Thursday, December 11, 2008

home fur the holidays

Just like the book is always better than the movie, the original trumps the remake, and Zeppelin will always trounce Wolfmother, so goes the tenet for faux fur. The copy cat might get to gloat, but the real McCoy will have the glory.

Donning a mock mink undoubtedly has its advantages. For one, make-believe beaver pelts won’t ever break the bank, and if you should find yourself surrounded by a mob of angry granola-dykes and covered in red paint, it’s really no one’s loss. However, there is one unavoidable downfall to wearing a counterfeit coat. And that is, well, it’s just not real.

Fur is a symbol of decadence and wealth. When the coat you tote is a phony, it’s an affront to those merits. Whether it’s directed at your purse, or your watch, or your tits, no one ever wants to be questioned on legitimacy. What’s worse, though, is when you’re not asked, but rather accused, pin pointed or pegged – point blank.

Racing the clock in Toronto Pearson Airport, I tossed my luggage on to the bag scale. Slapping my flight itinerary down in front of the woman at the counter, I heaved a sigh of relief. I wasn’t going to miss my flight, after all.

“How many bags will you be checking?”

“Two,” I relplied.

“Did anyone help you pack these bags?” **

“No,” I say. Watching the time, I tap my fingers on the counter top. She peers over her screen to look at my hand, as if the sound of the tapping is somehow stopping her from clicking her own French tips on the keyboard and getting me aboard on time.

“Are you bringing with you any hunting bounty?”

Seriously. She asked me this. Obviously looking puzzled by the novel airport query (and I do believe I’ve heard them all….) she continued.

“Like antlers, hides…anything like that?”

I stared blankly at her, and thought I’d counter her fantastic question with a response of equal or greater fanaticism.

“Well, I did just hunt this one (pointing to my coat) last week in High Park…”

Blatantly displeased, and with the same sordid absence of humour shared by all airport employees, she uncouthly retorted, without looking up:

“That’s clearly not real.”

WHAM! Just like that. Suddenly I felt absolutely exposed. What a wench. Sure, I’m flying economy class, and have a Loblaw’s shopping bag as a carry-on, but who’s to say that I’m not the type to wear the real deal?

The truth is, as my mother explained to me while brushing my phony fur out in the kitchen this morning (yes, I brush it), that I take things too personally, and that the woman didn’t mean it as a slight to me. She meant it to the coat, which according to Ma, looks just about as real as Joan Rivers.

Maybe this means I need a new jacket, but until I either win the lottery, or inherit my mother’s, I’ll wear this fake with pride. Real pride.

Or, I’ll borrow the old lady's, at least until I go back.

** This is a trick question. I have learned this through a few years of independent travel. I used to always nod yes, and explain that my mother helped me pack the night before. This would usually delay my boarding process by about half an hour, and I would be forced to answer a series of interrogation style questions. What does she do for a living? Was she ever alone with the bags? Although I don’t share a last name with my mother, I think it would be a safe bet made by anyone to assume that her’s is not Bin Laden. Nevertheless, I have learned to answer ‘no’ to that question, and now I usually have time to get a pre-departure snack before take off.


Fleurr De Lux said...
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Hannah Sider said...

this was actually the most hilarious read

ottawastreetstyle said...

brilliant and oh so very funny. even if i inherit my mother's fur coat, i'm much too small to wear it. merde.