Cat Skinner Club

Pulling the Pork in Jersey

Today is my brother’s birthday. Rather than celebrate with a bbq at my parent’s house, we’re headed to Jersey to the home of Mafia Joe, his wife Mafia Monica, and their 7-month-old Baby Joey. Jersey doesn’t get much better than this.

I get to meet more of the NYC crew. Brett is notorious for being as big as the heart inside him, and as sweet as he is outspoken. Claudio is who I’m most looking forward to. Sarah says I’ll love him. She says he’s my kind of good looking (she tends to prefer really pretty men, so I’m skeptical). Claudio shows up to get us, with Brett in the passenger seat. He’s driving a black Audi with tinted windows (of course).  We squish into the back, and we’re on our way. The city traffic is mad, it’s Saturday, and it takes us almost two hours to hit the Holland Tunnel, which is actually a five-minute drive away, sans bumper-to-bumper.

I think Sarah is right about Claudio, but I can’t tell because he’s wearing glasses. He’s kind of wiry, and well dressed in a way that indicates he wasn’t trying. I notice his watch right away. I don’t know what it is, but it’s beautiful. My boyfriend asks, and he says it’s a Roger Dubuis. He takes it off to show it to us, and the back is all exposed to show off the machinations on the inside. Claudio sells designer watches to pro athletes. His claim to fame to date is a watch that sold for two and a half million. No, that’s not a type-o.

Brett hates the traffic, and seems really squished in the front seat. He is kind of loud and brawny, but very friendly. Brett has done everything from mortgage brokering, to insurance sales. He currently buys and sells cell phone towers. He and Claudio live in the same apartment building in Brooklyn.

After fighting through traffic, we finally arrive at Mafia Joe’s. They have an adorable house in Jersey City with a really nice yard. Joe isn’t really in the Mafia, but he could be. He’s one of those solid Italian guys with very little neck, and a kind and earnest host. His wife, Monica answers the door. We hand her the bottle that we brought and wish her happy birthday (we’ve just learned from the boys that it’s her birthday). She tells us thanks, but she’s knocked up again. She says “Fuck me, it’s all I do!” and laughs warmly. I like her instantly.

The other guests consist of two brothers – Arthur and Alen, and Alen’s wife Stacy. Stacy and Alen work in the fashion industry. They have one year old twins. We introduce ourselves, and calmly answer the “So how do you know each other question” honestly, and they simply say “Oh, cool.” Conversation shifts to our children, and parenting, and Baby Joey makes an appearance after his nap. He’s a dumpling, and we love him. Even the men take turns holding him, and feeding him, and playing with him. This is one of the things I love most about this generation.

Brian shows up with a willowy girl with curly red hair. She’s very beautiful, in a really natural way, and I’m surprised because she’s my type, not what I imagine his would be. The women stay inside, except Sarah and I. We all feast (the food was great) and we listen to the boys tell stories.

Arthur just got his first DUI. He tried to make it home on a flat tire, and the cops were alerted because of the sparks flying everywhere. I imagine he must have smelled boozy, because he ended up blowing a breathalyzer and getting booked. He was handcuffed for five hours to a post in jail, kind of terrorized by all of the thugs in there. Later this week he has to attend a meeting to hear the stories of DUI accident victims’ families. He speaks of it like a life lesson, and a wake up call. This whole story is tied to a girl, a girl whose uncle is helping to get him off as lightly as possible. The girl keeps sending him photos of a carrot cake via text messages. At first, when he says “she’s making me a carrot cake” I think it’s some sort of sexual slang, involving redheads. This guy is young, charismatic, and good looking. I hope he has actually learned a life lesson here. I watch him after with the baby, and decide there may be hope yet.

Someone else describes a similar first booking in a Las Vegas jail and all of the boys groan because apparently Vegas is the worst place in the US to get arrested. This person told the cops they were suicidal to get a more isolated holding cell, after they grew weary of watching people’s faces mashed to a bloody pulp.

I’m listening to the timbre of Arthur’s voice, in fact the voices of all the people around me, and I decide that New York accents are the accent of everyone. It’s a blend of the many immigrants who have settled here, and it’s like some kind of beautiful music.

Ironically, conversation switches to a party at the Hard Rock (in Vegas maybe?) called Rehab. This is apparently a pool party with a $400 cover that is worth every penny. I listen to the boys describe the music, and the food and booze and women, and I decide ancient civilizations must have partied around the water in a same way. I think of our cottage parties, and chime in with a description, and decide that someone should open a resort for our generation in cottage country. Goodbye cottage country.

