Welcome to a New Kind of Tension

A couple of weeks before Christmas there was an envelope in my mailbox, the return address of which bore the names of my friends C and S, who aren't speaking to me. It sat on my kitchen table for a week before I worked up the courage to open it.

To my surprise, it was a lovely card which contained the following message: "Thank you so much for the beautiful sheets. They are on our bed now. I am sorry we did not end our last correspondence on a great note. Can we start again?" It was signed with one X and one O, Carly and Simon. Simon's name looks like he wrote it, but the rest of the missive is clearly Carly's effort.

You've got to admit that was a pretty classy move on her part, sending a note to a female friend of her husband's, encouraging the continuation of a friendship. I mean, a lot of women, most women, I would think, would take the opportunity to cross me off their Christmas card list. Not that Simon and I were ever a couple (and not that I'm saying that there wasn't a time, pre-Carly, post-X, when something might have happened — did I mention that he's also 6'3"?), but most women are threatened by other women who are in their husband's lives, especially when those women are single. To not be threatened by me shows that Carly is not insecure, not catty, and, well, that she's a classy dame. I like her more and more.

So I sent an email to both of them, saying how happy I was to hear from them, and of course I want to try again. I apologized again for missing their wedding, but that's the last time I'm saying anything about it. They made it clear that they don't feel being stood up is an acceptable reason for foregoing the blessed nuptials, and I think that makes them heartless, but I prefer their anger to their pity, as I told you, Gentle Reader, last October. But then Christmas was upon us, and we weren't able to get together.

Simon's birthday, I remembered, is at the end of January, so 'round about the middle of the month I sent an email, just to him this time, inquiring about birthday party plans, and promising that, were an invitation to be extended, I'll come this time, with or without a date, most likely without. He replied immediately, saying that plans were in the works and he'd let me know. And I replied, saying I was very glad that he was speaking to me again. His final reply showed me that I've got Simon back:

"My memory is similar to that of a dog's: I remember who my mate is, where the food is, and loud scary noises, but everything else is pretty much like it never happened."

So last night friends of Simon gathered at Lot 16 for drinks. I'm getting to know his circle — even though I missed the wedding, I was there for the engagement party a week prior. It was a karaoke party; I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Simon seemed surprised that I could sing. We did Eminem together.

Of the posse that gathered for the party last night, many remembered me from the engagement party. A couple of people made comments like, "Oh yes, I remember you from the wedding..."

Yes, that's right. I'm gonna go ahead and go with that...

Anyway, last night there was Carly's sister, Cassie, and her boyfriend, Sam, who lives in Chicago but always seems to be here in T'ranna. He must have a serious whack of frequent-flyer points. We tease him about being an honourary Canadian. He's more honourary than many of us, being one of those foreigners who knows more about the country than the locals. And he's not a bad singer, either.

I hadn't met Carly and Cassie's father before last night, though. I'm good with dads, have I ever mentioned that? No? One day I'll finish the story about my karaoke buddy, E's, dad. But I digress.

C&C's dad is Martin, and he's one of those men who looks exactly like his name: tall, narrow face, glasses, salt-and-pepper beard. He is 52, which makes me closer to him in age than I am to Carly. At least I think so. It seemed that way to me last night. We sat beside each other for an hour, talking about our Volkswagens, and what fun it was driving through the snow. About 15 centimetres of the stuff fell yesterday, and because it was also very cold, -16, it didn't melt, but just accumumlated so that driving was a challenge in traction-finding. Martin and I both expressed the joy of driving a little German tractor, made for just such occasions.

There was Peter, Simon's friend who works at Queen's Park, who's an interesting guy. He knows a lot about music, and I like him OK, but at the karaoke engagement party I sensed he was going to ask me out, and began to practise what last night I got very good at: moving around the room and including others in our conversation.

Rabba, who's Serbian, was there with his new girlfriend, Dagmar, who's also Serbian and who looks exactly like Julia Roberts. There were a few friends of Carly's, who spent most of the time talking with her, and a few other guys, some of them quite tall but all of them, except for Martin, attached to one of the females. Usually, at parties, I hang with the guys. I've been that way since I was six years old and learned that boys are typically more fun, smarter, and more interesting than girls, and I haven't found cause to change my position on that. But last night there was a great deal of talk about football. Apparently today there are two big important games; something about deciding who'll play in the Super Bowl.

I couldn't care less about football. I'm still mourning hockey.

I gave Simon the new Green Day album for a birthday present. This is the second time I've bought it hoping that the person for whom it is intended already has it, so I can keep it. Darn it all, my cousin M loved it too when I gave it to him for Christmas.

I have to laugh, though, at the parental advisories our righteous neighbours to the south insist on. If the parents don't know who Green Day is, are they going to listen to the record so they can understand why the "warning" is needed?

Don't want to be an American Idiot
The subliminal mindfuck America

Are the parents being warned that Green Day is calling them idiots? Or that the lyrics contain the words "faggot" and "mindfuck?"

Either way, I guess they don't sell this one at Walmart.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass gets excited.