cake

Radiant Skin

“Mom, why do you keep old birthday cards?”

“Because I’m sentimental.”

“But you never look at them. They just sit in a box in the basement.”

“I like knowing they’re there.”

“I find that strange.”

“I find you strange. You don’t have a sentimental bone in your body. How are you my daughter?”

“I’m sentimental, but I’m also a minimalist. I’m not going to keep old stuff, it’s very hoarding-esque. Unhealthy I think.”

“Well, I can think of many things that are unhealthy about you, including your taste in men & the fact that you lather your face with beef tallow.”

“Beef tallow as skincare is a legit thing mom, my skin has never looked so good.”

“But you smell.”

“I smell?”

“Yes, you smell gross.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. I mean you have fucking beef tallow on your skin. Why don’t you use that nice Estee Lauder serum I bought you?”

“It’s full of toxins.”

“Jesus. You and your toxins obsession. I hate to break it to you kid, but we’re all gonna die, so you may as well use nice creams on your face.”

“You know you’re not a normal mother, right?”

“Normal is an outdated narrative. Are you still dating Devon? He’s a narcissistic prick in case you haven’t noticed. No idea why you would debase yourself by letting him into your heart and body. Have you talked with your therapist about him?”

“Talk therapy is old fashioned. I meditate, journal and occasionally do Ayahuasca.”

“So basically you sit on a yoga mat, get high and write about it. Great. Now I understand your generation better.”

“And Devon is no more narcissistic than anyone else I know, he just embraces his narcissism, he doesn’t try to hide it.”

“Wow. What. A. Gem.”

“Stop it mom.”

“Okay, okay. Why don’t you invite him over for Sunday night dinner sometime?”

“Because I don’t want to traumatize him.”

“Very funny.”

“Plus, he’s vegan on Sundays.”

“I’ll make him a nice salad.”

“We haven’t even had sex yet mom, it’s too early to introduce him to the family.”

“You haven’t had sex yet? Why the hell not?”

“Just because you were slutty at my age doesn’t mean I have to be. We hang out. We talk. We smoke weed. We walk in the forest.”

“That’s sad. I tell you kid, you’re missing out.”

“Stop calling me kid, it’s annoying.”

“Fine. Let’s pop into this cute bakery. You still eat cake right?”

“Of course I still eat cake. What kind of a question is that?”

“Oh thank God. Sex-less is one thing, but cake-less would have put me over the edge.”

Shiny Happy People

Driving to the flea market last week, my chest suddenly felt like it was being crushed.
Like a giant garlic press was squeezing my heart.
Was this some type of new panic attack?
Maybe it was Panic Attack 5.0, the latest version.
I had anti-anxiety pills with me but they wouldn’t help, this was something different.
But what?
Ah, I know what this is, of course:
It’s loneliness.
I’m lonely.
I’m really fucking lonely.

During this revelation Cher was playing on the radio.
“Do you believe in life after love?” she sang.
Yes, yes I do Cher.
Then again I don’t really understand life or love, so there’s that.
Listening to her sing reminded me of my old Cher Barbie doll whose nails I had painted bright red. Her beautiful long hair had somehow ended up horribly snarled, forcing me to cut it into a 1920’s bob, a hairstyle that didn’t suit her at all.
I had ruined Cher.

Despite feeling choked with loneliness, I made it to the parking lot where I applied gobs of lip gloss.
I figured super shiny lips would distract people from my sad girl aura.

Why is it that when you feel lonely every fucking person you see looks ridiculously happy? Like they’ve just won the lottery.
The flea market was packed. A DJ played while trendy couples and cute families checked out vintage cameras, 1970’s polyester dresses and home-made $25 hot sauces.
They were all smiling and laughing.
Literally every single person – even the kids – were vibing like they were on edibles.

Why am I the only one here alone?
I usually have no problem with going out solo, but today it was getting to me.
“It’s a cruel, cruel cruel summer…” Bananarama sang in my head.

Crushing loneliness makes me cranky and I soon found myself critiquing everything I saw:
Like enough with the crochet stuff. It was a bad look in the 70’s and the 90’s and it’s a bad look now.
Also, why are so many people selling vintage tea cups filled with soy wax? Why is that a thing?
And what about all those play-dough looking earrings in the shapes of strawberries and mushrooms?
Just stop it already.

I spotted a few cool vintage dresses, but I was unable to get to them due to the hoards of euphoric shoppers crowding me out.
Nevermind, I had plenty of vintage dresses.
Plus the main reason I had come to this particular flea market was to check out a cute bakery I’d seen on Instagram. Their cakes were magical-looking, like they were decorated by artsy fairies.
Soon I too would be euphoric and no longer lonely, because I would have cake; cake solves all problems.

But to my horror, the bakery wasn’t there.
Checking their Instagram I found they were doing a pop-up at a flea market in the west end.
The west end? They may as well be in the U.K.
Driving across Toronto from the east side to the west is a torturous journey, one I made only for emergencies.
Did this bout of garlic press squeezing my heart loneliness qualify as an emergency?
Actually it did. But I just couldn’t face the traffic.

Then – pouf! – I saw a florist stall outside the flea market tent.
Next to cake, flowers were the best soul-soother.
I bought myself an obnoxiously large bouquet, then walked my shiny lips back to the parking lot.