Claudio mostly listens, like me, but when he does pipe up, it’s with the driest, most nail-on-the head zingers. He describes Arthur as the “luckiest kid he knows”. His action in Vegas is described as “rolling a quarter out of your ear and right into the slot.” These boys enjoy their gambling. Arthur describes his luck as the kind that would inspire him to “marry a girl he met that night and then get stuck sharing his winnings with her”. They guffaw at this.

Arthur describes losing $1,500 at The Rio in a hotel room safe he forgot to lock, and a separate incident when someone stole his player’s card while he was winning. Don’t worry Arthur, if I read your palms, I could tell you that you are poised to have your luck turn.

The boys want to know what I do for a living. I have them all convinced (seriously) that my family are beaver farmers, and we raise them and slaughter them for their pelts. When they ask me how to murder a beaver, I tell them that each beaver is different, and thus each death must be handled differently. I’ve made this a euphemism, but nobody catches on. “The beaver will show you how it wants to die.” I say, sagely.

Then I tell them about the Coquettes, and whip out the iPhone to show pictures. Claudio has a particular eyebrow arch for Billie Black, and as the night goes on, I decide how well suited they could be. I even drunkenly text her in the wee hours of the morning to tell her as much.

There is more honesty among these men than I’m prepared for, and I don’t know what to do with it at first. For some, there is a filter missing, and in hindsight, I wish I could have just realized it for the opportunity it afforded, to hear such tales accounted with minimal censoring. It’s burned into my brain though, so I won’t ever forget how it feels to be a fly on the wall.

Brett tells us an equal parts hilarious and disturbing story about how his 15 year old brother lost his virginity to a 24 year old, in the midst of a house party. He knew his way around her anatomy, and managed to hold out for half an hour before climaxing, then running upstairs to gloat to his super hot, 40-something mom about his achievement. This woman is Brett’s stepmother. He’s clearly also conflicted about the whole thing, and the story is nothing short of hilarious. Our boy Brett is a magical story teller. He refers to the three of us as “His Canadians” and takes care to make sure Sarah and I want for nothing while we’re in their company. I’ve promised Brett that the Coquettes will meet him at the airport when he comes to visit in Toronto.

Somehow, amidst all of these stories and all of this camaraderie, one thing becomes clear. The legendary Adam is the kingpin. The mood shifts a little, as the boys reflect on how they are missing him and thinking about him. They will hands-down tell me that he’s the craziest and best of them all. They speak of him with real love and reverence, and more than a little awe. They’ve known him and his family for years, and it’s obvious that they are all devoted to the guy. I’m touched by male friendships that run so deep. They are in some ways, more simple and pure than female relationships.

The sexy Jersey parents move on to another party in town, and graciously invite us to hook up later with their other friends. We have been warmly welcomed. We stay a little longer, and Mr. Nice arrives with his French lady, who is more talkative tonight. After chatting with them a bit, we pile back into Claudio’s car and head to Brooklyn.

As we pull into Claudio’s garage, the attendant in uniform is holding someone’s toddler, a sleepy little girl, while her parents are unloading their stuff. I love that picture, and the warm smile he gives us all. Claudio leaves the man his keys, and we head up to his apartment to wait for Brett who needs to change. Claudio has been traveling for work, and he apologizes for the mess, but his apartment is actually really beautiful. There’s a real, rich sense of the person who lives there – family photos, tasteful furniture, interesting pieces of an eclectic, global nature, and my favourite – a framed, autographed Gretzky jersey from when he played with the Kings. Claudio points this out after I discover his hockey sticks.

Our evening concludes at Brooklyn Bowl. It’s a huge warehouse converted into a bar, live music venue, and bowling alley. The live music is so good that I don’t notice it is being played live until Sarah points it out to me. They are having a hip hop karaoke night, but if you’re not good enough they stop you mid stream. Our hosts are very gracious, and we really have a great time. My girlfriend proposed to me for the second time in front of the bar. Claudio fashioned us a ring out of a twist tie, which I sadly lost on the bowling alley. Sarah bowls for the three of us, because I’m no athlete, and can’t really dazzle in platform shoes. Not like that, anyway.

I think I love these boys a little. They are real, and raw, and they’ve got big hearts. Tonight we’re forming a posse to head to Long Island and show the legendary Adam, over dinner, how much he is loved. I think I’m a little bit nervous to meet the man, but I’m thrilled that it will happen this trip. Love is an important tool in times like these.

