Don't Leave Me This Way

"She'll laugh," I heard Lulu exclaim, before I'd even had a chance to take off my coat and settle into my usual bar stool at The Banknote. She was talking to a shortish, long-haired man wearing a CTV logoed vest and drinking a Guinness. He had the look of a regular about him, yet I didn't recognize him as a Banknote regular.

The CTV guy turned toward me. It was clear that whatever story Lulu'd been telling before I came in, he hadn't laughed. This fact alone spoke volumes about him. If you'd ever met Lulu, you'd know it's hard not to laugh when she tells a story. The story doesn't even have to be funny; it's all in the way she tells it. Lulu is a pixieish woman with dark hair and eyes, and a dimple the size of a meteor that crinkles when she smiles—and she's always smiling. In telling her stories she imitates facial expressions, puts on voices, pretends to be chewing gum with all the daintiness of a horse chewing its oats, snorts and clicks her tongue for sound effects, and all the while wildly gesticulating for emphasis. The untutored patron who sits beside her, or passes too closely behind, is at no inconsiderable personal risk.

"Sass will laugh at this story," says Lulu to the CTV guy. Then, to me, "You'll laugh, I know it."

Then she tells the following story:

"So I'm waiting for the elevator after work, and it stops and there's a guy in it already, not anyone I know; he must work for one of the other companies up on one of the higher floors; so I get in and I've just put on my coat—you know my big puffy coat?"

Before I can offer a reply as to the state of my knowledge of her wardrobe, she continues:

"This one!" she squeals, realizing it's hanging on the chair behind her. She lifts up one of the sleeves to show me. It is indeed a puffy coat. Down filled.

"So I've got the coat on and I get into the elevator and I reach into my pockets to pull out my gloves—you know how you keep your gloves in your coat pockets?— and I pull out my glove from the one pocket and my pocket explodes!"

Lulu reenacts the elevator scene. A woman passing behind her chair ducks.

"It just exploded—feathers everywhere! And I looked up at the guy in the elevator and I said, 'Look, my pocket exploded,' and he says to me, without missing a beat, 'Good thing it's not duck season!'"

I laugh. The CTV guy does not. But Lulu's not done yet:

"And I burst out laughing, I mean that's funny, right? Duck season! And I said something like, yeah, good thing, ha ha, and then it's only later, when I'm on the streetcar on my way here that I'm peeing my pants laughing because I realize what I should have said. You know what the streetcar's like at 5:00, everyone's by themselves, on their way home, so nobody's talking; I mean nobody talks to anyone, and there I am, laughing so hard I'm just about peeing my pants, and they're all looking at me like I'm a retard, but I can't help it because it's so funny—duck season!—and then I realize what I should have said to the guy in the elevator."

Martin is bartending tonight, though it's Andrew's night, and that's why I come here on Monday nights—it's not just the $6.95 pasta pescatore special, it's because of Andrew. It's why all of us do. So when he's not here on his usual night it's hard not to feel...disappointed. Nothing against Martin, not at all; in fact, he's my second favourite bartender ever since he lent Dave his skates a few weeks ago, but he's too shy and quiet to make a great bartender, and, let's face it, there are plenty of places in this city where we could go for a pint. Like I tell my students, smart marketers know that it's not about the beer— or the coffee, or the haircut, or the screwdriver, or whatever it is that you're buying—it's about the experience. And Andrew is key to The Banknote experience.

But tomorrow is Tuesday; I'll come by after my evening class. Tuesday is Andrew's night, too. So's Wednesday, when it's half price appetizers until 10:00.

Lulu is about to tell me what she should have retorted to the man on the elevator:

"So it's only when I get on the streetcar and I'm halfway here that I think of what I should have said to the guy in the elevator, and you know what the streetcar's like at this time of the afternoon; it's rush hour, everyone's by themselves, on their way home, so nobody's talking, and there I am, laughing so hard I'm seriously peeing my pants, and they're all looking at me like I'm a retard, but I can't help it because that's when I realize what I should have said to the guy in the elevator:"

I wait.

"No—it's wabbit season!" she explodes.

I laugh.

"See, I told you she'd laugh!" says Lulu to CTV Guy.

I've managed to consume almost half of my Beck's while Lulu's been telling the wabbit story, and I haven't been drinking quickly. Like I said, it's all in the way she tells 'em.

Martin's got the cable radio on channel 73, the throbbing disco channel. Since I've been sitting here I've heard Thelma Houston, Alicia Bridges, and a weird one hit disco wonder from a zillion years ago called "I Lost My Heart to a Starship Trooper."

"I don't suppose you'd maybe want to put the radio on channel 33?" I ask Martin, trying not to give him the impression that I wish Andrew were here, even though that's exactly what I'm wishing. "It's the Frank Sinatra station."

"Sorry, I can't," Martin replies, and he does seem sorry, "We've switched it about six times already tonight; I've got to leave it on this for a while."

Vince, one of the owners, is in the bar, and it's his favourite station.

"So where's that good for nothing Andrew tonight?" I ask, Martin, jokingly. "Too hungover from his other job as a bouncer at the gay strip club to drag his sorry ass in here?"

