Monday, May 18, 2009

Not-Long-Enough Weekend

When I was in high school, Victoria Day weekend meant pitching a tent at Stayner Camp, dodging water balloons being hurled by adorably immature strangers, lining up for cold showers at midnight, stalking not-quite-famous bands, and playing real-life Foosball in the middle of an open field. (You line up in rows, tie each row of teenagers together, and hope you don't die as balls attack you from every direction.)

I'm now too old for sleepless camping in May. Frost and tents do not belong together. Call me in a month or so.

This weekend, I crashed at my parents' place. I took my MacBook but did not blog. I took my camera but did not take pictures. I just was.

I drank coffee. And more coffee. I insulted a family friend in Portuguese. I confirmed that "doofus" and "dufus" are both legitimate spellings of the word. I played games quasi-competitively. I indulged in barbecue-y excellence. I chatted theology at length with my parents' friends who then listed off potential boyfriend possibilities for yours truly. I caught the late screening of Star Trek with my brother. I had a Toronto Project '02 flashback at church. (Funny how I can be nostalgic for a specific summer in the city in which I live.) I went for a two-hour walk with my mom, stopping by the waterfront to ponder my quarter-life existence. I ate ice cream on the back patio, thought about gardening, and waxed poetic about the agelessness of Winona Ryder. Oh, and Joel tried to balance a can of Pringles on my head. Fail.

Because I chose to just live the weekend rather than document it, most of the genius conversations went untranscribed. But a few moments deserve acknowledgment.

Smells Like Teen Spirit
I'm putting on perfume. Mom walks by.
ME: Shoot. Do I smell like you?
Mom looks at my bottle. It's the same as hers.
MOM: Yes.
ME: No wonder I'm single. I smell like a married middle-aged woman with three adult children.

Calling In Dead

ME: I dare you to call in sick.
JOEL: Yes, I was hit by a truck covered in anthrax.

Movies Get In the Way

ME: Aren't we going to Star Trek?
MOM: Sorry, I want to get on with my evening.
ME: That's what I'm going to tell the next guy who asks me to the movies.

Act Your Age

And from someone who has known me since junior high:
You haven't changed a bit.
This could be the ultimate compliment. Or the ultimate insult.

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