Dry Hands

Let’s do it
Let’s jump together
Into lightness, into frivolity
I know it’s not usually where we hang out
We usually hang out in the darkness, in the heaviness
But I don’t like it here anymore
It’s sad and it’s hard to breathe
Please, take my hand and let’s jump together
No, I can’t promise anything
It might not work
Maybe we are not meant to live in lightness
Maybe in a past life we were horrible people and now we have to live in the darkness, you know like karma
But I think that’s unlikely
I think if we jumped into lightness, into joy
I think we would really like it there
We could laugh and sing and eat cake
I mean who doesn’t like cake?
Let’s try, it’s worth trying isn’t it?
Take my hand
I know my hand will probably feel weird because you’re not used to holding it
And it might be a little dry because I always forget to moisturize
But we deserve silly nights together, going to the fair and eating cotton candy
True, we don’t have an actual fair in this big angry city we live in, but think of it more like a metaphor
Take my hand and let’s just try
Let’s jump
And if you don’t like the light you can go back to the darkness
But I think I’m going to like the light
I’m ready for the light
Truthfully I’ve never liked living in this dark heavy place
I guess I should have told you that I didn’t like it here
But I felt like I wasn’t allowed to say anything
And it really is getting so hard to breathe
So please, won’t you take my hand and jump into the lightness with me?

Art by Willy Pogany

I Want It All

I know it’s not a healthy breakfast, but I don’t care. I want a croissant or pain au chocolat, with a strong cup of coffee.

I don’t need a giant Costco bag of apples, just one perfect crisp McIntosh will do.

I want to eat eggs from the happiest of chickens, the ones who run free on a family-run farm. Yes they are more expensive, but you can taste their joy.

My afternoon snack is a piece of cake with frosting covered in sprinkles. It’s a silly cake, the kind you might make for a six year old’s birthday, but it’s what I want and it makes me smile. Yes I will crash from the sugar high and need to nap like a toddler, but it’s worth it.

https://butternutbakeryblog.com/funfetti-cake/

I want to cook dinner like my Aunt showed me, the one who lived in Paris. Cook anything in a cast iron pan with butter and white wine and it will be like dining on the Rue Mouffetard.

Speaking of wine, I want to drink mine from mis-matched vintage glasses, the ones that are etched with swirls and trimmed in gold. And I want to drink it every night.

Before sleeping I want to massage my face with a heavy rose-scented cream. Maybe it won’t take away my wrinkles, but they will enjoy the lovely rose scent and I will too.

I will read a fashion magazine in bed. Not a book about something important. Instead I will look at beautiful clothing designed by artists who paint our bodies with fabric instead of painting canvas. This is important to me and it will help me dream of magical adventures, where I laugh and twirl and love myself and throw glitter down on everyone sleeping, so that when they wake, they exclaim, “whatever happened last night? Why is there a rainbow of glitter in our bed?”

This is what I want. I don’t care if it seems fanciful or silly or not what I should be doing. For the only thing I should be doing is living as my truest self. The doctors said I would be dead by now, that my cancer would devour me, but somehow I am still here. A mystery to them. So while I’m still here, I want it all. And I want it covered in gold sparkles.

Friday was my birthday, but I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Earlier in the week I’d had to put down my beloved dog Leroy. I felt like my heart had been ripped out, stomped on and then thrown back in my body.

Being so emotionally exhausted, I had totally forgotten that I had a brain scan scheduled. My Neurologist, a handsome Euro-Chic man who wears the most gorgeous Italian loafers, told me six months ago that if my aneurysm grew at all he would have to perform a procedure called “coiling” to keep it from bursting.

The funny thing is that when you already have a terminal illness and you’ve endured difficult treatments, finding out that you have a brain aneurysm really isn’t so bad. LOL. As long as the Neurologist didn’t have to open up my head during the procedure – and with coiling you don’t have to – then I was fine with it all.

But by Friday afternoon it all started feeling like it was just too much. Cancer + euthanizing my dog + brain aneurysm = bullsh*t! So to celebrate the fact that my life was completely ridiculous, I bought myself a giant chocolate cake. My partner does not eat sweets – how is that even possible?! – which meant more cake for me, yay! One of the wonderful things about my partner is that he allows me and encourages me to just be myself. He understood that I had to grieve the loss of Leroy and that I was in no mood for a typical birthday celebration. So he let me binge watch “Nurse Jackie,” while I pounded back white wine and stuffed my face, toddler-style, with cake.

Saturday morning I woke up with cake smeared on my nightgown and mascara on my face. I took all of Leroy’s stuff and threw it in our office/laundry room – the one room in the house which always looks like it has just been bombed. Then I started obsessively cleaning the couch, vacuuming up every last Leroy hair that I could find. I aired out the pillows on the deck, smashing the pillows against each other to rid them of Leroy’s beautiful brindle hair. Beating up on the pillows felt cathartic and the tears started flowing. I cried for the loss of Leroy, whom I had loved fiercely and who had been by my side every minute of my recovery. I cried because there was a very real chance that I would die before my parents and I couldn’t handle breaking their hearts. And I cried thinking about leaving my partner behind and how one day he would probably be with another woman.

Crying felt so damn good, why didn’t I do it more often? Why did I always try to control my emotional reactions? I cut myself another piece of cake and sat outside on the deck, in the cold, surrounded by couch pillows and Leroy’s remaining hairs. Crying + cake = just the kind of birthday celebration that I needed.