Ushering in a Pantsless Soho Nightcap

Emporio

All the babies I’ve encountered in the city are fussy today. The morning started out hot – a clear dry heat that made me think of Austin, Texas. I threw on an ankle-length gray jersey sun dress and some silvery flats with a turquoise scarf to go downstairs and get coffee with my loves. I hadn’t washed the makeup off from last night, and the effect was a smoky, sleepy, tousled “We just had a great time” kind of thing. Which was true.

Our night started with a trip to Brian’s. Brian is a fund manager, owns a sweet little bachelor pad with a skinny stainless steel fridge that only contains a Brita jug and an entire door full of joint repair protein beverages. I had asked him whether the beverage company was sponsoring him. He’s compact, in perfect shape, bright blue eyes, handsome, and was dismayed that his new cut (sort of a Jarhead meets 80’s fade) had gone awry. He wanted a faux hawk. I don’t think it will matter. I think this guy will get whatever he wants, regardless.

Brian is a nice host. He’s confident, but a little quiet. We have a little “visit” at his place, and then we hop into a cab to meet up with a dude they call Mr. Nice. Nice is a band manager who is touring with his current project. He has a knack for finding bands just poised to launch to stardom. In the squishy little cab a song comes on. I never listen to the radio, so of course I don’t know it, but Brian tells us it was absolutely everywhere in Miami. It has a driving dance beat, and lots of electro sound effects. I cringe as the lyrics begin. I hate this music. It makes me think of the guys I used to secretly lust after in high school, who would never give me the time of day. Music like this is part of my baby brother’s universe, not mine. Then I’m listening to the lyrics more closely, and the beat feels like it’s sinking into my skin. It’s an anthem. An anthem for a generation born into a world where they can have anything – and they do. They eat life in great big fistfuls of beautiful women, sexy cars, and artisan mini-burgers they call “sliders”. They are full, sensory creatures but they are afraid of emotion. They want to taste, and smell, and see, and hear, but they aren’t sure how to feel. They seem fragile to me, and beautiful. The lyrics to this anthem speak to them because they are raw, and real.

We arrive at a bar in the Lower East Side where Mr. Nice is seated on a patio with a girl from Paris. She greets me and pulls me in gently. I give her one air-cheek kiss, not two. I’ll see your charming custom, and raise you my Canadian brassiness. I’ll bet most of the people she meets her have no idea what she’s attempting with that kissy greeting, and I bet they resist her. She’s wearing what I initially thought were Crocs, so I decide she’s not THAT French.

The bar has projected surf scenes on the back wall. It’s tiny inside and packed. The left wall is papered with a giant map of an Australian beach, and the other with paintings of old beach shack signs. There are balloon clusters arranged at the front, which you can view from the street because of the garage-door-style patio opening. There are three clusters; one that says “Good Luck” with some primary colored balloons. One with a giant foil Dora The Explorer (Brian of course has no idea who that is). The other is just sparkly and colourful. They could be any occasion, for any celebration. I decide it’s a ploy to encourage people to bring their parties to the bar.

Our hostess is a pale Aussie brunette. Our waiter is the most exquisite looking Aussie aboriginal I have ever seen. He’s beautiful from every angle with a bold faux-hawk meets pompadour hairstyle streaked with a bleach blond stripe. His teeth are perfect, and he’s definitely a homo. I love him, and his accent.

Every square inch of the bar, and the entire experience is designed to feel like this famous Australian beach, and it’s perfect.

We have a drink there and decide to move on. It’s impossible to get Nice to leave. I’ve realized the man is in a beautiful bubble, and so to lure him with us, we kidnap his Parisienne and stroll down the street to another place that looks like a Paris bistro. It’s so pretty, and I don’t want to leave, but we’re starving and there’s a huge wait for seating. We head diagonally across the street to another bar that totally makes me think of the nicer pubs I’ve seen on college campuses. The kids inside all look like they could be from Burlington (Ontario, of course). It’s the first place we’ve been where I’m not delighted and amazing with the seemingly effortless way that New Yorkers throw their outfits together. The older I get, the more I really, really love fashion.

My boyfriend tells me to read Brian’s palms. I have no idea how to do this, but Brian doesn’t know, so I go through the motions that I witnessed when my boyfriend’s father read mine, and I fake it, filtering out the noise around me to just say the first things that pop into my head. I decide quickly that the way you move your hands is significant, and that each finger is tied to a different aspect of your life. The degree of resistance when I touch the fingers is indicative of your emotional relationship to those aspects. I squeeze the pads of his hands to see how firm they are. I don’t even focus on the lines and meridians, because I have no idea what’s what. I won’t tell you what I said, because I know I mostly nailed it, but I think Brian was impressed. So were my peeps.

