I don't even know where to begin this post. Since last, I've turned 22, gotten a haircut, driven to Timmins, Ontario for the best wedding ever, been the happiest I've ever been, cried, seen a moose and THREE bears, been denied at my Grad School of choice, and recovered three dining room chairs. I guess you could say that I've been busy. But let's start at the beginning...
On the 23rd I turned 22. I feel slightly older, but mostly just disappointed at where I am at this point in my life. Frankly, I never thought I would live this long-- I didn't think I'd make it out of High School. Regardless, it was a nice enough day. I bought myself a new green canvas jacket, my mother paid for a much-needed haircut and pedicure (how nice!) and we had key lime pie after a dinner at home with my family. The pie was absolutely delicious, and it was far, far too hot for cake, so that worked out quite nicely. Regarding the haircut, I've never had it this short before-- just skimming my shoulders. Everyone who has commented on it so far has said nice things, and it's nice to have it dry in a shorter time. All in all, I like it. My toes are painted "Double Decker Red" and I've been wearing flipflops a LOT as a result!
On Thursday after work I drove up to Lansing and met up with Baby, and she and I carpooled up to Timmins for the wedding. It took us the full twelve hours, and we drove through some of the most wild country I've ever seen. I never knew that there were so many beautiful rivers in northern Ontario. We hit Sault Sainte Marie around dusk, so it was well and dark by the time we got to the turn off for North 129 in Thessalon. We could tell by the map that 129 followed several different rivers between Thessalon and Chapleau, but we had no idea just how far out it would be. It was basically a two-lane road with the occasional guardrail to keep you from careening over the edge and into the abyss. There were times when, upon cresting the hill, you couldn't immediately see where the road went next for the hood of the car! Once we finally got to Timmins, it was 5:30 in the morning and we were worn out. However, our dear, dear friend and compatriot, let's call him Curious George (CG), was up and waiting for us in the room. CG was the one getting married on Saturday, and both Baby and I were surprised and delighted to see him. We were all chatty chatty until we finally fell asleep, and CG had to be up at 8:30 to do things with the bride for the upcoming wedding. It was really good to spend that little bit talking to him, however.
The city of Timmins is actually quite a pleasant little place, and I certainly wouldn't mind spending considerable time up there, though I doubt I ever will. The city itself isn't all that different from Jackson, and the nightlife is considerably less disease-ridden. Friday morning we had poutin at a little hole in the wall place, and it was delicious. For those of you not familiar with the finer points of Canadian cousine, poutine is basically thick french fries with gravy and cheese curds. And there's nothing better. Beyond the food, there are a couple rivers that cut right through town, and Baby and I took Friday afternoon to pick up a 12-pack of Rikkards's Red and sit down by the water and talk about her life de love. Despite being a bit windy and a tad on the cool side for her, we had a really wonderful time. Later that evening, back in the room, there was a knock at the door and then my life took an unexpected spin: in walked the Minnesotan Mountain Man (M3). I had known that he would be at the wedding, we'd talked briefly about it before school ended this spring. M3 and I have known each other for a while, been friendly acquaintences since our common Speech class Freshman year, and we've a couple mutual friends. CG told me once that M3 had said that he'd wished he'd gotten to know me better during our time together at University as I seemed like such a nice, fun person. How sweet. Anyway, M3 is one of those fellows that girls like me spend our time watching from afar-- the outrageously tall, dark-haired, soft-spoken hockey captain who plays classical guitar, doesn't drink and occasionally attends bible study. Yeah, I don't get it either. Regardless, he's currently rocking a respectable beard which somewhat softens his angular face, and training for the French National Team has kept him in remarkable shape. And he knocked on MY door.
You see, my imaginary reader, M3 had an idea. He already had his guitar with him as he was playing at the wedding itself, but maybe he'd play at the reception. While we were still up at school, I'd asked him to refresh my memory on how to play a White Stripes song, "We're Gonna Be Friends," which CG had originally taught me after we went to see the recently animated movie "Curious George" together. We'd been the only ones in the theatre who weren't either 3 years old or had a 3 year old. Jack Johnson had covered it in the movie, M3 had taught CG how to play it and CG had taught me. Well, I was thinking about taking advantage of my former job at the radio station to record myself playing and singing the song he'd taught me for CG's birthday, but it never happened. But M3 remembered me asking him for the tabs. He remembered ME. And he thought that maybe we could rewrite the lyrics, but would that take too long?
Not for me. I grabbed the closest pad of paper and a pen from my purse and scampered to the nearest computer for the online rhyming dictionary while he grabbed his guitar. In 20 minutes, we had a brand new song to an old tune, and I was relatively sure that CG would ball his eyes out when he heard it. M3 thought that maybe we could get the rest of the hockey boys in attendance in on the act, have them sing along maybe. He circulated the lyrics among them, and they all thought they were great. They all somehow knew MY name, and they thought the lyrics I'd written were wonderful! After sitting down in the bar and sipping a glass of water with two other hockey players and their respective girlfriends, M3 and I headed over to CG's parents' house. He drove, and on the way out of the bar I commented on how I would like to think of myself as a broad-minded person, but if I never heard the new song by Fergie again I'd be okay. He laughed and said he didn't mind being hyper-critical of bad pop music. He then turned, somewhat surprised, and asked what kind of music I like to listen to, and was gald to hear of my private appreciation of classical music for its emotional and cathartic effects. He also listens to good bluegrass and national public radio. And at one point he was leaning slightly forward in his seat with his button-down shirt open at the throat and lighting a cigarette as a streetlight hit just perfectly through the windshield and I nearly died. Amazing. He also drives just a hair too fast.