I like to think I'm The Banknote's resident quidnunc. Then again, like I've said before, I like to think I'm 29. But I like to know what's going on, and I think that I do. Oh, Lulu's the mayor of the place—she'll get to know the new people and make everyone feel at home; entertain them with her stories. But I watch. I observe.

I write stories.

"Andrew's gone," says Martin simply.

* * *
The next story is more about Angela and Boz. There will be more about Andrew the bartender in Don't Leave Me This Way [redux].

Come Sail Away [verse 2]

Second verse, (not the) same as the first.

"On board, I’m the captain, so climb aboard," said Boz.

OK, he didn't really say (nor sing) that. But he did explain to me with excruciating seriousness that he was the captain, and that meant I had to obey him while on board The Flying Squirrel, and that I should not take offence if he were to shout rather gruffly, for example, "Sass! Pull that rope!"; that it only meant I was to do it quickly.

I replied, cheerfully, "Aye aye, Captain!" and refrained from revealing to him my feelings on the subject of men bossing me around in this manner.

[I like it.]

The temperature of Lake Ontario was 42°F, and the wind speed was something in knots, fierce enough to whip the waves in the lake over the breakwater on the western end of the marina. Boz's boat is one of only three left in the marina beside our townhouse complex, the others having been lifted into dry dock last month. And, once we got out into the lake it was the only one on the water.

The western gap was churning evilly, like the River Styx, and Boz ordered me below decks until we'd cleared it. From my perspective down in the hold the grey-green waves were rising a foot above Boz's head, pausing for a moment to let the lambent sunlight play on their surface, then crashing down and spraying him with water.

"OK, Olive Oyl, come on back out," commanded the Captain when we'd cleared the gap. We were in the channel that divides Toronto from the Island Airport, a contentious bit of geography in my part of the world.

"Here," said Boz, indicating a wooden thingamagig I believe is called the tiller, "Why don't you steer us through the channel?"

"I've never driven anything that doesn't have wheels," I replied. "Are you sure about this?"

"It's easy," he laughed, and he placed his hand on top of mine on the thingama—I mean tiller. "Just aim for the smokestacks over there in the distance. And when we get to the other end of the channel, go around behind that building, where it's sheltered from the wind, and I'll hoist the sail."

He didn't mention that you have to move the tiller to the left if you want to go to the right, and vice versa. Until I almost steered us into the retaining wall. Then he mentioned it rather loudly.

Boz's boat has two sails which I'm sure have names but which I know only as the small one in the front and the, um, bigger one. I was absolutely no help to him in hoisting them; it was all I could do to keep the bow pointed into the wind. And I didn't do a very good job of that, even; the wind was too strong. Three times during the sail hoisting Boz jumped back to where I was, grabbed the tiller with one hand and the gas control of the outboard motor with the other, expertly spun the boat back into the wind, then grabbed my hand, put it back on the tiller, and jumped back onto the deck to deal with the sails.

I was simultaneously impressed by his abilities and embarassed by the lack of my own.

"All right, get ready, Sass," yelled Boz from somewhere on the ship's bow. Or deck. Or whatever you call that part at the front that you stand on. "As soon as I hoist the mainsail she's going to turn and pick up speed. Make sure you've got control of her."

"Aye, Captain," I shouted back, knowing I was in control of absolutely nothing.

And take off she did. That Flying Squirrel really flew. I don't know how many knots is screechin' fast, dude—but that's how fast we were going.

And I was driving. Er, sailing.

And it was thrilling.

We flew past the Skydome, then the Bay Street bank towers, and in what was much too short a time for my liking, we had reached Cherry Street and The Docks, marking the end of Toronto Harbour. From there, it would have to be either go around the island, or turn back. I'd been hoping for the former, though Boz said it might be too rough to go out into the open lake, but we'd see once we got there.

When we got there, this is what happened instead:

Boz ordered me to head south for a bit 'til he could assess the wind situation, then decided it was too windy to go around the island, so he ordered (I just like using that verb, OK?) me to turn her around. And that's when the smaller sail, the one at the front of the boat, got twisted around the thingamagig that it's hoisted up on, and even I knew that was a bad thing.

We drifted, and tried to untangle the sail by alternately pulling on the two ropes that control it, but, inexplicably, it twisted even more.

"I've never seen that happen before," said Boz.

You've never had me on your boat before. Could be just a coincidence.

And then, the mainsail ripped.

"OK, Sass, I don't want to scare you but we're in trouble," said my Captain. "You've got to start the motor, and keep control of the boat while I get those sails down."

Or else we're both going to die.

You would think that dropping the sails would take less time than hoisting them, but you would be wrong. Boz had first to untangle, then pull down first one, then the other, and hastily bungee-cord them around something to keep them from flapping away. All this while standing on the deck of a boat that was being rocked and bashed by three foot waves, and that was, unbeknownst to him, moving closer second by second to the rock wall.

I was doing what I could to control the boat and, in my head, working out a worst case scenerio plan. If he were knocked overboard, which I was certain he was about to be, and were knocked unconscious by something on the way down, and the boat were to keel over, I would have maybe three minutes before dying of hypothermia in that water to get to him and get us both to shore. The boat would crash into the rocks and be a total loss; Boz would rue the day he met me and I could forget about him ever wanting to sleep with me; but I reckoned I could do it, and at least we wouldn't die.

