People with Penthouses

When it came to dating, the only advice my mother (a card carrying member of the NDP) ever gave me was to "marry up". Indeed, there was a time when the only real way to improve one's social standing was to do so.... of course, you had to be talented, beautiful and determined as hell.

Like my friend Lindsay, who met the love of her life during a production of The Mikado. She was Yum-Yum (in more ways than one, apparently) and her Nanki-Poo, Larry, was smitten. They kissed and he swept her away in his arms. One morning, she awoke from a delicious slumber in 500 threadcount sheets to find that not only was Larry a tenor, but also an internationally successful businessman with a penthouse in False Creek. And they lived happily ever after.

If you are haven't yet met your Nanki-Poo, then my advice would be to get to know people with penthouses and to go to their parties. This way, you can go to the very top and you don't need a man to get you there, unless of course he is pushing the buttons in the elevator. In any event, once you have arrived, there really is no need for social climbing at all, because you can already look down on everyone.

Except for the people with penthouses higher than yours, and trust me, there is always someone.

My friend Lindsay has great style, and throws great parties. We were going to have oysters, but there was a red tide, and rather than be poisoned, we made do with butter drenched scampi -- nibbled from a lofty perch above high above the water. It was a hardship, but we managed. The conversation turned to travel, and Lindsay mentioned that she was going to London the next day. I asked her how she was going to find the time to pack. She replied that all she needed to remember was her music and her underwear. She had an American Express card, after all, and could just buy the rest when she got there. How wise, I said, as I took a bite from a perfectly grilled ribeye steak. I looked down, and saw the people running about. They looked like ants. I thought about throwing my shrimp shells over the ledge for fun, but decided against it. How wise.

As I was mixing myself a gin and tonic, I noticed that the the gin was from Scotland and was infused with cucumber and rose petals. I asked Lindsay where she procured such a delightful beverage, and she said that she didn't know, but that it came from the "good closet". I told her I did too. Ha ha.

But then I thought, I do come from a good closet. That is where I am writing you from right now. It may be small, but it is a space of my own making, and I live on the first floor, so my feet are firmly on the ground. As they should be. And when people walk by, I can look them in the eye. Which is also how it should be.

But I cannot deny that sometimes, I wish I had a penthouse too.