Ah, summer. It is the most glorious season, full of fun and sunshine. Unfortunately, it is just not coming fast enough for my liking and I am beginning to panic. Blink your eyes and the next thing you know you’re back in your parka with ice pellets hitting your face. I am determined to squeeze out every last drop of summer, whether or not the summer decides to cooperate. If I have to force it, so be it. With this in mind The Sweetie and I decided to go on a summer road trip over the weekend despite forecasts of rain and cool temperatures.

We armed ourselves with coffees, road trip tunes and a map marked with small town thrift stores. I had to keep the window rolled up for much of the drive because the wind was cool, but despite promises of rain the sun kept on shining. We drove to the Barrie drive-in and ate junk food and listened to mosquitoes throwing themselves against our car windows. It rained a little but drive-ins are never really about picture quality. They are about mindless blockbusters, snuggling in the car, watching the stars and eating way too much sugar.

The following day, bloated from too much food we lumbered to Wasaga beach. I love Wasaga beach at the height of summer. It is filled with ice cream stands, blaring music and tacky beach stores stocked with inflatable floating animals. The main strip is teeming with a smorgasbord of delights: testosterone fueled lunkheads making awkward advances at imposssibly skinny bikini clad girls, aging bikers with their bleached blond babes, and frisbee playing dogs. I feel like a well behaved, pale interloper and love to evesdrop and people watch behind the shelter of my novel. Alas, it was too early in the season for the beach to be in it’s full summer glory. I heard one girl who had been brave enough to venture in the water exclaim that she could no longer feel her legs. Nonetheless we huddled for warmth on our beach towels and pretended that it was a scorching hot day, even managing to burn ourselves in ridiculous patterns where we forgot to apply sunscreen.

We returned to the city sun kissed and triumphant. It was a successful kickoff to the season, despite summer’s lukewarm participation.

It is my birthday eve and I am turning forty. Forty.

I am not taking this birthday in stride for a variety of reasons ranging from the petty to the existential. I’m sure I will be blathering on about it for a while since I designate it Birthday Month every year, as one day isn’t enough to celebrate or in this case, freak out.

I am forty and I will have peanut butter brownies. Chocolate is always helpful during troubled times. Because I am forty it will probably take me another year to try and lose the weight gained by said brownies, but who cares anymore. I’m forty. I saw the recipe here and decided that rather than spending my birthday eve cradling a vodka bottle and listening to mopey Morrissey CDs, I should bake a birthday treat. I am forty, mistress of my own destiny, and I can bake my own brownies. I couldn’t do that unsupervised if I was six, now could I? And I can bake while drinking a delicious beer and not worry that my parents will find out. Take that youngsters! I’m going to eat all of the brownies myself and no one can stop me. Forty has its merits.

This week I congregated with my fellow documentary nerds at the Victory Cafe on Markham Street. It has become a post Hot Docs tradition where we compare our favourite documentaries from the festival and make a case for our top choices. There were clashes and emphatic nods of agreement over beer and tasty fries (latest diet proclamations thwarted for the sake of documentary debates). It is amazing that so often someone else’s favourite is a film that didn’t even show up on my documentary radar. So many great movies, so little time.

Because I cannot fully say good-bye to Hot Docs and I am still basking in documentary afterglow, I will do a quick recap of my top pics from this year’s Hot Docs festival. I will then resume my humdrum life that is painfully ordinary compared to what I have witnessed on the screen over the past ten days…

I have met my new obsession in the form of Hakka, which is a type of Indian style Chinese food. Friends introduced me to Hakka at their Oscar Night party in February. It was the most delicious Chinese food I had ever tasted. In fact, the feast almost made up for my humiliating Oscar pool loss (I had been convinced of a sure victory and spent the evening heckling and trash talking the other guests until “Man on Wire” won for best documentary and ruined my chances).

I quickly became obsessed. I made transparent attempts at drawing The Sweetie into useless reminiscences about Hakka. “Sooooo, what was your favourite part of the Oscar night party? Mine was the Hakka, was yours the Hakka? Wouldn’t you love some Hakka right now? What was your favourite Hakka dish? Mine was the Manchurian balls, have you ever had anything like that before? Wow, it was delicious wasn’t it?” I pestered my friends who had given me my first hit of Hakka. “Sooo, who feels like Hakka? Are you guys planning a Hakka night any time soon? Cuz I’m in. If you are going. I’m ready. Just give me the word. Ready for Hakka night…”

Hakka Hakka Hakka. It became a sickness.

We finally made the voyage deep into the suburbs to Kimling Chinese Restaurant in Scarborough. It is an unassuming restaurant located in a strip mall, but what it lacks in location and decor it makes up for in unbelievable deliciousness. We stuffed ourselves on crispy vegetable pakoras, sauteed garlic green beans, pepper tofu broccoli, Hakka style rice noodles and Manchurian vegetable balls. Even The Sweetie, a die-hard meat lover outnumbered by vegetarians, exclaimed that the tofu was amazing and he is far from generous in his praise of tofu. The four of us were stuffed, smacking our lips and rubbing our bellies, for a mere $45.00. It was frugal feasting heaven.

Alas, a new serious addiction has been born, but one I am willing to endure.

My Sunday felt strangely disappointing. I had a lovely day planned: sleeping in, followed by brunch with The Sweetie, then treasure hunting at Aberfoyle Antique Market. It should have been a glorious day.

Instead I woke up feeling tired despite sleeping late. My neck was achy, still not fully recovered from my unfortunate boogie boarding accident (damn you Cameron Diaz!)  and it was cool and overcast. Breakfast was merely okay and the antique show left me feeling lukewarm. Overall I felt meh at best.

Luckily a lackluster day was rescued by Tim Hortons. We stopped for a coffee on the way back from Aberfoyle, and had the freshest Boston Cream donut I have ever tasted. Ever. The counter girl couldn’t even put it in a bag because the icing was still warm and would have stuck to the paper. We sat at a small table surrounded by elderly couples out for their Sunday donut and coffee and practically swallowed our donuts whole. So soft, so gooey, so delightful. We could barely contain ourselves and were positively giddy with sugary creamy goodness. We immediately ordered another round. Usually The Sweetie tries to be the voice of reason but this time he was a willing partner in gluttony. We gobbled up our next donut with as much vigour as the first and finished with a sticky fingered high five.

Sometimes the smallest thing can turn a day around.

The Sweetie finally succumbed and joined Facebook. I have been too frightened of the whole thing and have resisted. This of course didn’t stop me from pouncing on mutual friends’ Facebook pages and checking out their profiles and photo albums. Imagine my horror to discover the absolute worst photo I have ever seen of myself posted for all to see. I do not take a good picture under the best of circumstances. I always manage to have photos circulating of myself with my mouth contorted or my eyes half closed. I freeze the minute a camera is pulled out and have never figured out my best side or angle. I am used to seeing bad pictures of myself. I expect it even. Nothing, however, prepared me for this monstrosity. The Sweetie gasped when he saw it. “Don’t look at it!” he shouted in horror, but it was too late. Hideous.

Hideous as well that it was posted. There is no way that the postee could have looked at this photo and thought for a second that it was remotely flattering or necessary to post it.

Luckily mean girls can be negated by sweet ones. My lovely friend and culinary goddess from The Sweet Kitchen brought me a cheesecake the other day. Just because. Just because. It was perfection and was devoured in no time. All except one piece, which I gobbled to push down the bile from the hideous photo posting incident.

Mean girl verses sweet girl with cheesecake? No contest. Sweet girls win and my little universe is tasty again.