We were 100 feet from the rocks. I'd spotted the ladder on the retaining wall just south of them. I had started the motor. The sails were down, now, so I was able to control the boat better.

We didn't die.

Boz sat beside me and took the tiller. The relief I'd been feeling was akin to what you feel when the roller coaster rolls to a stop; you were never seriously in fear for your life. The relief on Boz's face told me perhaps I should have been.

"We'll be OK now," he said. "But I'm not sure we've got enough gas to get us back. We may have to stop at Marina Quay and get some."

"Oh, the old run out of gas trick, eh?" I laughed. "I haven't heard that one since I was in highschool!"

And I hadn't.

* * *
Last year I discovered that Brad works at the same university where I teach, though he's not a professor, he's an I.T. manager. He tells me that Josh has three kids and lives on a farm in Niagara-on-the-Lake. His wife is a teacher.

Boz is handsome and blond and of Ukranian extraction. He doesn't smile much but when he does, like he did at the bar back at the yacht club, where we were sharing that pitcher of Keith's, when he joked about how he had to make sure I got home safely otherwise who would walk the dogs on Monday, well, I would have sailed anywhere with him at that moment.

And I noticed he's no longer wearing his wedding ring.

* * *
Boz is too experienced a sailor to be lured into the rocks. But meanwhile, in the next story, Sass's favourite bartender abandons her.

Come Sail Away [verse 1]

Back at the yacht club on Saturday afternoon, after the sail ripped and we had to stop for gas and come back into the harbour under power and, because of that, be scrutinized by the other club members, Boz and I shared a pitcher of Keith's and I found myself thinking of childhood friends and the dreams we had.

When I was in highschool my boyfriend, Josh, who was handsome and blond and of Polish extraction, took me sailing on his brother's boat one blazingly hot and sunny Saturday in late July. The boat was docked at Port Dalhousie, where we spent nearly every day that summer we were together playing softball in the park, or walking out to the lighthouse at the end of the pier, or riding the carousel, or lighting bonfires on the beach at night. You can't build fires anymore on the beach at Lakeside Park; it's become such a popular tourist area. But when I was in highschool it was still considered the rough part of town.

That day on the sailboat had taken three months to negotiate with the brother, I found out later, when I was at their house for dinner, and Stan teased Josh about how he had promised to wash and wax Stan's car every week until the snow fell.

The boat was not docked in a slip; it was anchored out in the marina, and we had to row out to it in a dinghy. Let me tell you, Gentle Reader, that for me, at least, there are few things more romantic than having a man row you. I used to dream about marrying Josh and having our wedding photographs taken on the carousel.

The way I started going out with Josh was, he used to hang around the pizza place where I worked on Saturday nights because his best friend, Brad, usually worked that shift,too. That's how I got to know him. And sometimes, he would come into the store on nights that I was there but Brad wasn't. One Saturday, as I was driving to the store in the pouring rain my distributor, which had been cranky all that spring, decided at last to give up the ghost and the car barely coughed its way into the pizza parking lot. I knew it wouldn't make it back to Beamsville, and I wouldn't be able to get it fixed until Monday. Josh offered to drive me home when the store closed at midnight.

And he ran out of gas.

This presented no small problem due to the fact that we were on a country road, about ten miles outside the city and god only knows how far from the nearest gas station, not to mention that it was after midnight, pitch dark, and raining. Oh, and that this was about ten years before cell phones were invented.

"Stay in the car," said Josh, "And don't worry, I'll get you home."

I did — trying all the while not to think about those campfire horror stories — and he did.

I may not understand men, but I can tell you one thing about women: rescue them from a dangerous situation and they will fall in love with you.

Stay tuned for verse 2, tomorrow.

Come Sail Away [riff]

Starboard is the right side of the boat.

Come about doesn't mean what I thought it meant.

The Captain must be obeyed.

Carrying your towel and remembering Ford Prefect's advice (Don't Panic!) is equally important on a sailboat as on a spaceship.

The big one is called the mainsail.

And I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.

Come Sail Away

I wish, Gentle Reader, that I had time to ask your advice before I go sailing with Boz. You know, like, is there any boat-related vocabulary you can teach me. Which side is starboard. What questions to ask a guy with a boat — questions analagous to asking a guy with a car about his engine.

Like, um, how big is your sail?

But I don't have time because I'm meeting him at the yacht club in 45 minutes.

Opening riff on Monday. Verse 1 on Tuesday. Verse 2 on Wednesday.

Working For The Weekend [refrain]

Every few weeks on a Friday afternoon Postmodern Sass quits work early to thank her readers for reading, and shares some of their email messages and other tidbits with you.


Look at me, I'm Sandra B! The karaoke contest that the Viking and I were competing in finished last night, and I won the trophy for Miss Congeniality. The Viking didn't win anything, which only goes to show that life isn't fair.

* * *
Jack is coming to Toronto this weekend, and I can't wait to show him my trophy. He didn't make it to that wedding in October, but it's not because he stood me up. It's because he was in the hospital. Nothing life threatening, but enough to keep him from getting on a plane. That time, I was the second person he called. The first was the woman who's known him since the day he was born, which is even longer than I have, and whom I may one day meet.

Or not.

