Monday, January 05, 2009

Miracles & Coincidences, or How I Fell Out of Love with You, My Boyfriend Michael Cera

Dear My Boyfriend Michael Cera,

Hey, how are you? I am fine.

So I figured it was about time to write to you and explain my version of events from that fateful day (November 8th, 2008. May We Remember Forever.) when we first and last met. It was a day of miracles, but also a day of confusion and heartache. It was a day of excitement, but also of standing awkwardly clutching your backpack straps while waiting to board the plane and having your picture taken against your will. Hopefully this note will clear the air and let us both move on to greener, more adorable pastures. I'm talking specifically about me here, because I don't know how you can find a fake girlfriend/superfan as adorable as I am. Just saying.

Anyways. So as I'm sure you know from reading my blog (I'm totally bookmarked on your MacBook, right?), I was out in LA for a week and a half, enjoying the sunshine, the random celebrity sightings, and the giant pancakes from The Griddle. It was a week straight out of my dreams and the entire time I kept thinking that the only thing that could have made it better was if I ran into you.

Well, my boyfriend Michael Cera, I guess the Big Guy in the sky must have heard my prayers and threw me a bone on my last day of vacation. I had checked in for my flight home and was relaxing at my gate pre-take off, trying to zen out and not let my anxiety overwhelm me before boarding (I'm a bad flyer - the type that thinks every normal sound is the plane losing an engine and every tilt is the plane doing a nose dive into the Andes, where my corpulence will surely mean that I'll be the first to go. Damn you paranoid personality and cheese!). I normally try to pop a couple of gravols so that I get sleepy and thus don't care so much about silly little things like dying in a horrible plane crash and getting devoured by a soccer team, but wouldn't you know that I had mistakenly packed my gravol in my checked luggage by accident? Of course.

As I was prepping myself to fly for the first time in a long time without my little orange-flavoured chewable friends, I was startled out of my cleansing breaths/calming thoughts routine by this teenage dude behind me asking his buddy, "Hey, isn't that the guy from that show that was on FOX? After The Simpsons?" At the mere mention of a potential celebrity in my midst, I instantly perked up and started eavesdropping hardcore. He carried on to say, "He was in that movie Superbad... you know?" Now, the cynic in me immediately thought, "There is absolutely no way that God would give me Michael Cera in an airport. This is just too big of a dream. It must be some tubby kid that he's mistaking for Jonah Hill." My inner cynic, however, was quickly quieted when his friend responded, "Yeah, the skinny one... What was that show called? Arrested... something. It's totally him right there!"

It was at this point that I completely gave up pretenting to sleep, yanked myself upright in my chair, and swivelled around to see if it could really be possible that my every dream in life was coming true... I spied the teenage dude behind me, looked beyond him to the left, to the right, straight in front and -

HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT. It was you! My boyfriend Michael Cera!

I believe that this was the moment wherein I shit my pants. I mean, not literally, obviously, but like the figurative shit where for a second you think you actually might have lost control of your bowels but it turns out it was just your entire internal organ system jumping up and down and squealing like it was Britney's vagina finally realizing its long standing dream of being covered in underpants.

I mean, this was a thing of fantasy, a thing so incomprehensible that it can't actually happen in real life. (In fact, my boyfriend Michael Cera, I'm pretty sure I had actually daydreamed about this exact scenario before - we meet in an airport and kiss passionately at the gate before the plane takes off and we fly towards our destiny. ...Or did I just confuse that with the erotic novella I wrote a couple of years back called "Why Leonardo DiCaprio and I are Meant To Be"?) I mean, tell me, my boyfriend Michael Cera, what you would do if your every dream came true in one instantaneous insane twist of fate??!

(I'm going to guess: stand awkwardly and shift your gaze back and forth. Or shit your pants. Either one.)

Anyways. Even though I'm sorta ashamed to admit it, I started shaking a little in my excitement/nervousness/pure unbridled love for you. I sat awkwardly on the edge of my seat, unsure what to do next: scream? jump up and down? text someone? take out my camera and snap some pics? try to switch my seat to first class? puke? run to the bathroom to fix my awful mushroom cut into something adorable that will make you love me at first sight? run up to you and confess my love for you, my boyfriend Michael Cera? So many options, and so little coherent thought processes to guide them...

In the end, I went the texting and photographing route. I mean, either way I was going to go down in flames, so I figured I might as well do it with as many friends paying attention and with enough photographic evidence in tow to hopefully make it funny. Right? Am I right?

