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Thursday, May 14, 2009


It doesn't matter how old you get. Well, now of course it matters. It matters a lot. Why when you're older you can't wear all the things you used to like to wear without passerbys making cougar noises. When you're older you can't dance in public. When you're older you can't use current slang - oh unless some vintage slang makes a comeback then you can because you can claim that you were the original owner of it back in the day. Not only can you take possession of it, you can claim that your particular vintage slang used to belong to Jimi Hendrix or something. Along with those hideous boots in the closet.

However. One thing that doesn't change as you get older is your birth order. And, if like me, you happen to be the baby of the family and if, like me, you have an older sister, then you, like me experienced the horror (or a similar one) that I experienced yesterday.

My sister sent the card above to Dave. She purposely used a false return address and she had someone else address it so that I couldn't identify the handwriting and so that hopefully I wouldn't open it before he did. My sister, however forgot that I am a graduate of The Honey West School Of Girl Detectives With Sexy Moles on Our Faces and that I can't be so easily fooled. I ripped open the envelope and inside this card were pictures of me taken in the 70's. One was really really bad, so bad that I ripped it up and threw it away because you're never too old to foil your older sister's evil plans. Besides, the horrible picture was taken during my emo stage (yes we had emo back then but we didn't call it emo, we called it "deep" or "intense" or "stoned." So I had this really serious no-makeup face on (I liked to refer to it as the natural look) and People? it just wasn't attractive at all.

She also enclosed the pic on the left. After studying this pic for a while I came to the conclusion that the 70's generation have absolutely NOTHING to claim as our own. We are a generation of posers.

We did nothing but steal symbols and music, styles and drug habits from the 60's generation. But we had no conviction behind it. As you can see here, I am wearing some god-awful shirt and a HUGE cross. Oh, by the way? I'm not religious. Note the enormous American flag used as a patch on my jeans. Truth is I never once had a political view or attended a protest and I didn't even register to vote until my late 20's. My hair on the other hand is like a character in a time travel movie - It's comes from the Future. I would have loved nothing more than straight 60's hair, but my curly locks would not cooperate so I had to wait until Farrah Fawcet hair was in vogue and then my friends I was the bomb, just as my Future Hair had predicted.


Warning: Abrupt Subject Change. Actually this is a public service announcement to the lovely people in the city of Toronto, or really any city.
Remember, people of the city, you are not alone. You are never alone. Even when you think no one is watching you are surrounded by big buildings with many windows which are like eyes ever watching you.
So man who was walking down the street waving the air in front of you yesterday? I know what you were doing - or just did. No one makes that kind of hand gesture who hasn't just emitted a nasty smell and who is trying to shoo it away before anyone can link the smell to it's original owner.
Yes, I saw it all. You see, because this is where I sit to write this blog, to check my email, to read other blogs, to add witty little comments to other blogs, to doctor up photographs etc. In other words, I see you. And also? I bet the people in the office across the street, the ones who sit in cubes all day and want to stab themselves in the toe just to be sure they still have any human feeling left, the ones who are lucky enough to get a window seat - saw you too.
And maybe one of them knows you.



2 comments:

  1. As the youngest of the family, I feel your pain.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks susan. It doesn't get any better because no matter how old you get you are still younger.

    ReplyDelete

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