* * *
Speaking of hospitals, Donny was also in one recently, and missed Joey's birthday party. He reports, "I'm in good, but grumpy shape and will be back to my usual beer drinking, karaoake classics killing, CSIS Googling, dating life meddling ways in a couple of weeks. Sort of makes it easy to wait doesn't it?"

* * *
I love getting presents, as I've told you before. I especially love getting presents when I'm not expecting them. 'Cause I love surprises too. So guess how much I loved that Dave sent me a belated CD for my birthday, one he made himself, just like Rob Gordon, called "Postmodern Birthday by DJ Bangladesh." It includes The Dandy Warhols, a band I've heard of but don't know enough about, the Ramones, The Pixies, and Joe Strummer, which no one needs to tell me about, and a bunch of stuff I've never heard of. So, awesome cool.

* * *
I've told you, Gentle Reader, about some of the very interesting regulars at The Banknote. Here's one I haven't told you about yet: Charlie Ringas. He is a composer, and his latest production, Gold of Hours, is being performed at the Premier Dance Theatre at Harbourfront tonight and tomorrow night. It is, he tells me, "a full length multimedia work for chamber orchestra and chorus." I asked him if that was anything like The White Stripes. Oh, Operaman, where are you when I need you?

* * *
I invited Marc Weisblott to karaoke, but he says he can only talk into the microphone, like he did at CIUT — not sing

* * *
Caleb wrote me a deliciously detailed email proffering proliferous prescriptions on my plight. That is, the Boz situation. That was after he read this, but before he read this. I only wish I'd had the opportunity to take his advice. Sigh.

It never rains, it only pours... just as I was about to publish this story, I checked my email and there's a message from Boz saying, weather permitting let's go sailing this weekend. Have I mentioned it snowed here yesterday? Help!

* * *
The Rush reference post drew several emails from you, Gentle Readers. Some of you said, "I thought everyone would get that reference!" Others said, "Gee, I didn't get that." Proving once again that one never knows. Least of all me. See, the thing is, I went to high school with Neil Peart's (much younger) sister, and he lived in Beamsville during most of those years. So everyone in town, except maybe my Oma, was a Rush fan by definition. So I have something of a skewed perspective on how widely known the band was. Or is.

* * *
The truly wonderful thing about the sundry blog awards that circulate every year in the blogosphere is that they're a way to find new blogs to read. It's how I discovered Tequila Mockingbird, who won Best Kept Secret Blog at the Bloggies in 2003. Being nominated to be nominated for the Deutsche Welle BOBs got me browsing the awards site and looking through the winners from last year. And I discovered some new gems:

Vodkapundit by gourmand, sybarite, raconteur, and prolific Amazon.com reviewer Stephen Green, whose 50 Words and Phrases not to use on a First Date I will use (er, that is, not use) if ever I go on a date again. I especially like his links categories. (Would I belong under "Molson?") And his hair.

Nominated for best blog in this year's BOBs is, from Argentina, Más Respeto, Que Soy Tu Madre which means "A little respect, I'm your mother." What a great title. I wish I could read Spanish. Another interesting one is, from Germany, Lyssas Lounge, Ein Lebenssurrogatextract. Stylish, and I can read this one.

* * *
David Sifry and Technorati say there are 19.6 million blogs out there. So if my Technorati ranking is 72,535, that's pretty good, isn't it?

* * *
And finally, Jen from Chicago emailed me to say she found me through a Technorati search for karaoke. I'm glad she found me, because now I've found her, and lemme tell you, she tells good story. She told me about her Halloween costume. She dressed as a karaoke machine. Check it out. She didn't tell me she taps.

Oh, I haven't told you about that, Gentle Reader? So many stories to tell, so little time...

* * *
Click here to sing the next chorus of Working For The Weekend with Postmodern Sass.

Only Heaven Knows [reprise]

Angela is back in town for a couple of days, on a mission to get her divorce papers translated into Italian at the Consulate, and we had dinner last night. She hasn't yet found a tenant to rent her townhouse while she's in Italy, and since she has a near limitless supply of Valpolicella locked in her hall closet (along with her bottles of fancy oil and her new age books), we partook of a couple of bottles.

And I have a set of her keys.

Angela is a Life Coach, you know. She's the kind of person who, were it necessary to have someone deliver bad news to you, she's the person you'd want to hear it from. She has that kind, sincere demeanour, a soft voice, and of course that charming Italian accent. I mean, I'm a woman, and it works on me. I can only imagine what it does for the men.

Before she left for Italy she told me she wanted to "be married with" Luciano. He's the boyfriend she's had since late last spring. An Italian national, living here in Toronto for a few months to take some courses. Not Angela's cult courses, but real courses, in business. He was studying for his MBA. They met at the Consulate.

Last May, Angela and Luciano went to New York for the weekend. I know, because I looked after Leo and Daphne while she was away. And I got to meet Luciano.

Remember that episode of Friends, the one with the power failure, where they find a stray cat and Phoebe and Rachel go knocking on the neighbours' doors to find the owner and they meet Paulo, who doesn't speak a word of English but doesn't need to, and they invite him back to Monica's place where they're all hanging out, and then the lights come back on and there's Rachel making out with Paulo?

I don't know why I thought of that, just then.

