Self Portrait with Bidet

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the only way I seem to grow is via a process of extreme public mortification. Kind of like mugging for the camera, thinking you might just be the most sumptuously gorgeous creature on the planet, while remaining utterly oblivious to the bidet lurking in the background. That's my life in a nutshell.

I swear to god I don’t know why I can’t learn from the mistakes of others instead of trying them out for myself. It’s as if I believe that having my whole family, and an entire wedding party, witness my poor judgment is the most rockingiest good time, right up there with farting on a first date.


I can’t figure out if I am slow on the uptake because my mistake models tend to be characters in novels whose entanglements with life seem so very romantic, or because my friends have such well-honed self-preservation skills that they don’t provide the mistake lessons I so badly need. Or, perhaps the characters/friends dichotomy is really two sides of the same coin and my mistake is to decide against changing my money at the airport, thinking I can do it at the resort, which I discover upon arrival I cannot, leaving me stuck with my useless currency. I’d like to blame my self-respecting friends, who sensibly avoid embarrassment, for forcing me to act like Bridget Jones, but the truth is it’s me who has a taste for mistake porn, and then the supreme bad judgment to try out the novel moves in real life, not to mention the even worse judgment (worse than supremely bad) to blog about it as well.

Exhibit A: publishing this . . .


. . . instead of this . . .


(My cousin's wife's brother who was part of the wedding party in Costa Rica last week, and, no we did not . . .)

Here are a few other mistakes I'd like to share with you because, well, because I can't seem to stop myself. . .

Mistake Number 1:
Through the innocent and involuntary response of my own laughter, I effectively encouraged my brother, Justin's, shenanigans in Costa Rica where we were attending our cousin's wedding. Justin, the bad brother, is on the left. The one on the right doing the enabling is Andy, the good brother.


With the best of intentions I’m sure, Justin tried to pimp me to every waiter, tour guide, pool boy and male iguana (the real kind, not even the metaphor) that crossed his path: “Hey, Manuel! Are you single? Si? So is my sister! Don’t you think she’s guapa?”

Exhibit B: our guide on the sunset cruise. Apart from looking like he's twelve, and the fact that he lives in Costa Rica and hangs out on boats with drunken tourists, I think he's married and has a son. I'm many things, but not a craddle robber or a homewrecker.

At any rate, Justin’s voice is as resonant and far-reaching as a fog horn. But the real problem is, he’s extremely funny. Also, he’s my boss. He signs my pay cheques. I could not stop him. And I didn’t really want to. My mistake was to let my enjoyment of his humour get in the way of my self-preservation instincts. I don’t believe there was one resort guest, vendor on the beach, or grain of sand that did not know I was up for grabs. Which meant my comings and goings became something of public interest and conversation. Your imagination can fill in the rest.

Mistake Number 2:
Telling you all here right now that one of my goals this year is to practice travel writing so that I can travel later in the year and write about it. For money. I should know better than to make such public announcements, setting up expectations I might not meet. And yet here I am reporting on Costa Rica where I was surrounded by unspeakable natural beauty, and gobs of time in which to write a trenchant piece about the wasteful and blindly exploitative all-inclusive resort expreience, except that I did not write about any of it. I did not write at all. Why? I blame the sun. It forced me into a prone position on a white plastic thing they called a lounge chair located beside a body of water they called the pool. The sun distracted me to such a degree that I forgot to reapply 45 sunblock. While everyone in my group slow cooked to an even golden brown that glowed sexily against their whitish ensembles . . .


. . . I fried to a blistering red from my clavicle to my calves, turning all my new vacation clothes into exercises in contrast, visibly highlighting, as it were, my searing shame. Thankfully, some of my trip mates had the good graces to avert their gaze.


Mistake Number 3:
My unwavering ability to believe every New Year (no matter how old and ostensibly wise I get) that this year my ship will come in. A disproportionately large section of my grey matter activity seems devoted to this glorious sea-change myth, and, worse, I believe it’s something that will happen to me instead of from me. In this case, I blame chick flicks.

Exhibit C: A plausible photograph of me with a staggeringly good looking man . . .


. . . only this staggeringly good looking man is none other than my uncle. All I can say is, at least he's not my Drunkle.


Take Two


This year, I plan to make some changes. My first order of business is to short circuit all my particularly ROI-deficient neural pathways (i.e. the ones that run back and forth between ChickFlickVille and FalseHappinessTown). Then I plan to build a one-way superhighway that runs from Fantasy Island to Survivor (Toronto and beyond).

One destination; one winner.


Here are a few things I wish to tackle this year (and blog about, either to pressure myself into doing them, or to prove that I really am addicted to public shame).

1. Jewish Restitution Money Plan
My family just got some money from the German government for property we lost in the war. My grandmother’s family owned a department store on Alexander Platz in Berlin, as well-known as the Eaton’s Centre at Queen and Young. My mother generously divided her portion of the money amongst her children, enabling me to do something I’ve been wanting to do for a few years: travel. Destination: Australia. Also to SE Asian countries where I have friends: Japan, Korea, Thailand. Also, to go back to Manila to finish my book. Hopefully. Maybe. If I don’t lose my nerve.

I’m thinking September.


I am also earmarking some of this money to provide funding for an emerging Jewish woman artist to spend a month of studio time in Berlin. I’m researching how this can be set up. I welcome all suggestions. This project is dear to my heart.

2. Blog-on-Brunch Plan. Blunch.


I love brunch. I’d trade it for dinner any day. One of Toronto’s greatest treasures is its plethora of amazing brunch places. Montreal has great brunch but not as many venues. Berlin has many venues and some spectacular brunches, but they don't do traditional North American brunch the way I like. I admit, I don’t love Toronto (I don’t hate it either) but I do think it tops the world (i.e. Montreal and Berlin) for brunch.

So, every Sunday, after my long run, I plan to find brunch, photograph brunch, eat brunch and blog brunch. I am looking for suggestions for places to go, as well as offers of companionship. For brunch, that is. If we fall in love over eggs, that’s a whole other blog post (girlfriends, don’t let that deter you. I want your company!)

3. Train for a Half Marathon Plan

It’s been three years since I ran my first and last half marathon. And it shows. The good news is I trained for the last one all through a Montreal winter (outside, not on a treadmill) so I know it can be done. The bad news: there's no excuse. Also, I’m not H Murakami so writing about running will be a challenge. But since running is all about challenge, I can't back down from this one, either. Run. Write. Run. Write. Run. Write . . .

My reward for all these accomplishments?

Bliss?

(We See You Shit was a piece by Michael Davidge)