Here below is an example of some of the texts I sent that afternoon:

To: Rikki
OMG MICAEL CRA IN APRORT DYING DYING DYNG NOT LIE SROUS WHAT I DOOOO???!?!

To: Emmy
yes micahel cera si here siesouly... im dying my hand s shakng!! hes so cutttee.

To: Rikki
i cn't go up to him ill die. he looksso akwardd nd shy. i lov himmmm!!!

Here below is an example of some of the pictures I took of you sitting down, waiting to board:




Now, I promise you that I did my best to be stealth-like and snap away quietly. But tell me, with my shaking hands, my frantic texting, and the faint whimper of joy that was eminating straight from my heart, HOW IN HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO BE NOT OBVIOUS??! So despite my best efforts, I think you were on to me:


Okay, I don't think. I know:


Dang, my boyfriend Michael Cera, you must have eyes in the back of your head or some sort of crazy-person-taking-pictures radar because you were clearly all over my shit.

In the moment, though, I have to say that I completely ignored all photographic evidence to the contrary and continued to snap and text away undeterred. And, I mean, all things considered I am sorta glad I did because check out these little gems:




Even you have to admit you look adorable in your t-shirt and jacket and backpack. It's very My Boyfriend Michael Cera: Airport Chic.

Since you were sitting in first class, you got to board first. And because my seat was towards the the front of the plane, I was the last to board and thus had to wait in the longgg line that snaked out of the plane into the on ramp. I hate waiting in lines, but was rewarded for my patience by the snail's pace at which it moved, giving me time enough to be stalled in front of your row and to have your seatmate (a stranger to us both), who was on the aisle, comment on how lovely she thought my purse was. No big deal. Did you hear that My Boyfriend Michael Cera? She liked my purse. No big deal.

And I'm not going to lie - it was thrilling to know that in that brief, two minute exchange about shopping in Toronto between she & I, you were definitely looking at me. It blew my airport-fantasy-addled stuck-in-adolescence mind. In the moment, I was thinking how fabulous I sounded and how interested you were in what I had to say about purses in the Yonge/Dundas area, and how smokin' my butt looked like in my new pants. In retrospect, however, I figure you were probably thinking something along the lines of, "Hmmm, not only is she crazy, but she likes talking about purses??! What an idiot! At least I know where she hangs out now and can avoid the Yonge/Dundas area like the plague. But at least her ass looks smokin' in those pants!" (Somethings are just always true, right?)

Fresh from the thrill of that little exchange, I settle into my seat to scope out my proximity to you, My Boyfriend Michael Cera. Happily (for me, probably not for you) I noted that I was only two rows behind you and that those flimsy first class curtains did not block my view! I also hatched a plan to use the first class bathroom before they velcroed the curtains together. (Note to Air Canada: you should really spring for better curtains. Just saying.)

Once we were at cruising altitude and the seatbelt light went off, I made my move: I checked up and down the aisle and as soon as the flight attendants looked busy I bolted from my seat and made a beeline for the first class bathroom, being sure to keep my pace brisk but also slow enough so you could really get a full picture of my new-panted caboose as I went by. I almost got caught by a flight attendant near the front who was busy reading her book (really? Jesus, I need a job where I can nosh on little packets of peanuts read my book in the downtime) but thankfully she was too into the new Dean Koontz to notice that I wasn't supposed to be there.

What happened inside the washroom can only be described as a frantic makeover/pep talk/ad hoc bath with the delicious smelling Fruits and Passions soaps that they have in first class. Ready to make my big debut, I exited only to find the following: you, My Boyfriend Michael Cera, fast asleep (verdict on you sleeping? All of the adorable, none of the rigid awkwardness!) and the curtains back to economy velcroed shut.

Shit. Making my stealthy escape was going to be harder than I thought...

So, I did what any self-respecting first class interloper would have done: bumrushed the aisle and bolted through the curtains before that flight attendant could put down her Dean Koontz and stop me. As I excited through with an accusative rip (velcro curtain pro: easy escape, velcro curtain con: loud escape), I heard a faint "tsk" coming from the jump seat up front, but the damage was done and there was Dean Koontz to be read so I was mercifully off the hook, though disappointed that for all my efforts you were fast (yet adorably) asleep and didn't even get a chance to smell my Pear & Linden aura.

The rest of the flight was passed in a dreamland that can only be described as "what new and novel ways can I contort my body so that I can see what you are watching on TV." (For those curious, it was Best in Show - it seems you, My Boyfriend Michael Cera, and I have a Christopher Guest appreciation in common - and the first 10 minutes of Hancock.) A dreamland, that is, until it was almost time to land and for you to fill out your customs forms. Then, things turned a little, um, awful.