Throughout the summer, as Angela was living in San Francisco and reporting in via email every so often, I got Luciano updates. He was back in Italy, and was calling her every day. He was always telling her how much he missed her. In July, they went to Angela's cousin's wedding. In Paris.

Just before Angela left for Italy last month she told me she felt Luciano was indicating that he was ready to take their relationship to the next level. He was almost finished with his MBA. He was turning 29. He seemed to be ready to settle down.

So last night I asked her how things were going with Luciano.

"We broke up," she said.

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Well, I tell him how I feel, and that I think it's time for us to be more serious," she said.

"And he didn't feel the same way?"

"I guess not. He left, and we haven't spoken since."

The thing about being dumped and rejected is that, while you don't wish it on your friends, when it happens to them, too, you find it strangely comforting. It makes you think that maybe, just maybe, you're not really a freak.

So I tell Angela about Boz and the boat and the not going to the hockey game with me.

"He waits for Tammi to come back, I think," said Angela. "But she's no coming back, I know that. She's finish with him."

Angela is going to make a great Life Coach, whatever that is, one day.

Maybe I should sign up as a client.

* * *
The next story is another chorus of Working For The Weekend, in which Postmodern Sass thanks her readers for reading. And, in this chorus, posts a last minute news item about Boz. It will be a year before you'll hear another Angela story, Gentle Reader.

Second Hand News

Jenny:

How can you not love a Viking — and I mean love as in, I love your shoes not love as in I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you — who nails "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes," at karaoke, who lends you his Rumours album—yes, album; vinyl—so you can get in touch with your inner Fleetwood Mac, and who sings a perfect a cappella version of "Creep" in your car at 4:00 in the morning?
* * *
February, 2006. Jenny: I may need to revise my position on The Viking. He bought a cell phone, and now I fear for his sanity. And the well being of dogs in his vicinity.

Book of Dreams

Today I am struggling with a very difficult writing task and so I am procrastinating by writing.

It's a difficult task because it is an enormously humbling experience, in my experience, and the nature of the task requires the opposite of humblification, hence the struggle.

I'm writing my bio for inclusion in a book. A book onto the cover of which will go my name. My real names, all three of them. Spelled correctly.

There are eighteen million reasons why this is not a big deal to anyone other than me. For one, it's a marketing textbook. A Canadian marketing textbook, yet. A second Canadian edition version of the 7th American edition of a marketing textbook. You, Gentle Reader, are almost certainly in no danger of encountering it in your local Chapters store. For another, I am the fifth author.

I had assumed that my name would be at the very bottom of the cover, in eight point font, and wouldn't make it to the spine at all. I'd be just one of the et als.

Seriously. I mean, a few weeks back when the editor sent me a form to fill out (onto which I carefully printed my names, all three of them, all three of which typically get spelled incorrectly by everyone who's not related to me, and even by some who are; dear god please let it be correct on the published copy) and there was a section that asked for my bio, I wrote on it, "I assume this doesn't apply to me."

Then today she sends me an email with the copy for the front-of-the-book pages — you know the ones numbered in lower case Roman numerals, before page 1; on which pages are the bios of the other four authors, even the guy whose name goes above mine for reasons I won't go into but do understand, even though his contribution, in the end, to this book was a single 300-word case at the end of one chapter, whereas I completely rewrote four of the 13 chapters, wrote the chapter titled Marketing on the Internet from scratch, edited and revised all the other chapters to some degree, and am now the sole author working with the copyeditor and production editor on the final proofs of the book — and "reminds" me that I still need to write my bio.

Two hundred words, please.

I wish my mother were alive to see this. She was a writer, too.

Only Heaven Knows [part II - fin]

Continued from part I

I met Angela two years ago, and during our first conversation she told me she was looking for a husband. Most women who haven't already found one are, I've found, though they're rarely so ingenuous. Too, I've found, most women who've found, then lost one, are in no hurry to find another.

Men are a lot of work, you see.

When Angela goes on dates — and she goes on a lot of dates — she evaluates each experience, each man, on the husband scale.

"Do you tell them that's what you're doing?" I asked her.

"No, but I ask them if they want to be married one day, and if they want children," she replied.

Angela doesn't go on many second dates.

The first time I was at her place for dinner I noticed her books are all of the category the bookstores call "self help" and "new age," and I call "crap." There are plaqued posters in her bathrooms and hallways, displaying such vaguely ESL-sounding homilies as

DEFINITION OF INTEGRITY
Integrity is nothing hidden, being truthful and honest, doing complete work, working from an empowering context, doing very well what you do, doing it as it was meant to be done and without cutting corners.

and

RESPONSIBILITY
No one can make you responsible, nor can you impose responsibility on another. It is a grace you give yourself — an empowering context that leaves you with a say in the matter of life.

Reminds me of that book, Everything I Need to Know I Learned In Kindergarten.

Angela is a Life Coach, you see. I'm required to state her designation in capitals because that's what it says on her business card. She's been trained by Landmark Education, an organization that is best described as scientology meets Amway, because, from what I've seen, she gives them all her money and she invites her friends to indoctrination meetings thinly veiled as social functions.

Like the party she invited me to last spring, just before she left to spend the summer taking an intensive Landmark "course" in San Francisco. Tuition for that one was $10,000. U.S., mind you. Plus she had to live there for six months on her own dime.