Brian and my fella decide to order one of everything on the menu. To my absolute delight, I realize that everything is inspired by comfort food, but bigged up to meet the demands of this city’s exquisite palette. I wish my buddy Josh were here. Or my brother. Or both. I’m also slightly regretting the chocolate porter I’ve ordered. Hello carbs!

We smash through the food and it’s all delicious, but what killed me was their mac and cheese. Mac and cheese should be taken seriously, and they totally and completely understand this. It was easily the best I’ve ever had, with a hint of dried basil included in the creamy sauce. I miss pasta, so I didn’t hold back.

Once we’re full to the point where my painted-on jeans just can’t take it anymore, we decide to head. We’re not sure where we’re going next, but we hop in a cab and head back to Soho where we’re staying. Brian is working the next day, so he decides to leave us, and the three of us step into Emporio, the beautiful restaurant across the street for a dessert to share (god help me) and a bottle of sparkling Italian dessert wine.

I order the tiramisu and my love orders the pannacotta. We share it three ways and though it’s incredible, all I can think of is how tight my pants are. My girl gets sleepy, so she excuses herself to head back to the apartment to crash, and we continue on. Beautiful, emotional conversation is had, and the bottle is empty. I’m uncomfortable, and I say as much.

“Take off your pants” says my love. “I dare you to.”

I laugh. I’m wearing a killer pair of black platforms and a strapless top that could be pressed into service as an obscenely short dress. I consider this.

“C’mon” he says. “I’ve paid the bill. Go to the bathroom, take off your pants, and meet me at the door.”

“I bet nobody will notice” I say. The restaurant is half full.

I’m still skeptical. I’m not drunk enough to really engage in such antics. Then comes the straw breaks the camel’s back.

“It will make Adam’s week.” says my love.

Adam, my friend who I’ve never met, who has given us this beautiful night of good company and good food by letting us crash in his empty apartment. Adam who is managing things that no child should have to manage, far away from all of these open, entertaining people who are his boys. Adam, who I’m sure you can feel smiling all the way from Long Island.

I get up and head to the can. I pull off my jeans, take one final piss, and then fluff up my hair, put back my shoulders and open the door. Our waiter sees me first, and looks directly at the pants folded over my arm. My full tummy is free, my ivory legs are unleashed for the world to see, and my shoes are the only reason this ridiculous outfit could work. I stride through the restaurant, head held high, breeze tickling my white ass, hand my pants to my love, walk out the door and pronounce “This one’s for you, Adam.”

Another Chapter

www.oliviabee.com

Hello world. I miss you guys. Life is settling nicely now, and I’m definitely going to have more time to write, so there will be more frequent postings. I wrote this at the start of the month…

The Fortress of Solitude is no longer.

Yesterday I spent twelve hours moving, with the aid of my man. We schlepped like nobody’s business, and today I feel like I’m hung over and have fallen down a flight of stairs.

My point is not to whine (though god knows I’m good at it), but to tell you that an era has ended.

I have all the happiness I have ever wanted, and I’m so incredibly grateful.

We have amazing families, and now I can proudly say that they are all of them united in their love and support. I’m always so delighted when people surprise me, and my heart swells with pride when I reflect on the loving, caring people we have in our lives, who put our happiness first and really examine how happiness can be defined for different people.

My new love has brought a beautiful new concept into my life. This concept actually summarizes something I’ve believed since I was quite small. I love these opportunities to attach a name to a belief or a value I’ve held dear. For some of you, this term is new, and for me it is how I wish to define my life, and is the primary value I wish to instill in my children.

Pluralism is essentially the idea that our differences are what make us a vibrant society and they should be respected and celebrated. It’s kind of what comes naturally to most Canadians, but more specifically, it can even describe the idea that despite our differing customs, values, faiths, and cultures we are all connected by a single unifying thread that some people think of as Divine.

I’ve always felt this, and I’ve always believed that rather than looking like an old dude with a beard, God is in fact an intangible presence, more like a light that embodies male and female qualities or polarities. More than anything else, I’ve always felt that my relationship with God is deeply personal, so even in Schnooville, I won’t wax poetic about theology.

My point is this; my in-laws are awesome. They are warm, loving people who love their kids, and who really walk the walk and talk the talk when it comes to their faith. They are enlightened and forward-thinking, and I’m really proud of all of our parents, and eager to build relationships with the ones I’ve just inherited.

This life we’ve carved out for ourselves is unlike anything I’ve been able to discover, even in the vast expanse of the Internet. Our network of support will be one of the most important things in our life together. Thanks to all of our moms, dads, sisters, brothers, and cousins who have been so accepting and so very, very cool.