Once we got to CG's parents' house to type up the lyrics and practice one more time, M3 and I had chatted quite a bit. Such a nice fellow. I met all the family who were balling melon for pre-dinner snacking and CG's mother poured me a generous glass of wine. M3 typed up the lyrics and I made nice with CG's older sister, who I adore and is delightful. Eventually, M3 and I traveled up to the sitting room to practice for CG's parents, sister, uncle and cousin. Mrs. cried throughout, but I thought that Mr. made it through until he said, "That was just beautiful" and I noticed a lone tear that had worked its way down to his jawline. M3 and I, sitting hip to hip on the sette, knew that we had a hit. Mr. suggested that we have the hockey boys sing only the repeated lines at the end of each stanza, which is exactly what wound up happening.
The wedding itself was AMAZING. Baby and I each looked quite nice if I do say so myself. And I do. We sat behind an elderly couple who were absolutely hysterical. "I came to watch [CG] in his last few moments of freedom... I mean, bachelorhood," said the man in front of us, how happened to be one of CG's granfather's buddies who had watch CG play hockey since he was a tot. The priest was outrageous-- somewhere between the monotone and the accent, the comparisons to The Princess Bride had to be made. When he said "Only Catholics in a full state of grace may take communion," Two of the gentlemen sitting on either side of the church behind us had a little conversation that ran something like this: "Full state of grace? That's bullshit!" "You've got to be kidding me!" "Good thing I'm full of grace!" "The hell you are! You just swore in church!" Needless to say, BEST WEDDING EVER.
The reception was beautifully appointed, and once they arrived, bride and groom were led into the reception hall and around the tables by the accordian-playing CG Senior, who is 90-something and the most adorable man I've ever seen. I just want to borrow him for a couple afternoons a month, that's all... After the SEVEN course meal and all the speeches, M3, the hockey boys and I sang our song. CG and his brand new wife stood in front of us, and CG sobbed through most of it. I've never felt so happy for someone else in my entire life. After that, we all danced the night away. I polka'ed with starting semi-pro hockey players, twirled around with three generations of CG's family, and laughed until I cried. M3, after finally getting of the phone with the girlfriend I guess EVERYONE hates, cut up a rug along with the rest of us. Normally I'm a decently self-concious girl, but not this night. Maybe it had to do with the open bar and countless downed drinks, or perhaps knowing I wouldn't really see these people again, or maybe I was just that happy to be alive. More than anything, I think it's the third of the options. Honestly, it's the happiest I think I've ever been in my entire life.
Sidenote: CG, during his speech to his wedding party, congratulated M3 on being picked up to play by the French National Team and said explicitly how he hopes M3 will find a nice French girl over there and bring her home. Later he refered to the current girlfriend as Satan. Considering that CG is perhaps the nicest guy I've ever met, hands down, I don't know how M3 could possibly stay with this girl all that long. I just hope he isn't taking her to France with him.
Anyway, the drive back home again was mingled laughs and tears. I got some incredible photographs of the one moose and three bears we saw, along with the breathtaking scenery along West 101 and South 129. It took the full 12 hours again, but this time I actually wished for time to go a little slower.
When I got back to work on Tuesday, I checked my e-mail and found a letter from the PG department at St. Andrews, informing me quite politely that my application had been unsuccessful and wishing me luck in life. Well, shit. It's not that I'd placed all of my eggs in one basket or anything, I've got applications out elsewhere, but it was where I really, really wanted to go. I very rarely admit how badly I want something, it's a weird bit of self-preservation I suppose, allowing me to gracefully deny that I ever wanted it in the first place when I don't get it. Pride and all that, but this time I admitted it, set my heart, and lo and behold-- denied. I guess I should have seen it coming; St. Andrews has a really prestegious program, and my BA is from a no-name school in the middle of nowhere, and it's not like I have a name that rings of money, but I thought I might have had a chance. And then CB called later that day to tell me that Bristol had never received my application. Damn. I've resubmitted it since, but I'm still not a happy camper. In fact, it's been painfully difficult to roll out of bed in the morning. I don't know how CB and my friend KTZ did it, being denied and then spending a year at home-- hanging myself from the fan seems like a distinct possibility, and I don't want to even think about it. At this point, I'm pulling for the program at U of Aberdeen, the one on comparative thought and literature. Other than that we've got apps out to U of Edinburgh, Bristol and Oxford-Brookes. Here's to hoping, my dears, here's to hoping...
In a fit of feeling useless, I decided to make my mother's day and recover three of our dining room chairs. They're a terribly stained beige and she's been sighing about them for a while now, so I ripped them apart and cut up some good, heavy denim is a dark, dark blue and staple-gunned them until my hand would clench no more. Here's to my one productive spot.
Just before leaving for home, M3 made sure I had his correct e-mail address. Maybe I'll drop him a line and ask if he saw any interesting wildlife on the drive home. Couldn't hurt anything, could it?
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