There was a man named Dan at this party, who gave a short extemporaneous speech about "the whales" — no particular whales in any particular part of the world; no description of a specific plight threatening them. Just whales in general. "We have to save the whales," implored Dan.

And just about everyone at the party gave him a cheque.

Dan has something to do with Landmark, though what, exactly, was never made clear. Ever talk to someone who does Amway? Like that.

As the party wound down, Angela solemnly handed each departing guest a slip of paper, with the bold heading, "Pass this on to people you know that have small children and pets." She encouraged us to read it, and if we didn't have pets ourselves, to make sure to tell those we know who do. She said she was very worried about her own two cats.

A quick glance at the paper told me it was one of those email-circulated urban legends, but I folded it and put it in my pocket, and told her I'd be sure to read it later. I did. It was that ridiculous story about the Swiffer Wetjet that's been circulating since 1999.

What Angela does, to be able to afford to live in the end-unit townhouse in our building, the one with the west-facing windows, overlooking the marina, only heaven knows.

* * *
"I have Boz's number," I tell Angela as she pours us a third glass of Amarone Della Valpolicella.

"What do you think, Leo," says Angela, addressing her Persian cat. "Do you want to say goodbye to Boz before we leave?" Then, to me, "OK, I call him."

"What does Daphne think?" I asked, referring to Leo's companion, Angela's other cat.

"She do whatever Leo tell her. She knows who is the boss in the relationship."

When Boz arrives, Angela asks him if he can fix the fireplace. I'd already tried, but couldn't get the pilot light to stay lit. It's a gas fireplace, and the pilot is supposed to be on all the time, even when the switch to power the flame up is off, but Angela turned it off somehow at the beginning of the summer, and now she doesn't know how to get it going again.

When I say Angela turned it off what I really mean is, she must have had someone turn it off for her. Angela is old world Italian; the kind of woman who needs a man to do everything for her. I love her to death, don't get me wrong, but I doubt she can work a can opener without help.

Boz kneels in front of the fireplace and removes the panel. I sit on the floor beside him and show him how I tried to restart the pilot light. Together, we fiddle with Angela's knobs for a while.

"It's no use," says Boz, finally. "Unless there's a breaker off, and it's just not getting electricity to start up. But I think she's going to have to call Enbridge for service."

"Why don't we check the breaker box, just to be sure?" I suggest.

The breaker box is inside the closet in the small guest room at the end of the hall. As we walk toward it, Boz explains to me how circuit breakers work, and I pretend I don't know.

Maybe there's something to that old world mien.

Angela has ushered us into the room but now leaves us, and half closes the door. Boz's back is to her; he's already scrutinizing circuits, so he doesn't see her glare at me and toss her head in his direction, giving the globally understood signal for go for it.

"You see here," Boz is indicating one of the circuit breaker switches, "This is the one that controls the power to the fireplace."

I lean in for a better look. "Mmn hmn, yes."

"See how it's aligned with all the others? That means it's working. If the cicuit had blown, it would be flipped the other way, like this."

He flips the breaker switch off, then back on, to show me.

Gentle Reader, I don't mind telling you, but no way am I going to tell Boz, that a few years back I helped my cousins Markus and Nate rewire the basement and install a new breaker panel in my grandmother's house.

"So, Boz," I say, all cool-as-a-cucumber and casual-like, "That hockey game I mentioned to you, the Boston game, is next Monday. Would you like to go?"

He is so engrossed in the breaker box I'm not sure he heard me.

"I don't think I can. I've got so much going on the next couple of weeks..."

And he does go on, and tells me about a proposal he's writing, and how he may have to go out of town for a few days. He's all business, that Boz. And then he says:

"But that's not to say that we won't still go out on the boat."

Boz has a sailboat, and he's been promising me since July that he'd take me out on it.

* * *
I went to the hockey game, Boston at Toronto, that Monday night, with my cousin Markus. He's my favourite cousin for so many reasons, not the least of which is he loves hockey and we have the same taste in music. But more to the point today, he's closest to my age and he's a member of that other species.

So I told him about Boz.

"What do you think?" I asked Markus.

He nodded knowingly, then said, "Guys with boats are like that."

* * *
In the next story, Sass is procrastinating again. But stay tuned: Angela is about to make a reprise. And it turns out Markus was wrong about Boz. Still, it's wonderful to has a cousin who is knowledgeable about certain things, like, say, building and repairing fireplaces, for those occasions when one spends a crazy weekend with a hot chef and ends up causing damage to one's aunt's home.

Margaritaville

There's a woman to blame, all right, for the spectacular hangover I am suffering today, and she is me.

Dave says, "I just do what the pretty girls tell me to do," but I don't remember seeing any pretty girls last night and I certainly don't remember any of them telling him (or me) to drink those last dozen beers.

On Friday night at The Banknote I asked all the regulars, the guy regulars, if they had skates, and if so, were they of Brobdinagian proportions, and if so, so, could I borrow them, and it was Martin, the daytime bartender, who reluctantly agreed to lend me his. I say reluctantly, because Martin has witnessed some of my attempts to fuck with Andrew's mind — like the time I had him convinced that the laptop he had been safekeeping behind the bar had been stolen &mdash and I could tell that he was balancing the need to be polite to a regular customer with the desire to say, no way, crazy lady.