You see, the five hour flight did nothing to calm my love for you, My Boyfriend Michael Cera. In fact, it only made me more excited and enthralled by the crazy twist of fate that brought us together on the same plane. So when you turned around and I was finally able to get a good shot of you, I went a little, um, crazy with the camera.


I don't think you liked it much that I was taking your picture in an intimate moment of form completion. I don't think you liked it much at all.

As evidenced in the above picture, you whipped your head around and caught me mid-photo. Um. Twice.

Fuuuuuuck.

Alright so fine. FINE! I admit it. I crossed the line. It was a hard pill to swallow, but one I knew I needed to, My Boyfriend Michael Cera. I get it now. Sometimes opportunities aren't meant to be photographed on a plane while filling out Canadian customs documents, sometimes they are just meant to be enjoyed for what they are, ie adorable.

After the walk of shame off the airplane, through the airport, in line at customs, and waiting for my bags at the baggage claim, one thing became clear to me: I had ruined my schoolgirl crush on you, My Boyfriend Michael Cera, by being overzealous. Now whenever I think of you, I think of your blurry face catching me taking your picture on the plane. Twice. It's forever tainted my appreciation of your parted hair and fine improvisation skills. Hell, it's forever tainted my appreciation of how good my butt looked in those pants. And let's be honest, that's the real tragedy in all of this, isn't it?

In the end, I can only blame one thing for all of this: my blog. (Duh.)

I mean, if I hadn't ever started the blog, I would never have had an outlet for all my love for you, My Boyfriend Michael Cera. I would have googled you and archived the results in my heart, if you will. But as it stood, I sorta felt like I need to record the whole thing for posterity and for the enjoyment of my loyal readers (Melissa's Note: you all are loyal, right? I'm the only blog you frequent, right? RIGHT??!). So if you want to blame anyone, you should totally blame my blog. And not me. Cause, I mean, it's not my fault, right? Exactly.

Anyways. Given all this, I think it's probably time for us to break up, My Boyfriend Michael Cera. I hope you don't take this too hard, because I've thought about it a lot and know it's for the best. It's time for me to move on and find someone who is less awkward and more of a famewhore (ie someone who is willing to be photographed whilst completing all manner of official government documents). If you know anyone who is up for the challenge, you know where to find me: The Griddle at the corner of Sunset and Fairfax, eating the peanut butter crunch pancakes and dreaming about steak cut fries.

I wish you all the best in the future, My Boyfriend Michael Cera. And in your loneliest moments, I hope you'll look back with fondness in all that we've shared. Remember, we'll always have Christopher Guest and no one can take that away from us.

Best,

Melissa

PS: You can keep my Blue Jays 1992 World Series Champions commemorative poster. You deserve it.


**Melissa's note: If Michael Cera ever should read this blog (hey, I think I'm living proof that anything can happen!), I would want him to know that I don't actually think he's my boyfriend. And that I really am very, very sorry for taking his picture on the plane when he was filling out his customs forms. It was a low, low moment and a difficult lesson to learn. But learned it has been and I promise never to do it again should he ever be unlucky enough to be caught on a plane with me in the future.

I will, however, probably still text all my friends excitedly. And be curious about his taste in movies......... And squeal a little. But now I know to keep my camera securely in the off position and my seat back upright.

Athankyou.

8 comments:

Cubbi said...

Pure hilarity!!! I think I peed myself a little from laughing so hard. Especially the commentary on the sitting down, pre-boarding pictures. He was totally on to you.

I'm sorry that you had to end things with Micheal Cera.. It's probably for the best, though.

HUGS
C

Kat with a K said...

Lies. You know the reason you broke up with Michael is cause of your new love Eric Hutchinson. Oh yeah and your husband.........me!

Chickpea said...

you skipped the part where mikey bumrushed the first class bathroom, and initiated you into the mile high club.

Anonymous said...

This one was so good that halfway through (well, right after the Britany's bergina comment at which I cackled) I had to start over and read it aloud to Clinton. We very much enjoyed the Andes bit and the word 'corpulence' (pronounced with a little lithp on the -ence). Cheers and I love you,
Nay

leon said...

you creepy/funny betch.

emily said...

Fuck freshnessfactorfivethousand - a new blog has won my heart!

sara no h said...

me, reading: ahah. hahahhaha. that's good. that's good. CLASSIC! hehehoo. ahahahah. oh meliss. yep. she would. ahhhhhh. "athankyou!"- BEST PART!

amylmc said...

Hysterical, Melissa. I love it!