Hot Tarts fresh from the Oven

The heat wave here in Toronto is driving me batty, giving me a rather provocative rash between the legs, and forcing me into movie theatres and other people's homes. I cannot begin to tell you how sick it is during the day, but in the nights, whew, it's steamy.

So how does a normal city girl combat the heat? She gets up early and watches the Tour de France from 9am to 11:30am, screaming idiotically at a large tv screen in somebody else's apartment. From 11:30 to 12, she watches Caribbean Workout... some girls doing step aerobics in the tropics. That's usually enough to catapult her off the couch and into some other activity. Those Caribbean Queens, I like it when they scream at me to kick it up a notch... I have vague dreams of kicking it up a notch, Emeril style, and doing a kick punch while holding onto a plate of spaghetti, sauce flipping in the air, and landing miraculously on designer 60s telephone. I even like their busty black girl, with her belly pumping and hilarious fuck-me smile, shadow punching with earnest glee. But that knowledge is so scary I run screaming out of the apartment.

North American living... in the heat wave... no shutters, personal air-conditioners, fans a go-go, and people thronging in malls and movie theatres. I have taken advantage of the sweat-a-thon to get a combined work-out/sauna at the same time, cycling everywhere. Basically, anytime I hop on the bike, I end up with sweat between my breasts. This is kind of porno, except usually it's gay men I point out my breast sweat to. After sweating, it's usually a shower and a nap.

This morning, I was at Style Icon's place, laughing at how he eats cherries and can't decide what to wear. I mean, this guy's a fashion editor, so he should know! And to be honest, he usually does. I think he was just humouring me from when we used to live together and I had the royal veto on his outfits. But seriously, he was getting his picture taken for a daily where he is being featured as a style icon, so this is a very serious veto I'm holding.

Style icon in North America means: wearing lots of contempo casual, mixed hi-end sportswear with "pieces." It's all about name-dropping remote New York t-shirt designers with more classic upscale names. I'd rag him about it except this is how we giggle... and usually I get to fondle his Merlin toys while he's musing over different shades of grey-green.

Style icon in North America means: enduring laughing fits by ex-roommate, who is wearing ragged short shorts, a silhouettes t-shirt and day old hair, as she mocks the placement of a silver stud, and indecisive t-shirt/short combo.

Style icon eventually goes for a shirt, cream with lavender and purple miniature embroidery (Farhi), silk dark wine tie, slate grey linen jacket with very discreet thin dark purple vertical stripes (M. Jacobs), and one silver thumb-tack looking stud...

but since photo is from waist up... Style Icon keeps his yellow shorts. Eventually, for work, because today is soooo casual, he pairs the yellow shorts up with this t-shirt that reminds me of hospital workers in an old age home. I veto that t-shirt faster than you can say "off." Then he offers me another veto on a dark-green t-shirt... but I like how the v-neck shows off his chest hair, and with a switch on the shorts (oooh, sexy green-grey), it's perfect.

This is life with SI and I... oh, well, really only the morning. I feel like such a harem princess, snappying my finger and twitching my nose daintily at his royal prince-ness bold sartorial choices. Fun... but I can't believe he lets me get away with this shit, especially when my shorts are practically see-through they're so old.

Creep quietly for a nap and a little reading before heading off in the evening to see Miranda July's new film. Riding my bike there, I get the same sweat between the tits action, while enduring cries of "fit" and "hott" and "fine" hollered by sweaty titted basketball type guys. It's nice to know I attract the b-boys while all my professorial crushes ignore me.

We get in and hot damn, the place is crawling with the creme de la creme of Toronto indie art community. Yuck. Lots of lesbians with big-bummed utility pants, people who wear red and turquoise together but somehow think looking like a Chocolate Factory extra is good, granola eaters, in short. People who apologize too much but are so smug that they are vegetarians, and probably into "grassroots" community action... which usually just translates into eating a lot of garlic and tahini and spending atrocious amounts of money at health food stores buying organic horse feed.*

I stand up to wave "Kumbaya" but the sounds are drained by apologetic art supporters asking me to give myself a pat on the back for showing up to this film.

The film is actually pretty good... almost too cute. I'd have to say Miranda July does grate at points with her cuter than cute indie art-girl act... good point, as was dutifully noted out by Annie, "how can she make a living driving old people around and still buy Citizen jeans?" But amazingly consistent performance by 6 year old as IM poop king rules the day. I'd almost just erase all the parts acted by people over 16 in this movie.

As I'm combing my hair tonight, I regret not staying out on the street, parading my wares to randoms while on the bike. I think the hot weather makes my skin glow... like apres-sex glow... I need to bottle this shit... but that's another story.

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*caveat: am currently subletting house from a couple of these professed horse feed eaters. So I really should be nicer... and they are obviously nice people, who would rent their huge apartment to some struggling artist type girl for almost thing... I should not bite the hand that feeds me... oh, what the heck! I'm been doing this my whole life so why stop now?

** almost got up to bitch-slap flaming fagarina behind me who was saying things like "do you wear a shower cap when you shower" to his date... knew I should have when he starting cackling madly at the least subtle moment of the film. Fagarinas need to be exterminated, ray-gun style. Why don't they just stop trying so hard?... We don't hate them any more.