So on Saturday night I arrived at Joey's birthday party, skates in hand, for Dave to try on. Surprisingly, they fit. Through the door.

Dave has sexy eyebrows. I didn't remember noticing that when we first met.

Joey's party was a low key affair, not at all like last year's bash. When you get married, you crank it down a couple of notches.

On the bright side, when you get divorced you crank it back up.

The restaurant closed at 12:30 and we were forced out onto the streets of Toronto to find another place to drink. Dave wanted to see The Banknote, so that's where we went.

The Banknote has a small but fine collection of single malt.

"Which is your favourite sketch?" Dave asked me.

"My favourite what?" I replied, denser than usual. Hey, it was late, many beers had been consumed. Oh, and there's that American accent.

He tried again: "Single malt."

"Macallan," I replied, in English this time. "Though I also like the peaty ones like Laphroaig. I have eleven bottles at home. Dalwhinnie, Glen Morangie, Oban..."

"You had me at Macallan," said Dave.

* * *
We were at the Air Canada Centre for the pre-game skate on Sunday just before 11:00, but the lineup was too long for my liking, even though we were entering through the V.I.P. gate on Bay Street, so we walked up to Front Street in search of a bank machine. It was a gorgeous, sunny day; unseasonable for November, but no one was complaining.

We returned twenty minutes later to find the line had, if anything, grown. The ice was full, we were told, and they weren't letting anyone else in.

Fuck.

I called my FIHP but he wasn't at the ACC, and, tragically, dropping his name at the door did not impress the security guard.

Double fuck.

"I probably could have gotten you in if you'd called early," FIHP was saying. "Sorry about that. But why don't you go up to the Club and have lunch. I'll call Jenson and tell him to expect you."

That means lunch and free beer. Almost as good as skating on the Leafs' ice.

Well, not really.

We had two hours to kill before the Air Canada Club would open, so I suggested we walk down to the Harbour Grill. On the way, we heard grumblings from the families still waiting in line: "There are are a lot of disappointed kids here."

"Yeah," said Dave, "And we're two of them."

* * *
So I didn't get to skate on the Leafs' ice but I did get to do some other things this weekend that I don't do that often, like wear matching underwear.

The Legends game this year was Canada vs. Russia — much more exciting than last year's "Original Six" vs. "Expansion." Paul Henderson was the coach of Team Canada. Billy Smith was the goalie. That cretin.

There was a guy with a trumpet circling the stands, playing rah-rah chants to get the audience going.

"I want that guy's job," said Dave.

The trumpet player was doing his schtick behind the goal.

"That's pretty loud," said Dave, "I wonder if it bothers the goalie."

"Hey, get away from Billy!" I shouted down to the trumpeter. "It's bad enough he's blind; don't make him deaf, too."

"You know, I'm all for heckling goalies," said Dave, "But usually I direct my taunts at the other team."

We stayed in the Club for the Hockey Hall of Fame afterparty. Because, after all, the beer was still free, and the day was young. Dave wanted to have his picture taken with Lanny McDonald. I manned the camera.

Lanny took one look at my Chris Nilan Habs jersey and said — to Dave — "You should know better!"

* * *
By the time we arrived at the Rivoli for Kickass Karaoke we'd been drinking steadily for almost ten hours.

Wendy and Joey had already arrived, and Sparky, Mo, and Goldilocks were all there, but it was a slow night; not too many of the regulars had showed. Which is fine by us, because it means we get to sing more.

I introduced Dave to my karaoke buddies, then sat beside Sparky and helped him apply eyeshadow. Sparky's drag outfit at last weekend's Halloween party was so great I didn't recognize him. He's been practising wearing makeup ever since.

"You're drunk!" Sparky exclaimed.

"I am? I might be, but I can still handle an eyeliner brush, don't worry."

"I've never seen you drunk before!"

Sparky was enjoying it a little too much.

Carson was reading from my request slip, "OK, next up is, what is this, I can't read it, it looks like Sass Ate American Dave."

"That's an ampersand, you idiot."

Dave and I sang Fairytale of New York. I introduced it by saying, "Have I mentioned that Dave and I have been drinking since noon?"

After that, things started to get fuzzy.

Mo asked me, "Did you drive here tonight?"

Misunderstanding his intent, I replied, "No, sorry, I can't give you guys a ride home this time."

"Just checking," he smiled.

* * *
Both my PhD buddy, Denise, and my cousin Kristine have told me that I snore, especially when I've been drinking. Funny, no man has ever told me that. I'm not sure whether they're being diplomatic, or if it's because they're snoring even louder.

* * *
The next time Sass sees Martin at the Banknote, she has to remind herself that he's her second favourite bartender. But before that happens, in the next story in sequence Postmodern Sass finishes the story of her friend Angela, the cult, and her neighbour Boz.

Fireworks

Today I learned that when there's no question that the boy gives a fuck about hockey, the girl need not fret.

Dave is coming to Toronto for Joey's birthday party this weekend, and we're going to this hockey game.

Me and Dave, that is. Not me and Joey. Or Joey and Dave.

And that's not even the best part. The best part is, we get to skate on the Leafs' ice before the game.