We love you, and are glad to have you to share our lives with.

Preparing for Landing

I was going to begin this post by apologizing for not writing for a while. I feel like I’m apologizing all of the time lately – for being anti-social, for not keeping in touch, for being too quiet or a bit cranky in the mornings, for feeling stressed out or sometimes anxious. You know what? I’ve decided all of those things are okay because there’s a lot happening in my life right now.

The new house is beautiful. We’re settling in well, and now I’m charged with the task of packing up my life. Today is a big day in Schnooville, (I can’t get in to the particulars), and somehow I find myself all alone, faced with what was once my Fortress of Solitude. This place just feels like a big mess now.

Some days, I’m better off holing up with the roiling contents of my skull. This is absolutely one of those days. I can be most effective, and best serve the greater good by taking today to pour through old journals, part forever with old mementos, smile at silly things I’ve been hanging on to for so long, cry a little over china teacups gifted to me by the dearly departed (teacups that I just don’t have space for in the new home, sadly) and remember who I have been.

The Schnoo who I’ve been feels like a very different person than the Schnoo I am now.

There is something about finding love that challenges your confidence and self worth to the very deepest level one can imagine. Sometimes love feels like the most delicate filament that can be torn away into the wind with the mildest gust, and hanging onto something so fragile is far more terrifying than giving over to the elements as they rip through our lives.

Most days I feel full to my brim with joy and peace and pure contentment, but there are always those days where I feel I am a stranger wherever I go. These are the days that test us, that challenge us to recognize that we are worthy of the happiness in our lives, despite the doubt and fear that surrounds us – from without and from within.

Today my solace and comfort will come from threadbare stuffed animals, tiny ballet slippers, and bad teenage poetry. I predict few boxes will get packed, and that this Schnoo will end up in the cafe around the corner working on my new writing project, admiring my coral toes, and sipping an iced latte.

We all deserve to take care of our hearts and heads, don’t we?

Moving on Up

My apologies guys and dolls for the radio silence. Life has gotten great big crazy lately, and I’m happy to report, mostly in the best of ways.

My book is half written, but is currently on an oh-so-brief hiatus as I pack up our households for our move at the end of the month to a much more suitable space. We found a lovely house with four bedrooms, fairly new renos throughout, lots of light, a huge kitchen, and a wood burning fireplace. There is a porch, back deck, balcony off the master bedroom and roof top deck. It’s seriously brilliant, and I’m so excited about what this all means.

Of course, I’m also freaking out a little bit. They say that moving is right up there with some of the top stress-causing moments in life. I seem to have developed OCD over the last year, and this compulsion for order and organization is being applied to our packing in an absurd colour-coded array of control freak frenzy. I had to take a time out the other day because someone left an un-labeled, un-coded box in the hallway. I mean, really…

The anxiety comes from the fear that what is almost certainly a great step for us may actually be a disaster. This is how I move through relationships now – hoping for the very best, trying for the very best, but secretly looking over my shoulder for devastation to catch up. How do you really enjoy anything if that is the reality? I scrawl about the bad stuff in a journal, and I celebrate the good stuff as much as I can. It’s about quelling that stupid voice that says “you can’t”. I hate that voice. I’m not sure what part of the body it’s attached to, but it should be removed like tonsils or the appendix because it’s just as useless.

It’s glorious outside today. I’m thinking about my best girl, and wishing she were home so I could look at her. I’m thinking about the food we’ll grill later, and the packing games we’ll play with the kids, and the two or three episodes from season two of The Sopranos that we’ll use to numb out our busy minds before sleeping.

I just want everything to be ok. Just like it is right now, but even slightly better, if that’s not too much to ask. I want us all to be celebrating for years to come.

The bigger space, the bigger bed, and the bigger dream is twelve sleeps around the corner. I’m ready for it, more than ever before. I think I can be good at it now, this love thing. Good in a way that has been paved by a stint in the school of hard knocks, some serious life celebration and revelation, and a determination to find love and make it last that surprises even me some days.

May first is moving day, and it’s also May Day, or Beltane. It marks the final end of the winter months, and was traditionally a celebration of fire, sexuality and fertility. Ancient Celts would frolic in the forests on Beltane Eve, free to lay with whomever they wished. In the morning, they would  wake and honour the sacred spring rites of the God and Goddess by weaving colourful ribbon around the May pole. It represents the yielding of the post-winter earth to the ripening warmth of the sun, the moment just before the fresh buds burst forth into supple blossoms, and the release from the lingering grip of winter.

Sounds like a damn fine time to build a home and a life together, dontcha think?