Monday in Montreal. Lots of stuff here is closed. By the time we had called the 4th restaurant on our list – Pinhxo – I made a reservation immediately because I think the answering machine said they were open, lundi a mecredi, from 18h. But they haven't called back, so who knows.

Since getting the food arrange, we've sat at the dining room table to read the paper. I tried to write my last NYC blog, but my brain is too misty to follow any kind of thread. I walked to St. Laurent to try to buy a new black cardigan, but the store I wanted to go to is closed. We've had lunch, a delicious risotto made by Shelley, that she said was very flavourful, but I thought tasted like fog.

The migraine seems to have broken my tastebuds. I had a Tim Horton's coffee on the way here, and it was fucking awful. I hate Tim Horton's coffee anyway, but it always tastes the same, and it always tastes like something. This coffee tasted like brown water. As did the coffee I had this morning. As did the coffee I had just after lunch.

Two things I do not like doing without are lip balm and the taste of delicious coffee. I think I'll avoid beer until my head gets better, because I would be very very sad if I had to add beer to the list of things that tasted like crap.

Shelley is sleeping now, and I'm about to stop tapping away to take an advil so that 1) when I drive to pick Steve up, I'm not trying to make sense of Montreal traffic in the fog, and 2) our fancy dinner will not taste like mist.