* * *
Yes, Gentle Reader, I will finish this story, and tell you about that other guy and that other hockey game. Next week. But first, read about Sass's Margaritaville weekend.

Only Heaven Knows [part I]

"I think I want to be married with Luciano," Angela told me over dinner last week. She was moving back to Italy the next day, and I was helping her pack her winter clothes, purse collection, books, photo albums, and bottles of oil (Did I mention she's Italian?) to store in a locker down in the parking garage while she's gone. She's renting her townhouse out, furnished, "executive style" which means she can command 50% more than if it were unfurnished. Plus, the tenants get maid service.

Angela is a Foreigner. But her intentions are good and her heart's in the right place.

"He's birthday is in November. He's gonna be 29."

Angela is 41. Luciano told his mother she was 36.

"Do you think he's too young for me?" Angela asked.

I am so not the person to ask that question.

"I don'd know why he toll her my age. Why not just say, she's older?"

I pointedly avoid offering any advice on the subject. Angela knows about Jack. She knows about the X. She knows about more than I've told you about, Gentle Reader.

She knows better than to ask the inmates for the keys to the asylum.

Angela was out of town all summer, in San Francisco, on what she calls a "course," but what I call a four month inculcation program with the cult. When she left in April she hadn't finished packing what needed to be put in storage before it was time to leave for the airport. So I had to do it after she left. She didn't have the locker then, either, so ten boxes of Angela's stuff spent the summer in my bathtub.

The one in the spare room. Not the one I use.

The reason I didn't mind this imposition was twofold: she gave me her printer, and Boz helped me carry the boxes.

"Does Boz know you're leaving?" I ask, as Angela pours me another glass of wine.

"No, I haven't seen him. I don't know where's his number."

"He'll be hurt if he doesn't get to say goodbye to Leo and Daphne before they leave to become Italian cats."

The first time I'd looked after Angela's cats, while she was away on one of her cult courses, Boz had bumped into me coming out of her place, and truly did look hurt that she'd asked me to look after Leo and Daphne, instead of him.

"Um... Angela...You seem to know what's going on with people. Do you know, um, well." I take a deep breath. "Tammi's not coming back, is she?"

Tammi is the wife I told you about here.

Angela looks down at the floor and shakes her head slowly. She's like The Empath on Star Trek; she feels so for others. For a moment I thought Tammi might have died.

"Tammi's gone," she says.

I say nothing, hoping she'll say more.

"She got fed up wid him," Angela continues. "Because he doesn't work. She made him an ultimum? How you say?"

"Ultimatum?"

"Yes, she made him an ultimatum."

"He told me last spring that she was out east with her parents. He said something about some trouble the parents were having; I think the father had just retired, and there were some financial troubles, and they moved to Newfoundland, and that Tammi went with them to help them get settled."

He made it sound like it was a temporary situation, but in my experience when the wife moves back in with the parents it's never a good thing.

"That's when she leave him," says Angela, simply. "She come here and ask me to go there with her, in case he comes home while she's there."

"I didn't realize you knew her that well," I say.

I'd only ever had one conversation with Tammi. I'd knocked at Boz's door once, because I was next door at Magda's, to ask if he could watch Max later that day. Tammi answered the door and gave me a look like the one us non-Mormons use on the Mormons when they come 'round asking if we've heard the Lord's message. I wasn't sure whether she knew who I was, or whether, perhaps, she thought I had designs on her husband (I didn't. Not then.). When I inquired whether Boz was in she said, too curtly, "No," and moved to close the door on me, but before she could, I added, "Do you know if he'll be in this afternoon?" This time, her look seemed to say, "How the hell would I know?"

If I hadn't known they were married, I would have thought they were roommates — roommates who didn't like each other very much.

"Why? Do you like Boz?" Angela is asking me.

What are we, in high school?

"I've always liked Boz, but, you know, he was married."

"Well, he's not married anymore. All I know is, it's finish with Tammi."

"Do you still talk to her?" I ask.

"Yes, on email sometimes. She's finish with him."

Then Angela tells me more about Boz and Tammi than I really want to know. Than I think I should know.

"There were money problems," Angela is saying. "He was keeping secrets from her. She doesn't know about his money."

"What do you mean? Like, where it's coming from?"

"Yes."

"But he doesn't work, right?"

"Exactly."

I say nothing, pondering the good news/bad news situation.

"Tammi ask me once if I know you," says Angela.

"Me? You mean she said my name?" I didn't think she knew who I was.

"She ask me if I know the tall woman who walks the dogs."

That'd be me all right.

"She was worry maybe Boz is having an affair."

If only real life were as interesting as our imaginations.

I tell Angela about the hockey game. That I asked Boz to go to the Marlies game, but he couldn't go because of his brother coming in from out of town; how I'd mentioned that I also had tickets for an upcoming Leafs game, and did he like hockey; how he'd said maybe, but then mumbled what I thought was, "You don't want to go with me."

I tell her I don't know how to ask a man out on a date. That I don't want to ask a man out on a date. That this is just a hockey game, no big deal, we're neighbours, after all. It's not a date.

Right?

I ask her, should I ask him again?

The cult has trained Angela to be a Life Coach, you see.

"Ask him," she says, and she smiles.

* * *
To be continued in Part II.