Cold As Ice [redux]

Before I left Toronto I spent weeks scavenging empty boxes from wherever I could find them. I found this one in the garbage room of my condo complex.



Don't ask me what it means; I have no idea. And neither did Pinky.

Cold As Ice

It's cold here, at night, and I miss summer in Toronto.

Americans tend to think that all of Canada is colder than all of America. Except for my new friend and colleague, Scotty, who's from Wisconsin. He knows. Tracy understands, too. There are places in the United States that are farther north, and much colder, than places in Canada.

Last night was the first time I slept through the night, without waking up shivering.

I'd been sleeping on the Aerobed, which is quite comfy, but with bedding borrowed from Scotty. He showed up with a care package my first afternoon. It contained a pillow, sheets and pillowcases, a few dishes, some microwave popcorn, tea bags (I didn't have the heart to tell him I only drink tea when I have a cold), a small kettle, and some towels. And a very nice but quite thin quilt.

And because I'd been literally living out of a suitcase, I was limited in my options of clothing to wear to bed.

You see, I thought it would be hot here, like it is back home. So I'd only packed my summer sleepwear — Calvin Klein men's boxers, and t-shirts. Not my long flannel jammies. I didn't even have a pair of sweatpants.

I did, however, have a vacuum cleaner. My new friend and landlord, Monica, gave it to me not half an hour after I landed at my new apartment with only a suitcase and Pinky. I told her that we'd be camping out until the movers arrived with my things, but that even when they did, I wouldn't have many things, having left most of them behind in my condo, which I've rented out furnished. I had to leave my vacuum cleaner for the tenants.

"Oh, I've got a vacuum cleaner you can have," she exclaimed. "One of the tenants that moved out last month left it behind. I don't know how good it is, but you can have it if you want it."

"If it sucks, I'll take it," I replied. I have a cat; I vacuum a lot.

"Oh! And Tom Brady, in 614, has a couch he wants to sell. Do you want me to tell him to call you?"

"Sure," I replied. I liked Monica already. She's about my age, has black hair, and looks a little like Courtney Cox.

I finished signing the papers, then Jack and I unloaded the Pinky accoutrements and the Aerobed from Beauty. I walked him back to his car, because he had to head back to The City, and by the time I returned to my apartment there was a sticky note on my door, with Tom Brady's phone number.

I'll be getting Tom's couch in about two weeks, as soon as his new one is delivered. In the mean time, I'm fine sitting on my mother's orange chair, now that the movers have brought my things and I've made a clearing of boxes around it.

And though I'm sleeping on my futon on the floor until I get around to buying bedroom furniture, I have my sheep's wool mattress cover and my Oma's Federbett, and it can snow tonight, for all I care.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass is haunted by her dead mother. And later, she finds another way to warm up, when Jack takes her to the beach.

Nothing but a pencil neck geek

This is the coffee room at Sixty South Street, my apartment building, and I'm on my third café-au-lait this morning, waiting for the moving truck to arrive.

That's it on the counter, beside my new PowerBook G4, just in front of the espresso machine. Jack gave it to me.

The Mac, that is, not the espresso machine.

It's a hand-me-down but I'm thrilled. Getting electronics hand-me-downs from Jack is like getting hand-me-down clothes from your sister who works at Donna Karan.

Last night, in my empty apartment, I walked from window to window, holding the G4 up in the air, scanning for available wireless networks. I gave up when my arms got too tired, and played with my cell phone instead. Who knew I had voice mail and text messaging? (It's just a cheap-ass pre-paid phone; I bought it to go apartment hunting with, back in June. I wonder if Jack has a pink Razr to hand me down?) Until last night, I was a text virgin.

Today, I am a full-fledged geek. There's a wireless access point in the coffee room.

At my farewell party, Joey sang a song called Pencil Neck Geek, and introduced it by saying, "Sass, when you get to San Jose these are all the people you'll be working with." Turns out he was right.

I had a meetup with the area bloggers last night. Been here less than a week and my people have already found me. Karaoke can't be far behind, can it?

* * *
It's cold as ice in Sass's apartment, but at least she has a vaccuum cleaner.

I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose [part V - fin]

Continued from part IV.

Gordon Biersch is my new Banknote. It's not an inexpensive place to hang out, but since I don't have my car here, my regular monthly expenses have lowered, by that much at least, so in this manner I can justify the expense.

Besides, they have furniture here.

I remember the first time I sat here, on the patio at Gordon Biersch. It was February, 1995 and the Internet World trade show was being held here in San Jose. In later years, it moved to L.A., but for now, the search engine company I used to work for sent us here, and put us up at the Fairmont.

Man, those were the days.

Tonight will be my sixth night sleeping on the floor of my virtually empty apartment, on the Aerobed Jack bought for me the day I arrived. With Pinky curled up at my side.

You see, the moving truck hasn't arrived yet. It's not their fault; it's circumstance, and mine. They drove my load to Calgary right away, but then they had to await my official, legal entry into the United States as an alien before they could drive my possessions across the border. By the time I faxed them my papers their office was closed, and then another day passed without me being aware that the fax hadn't gone through, and then it was the weekend, and I'd missed the truck destined for Salt Lake City and parts south.

So I'm still waiting for my furniture to arrive.

Not that I have much, anyway. I divested myself of most of it before I left Toronto. I sold my dining room table and my hideous cheerywood bedroom set — not because I'd slept on it with X for 17 years, though that was part of the reason; but because when I'd bought it I'd been a little girl who'd read Wuthering Heights too many times, and who dreamed of a four-poster bed.

I'm not that little girl any longer.

When the movers arrive tomorrow, I'll swap the Aerobed for my futon, the one that Markus and Amy would sleep on when they came to Toronto to watch a hockey game.

"I hope you get the job," Markus told me back in April, "so we can come visit you in San Francisco."

"It's San Jose," I replied, "but close enough."

"I've always wanted to go to San Francisco!" exclaimed Amy. She's American, from North Dakota. My cousin Cinderella is married to an American, too.

Funny how life turns out.

Thus ends the story that began with Postmodern Sass telling the story of how she returned to San Jose, after accepting a job there, to find an apartment. A story which ended with her returning again. This time for good. In the next story, Sass finds her people in San Jose.

Just Go Away

"You're a lawyer, aren't you?" asked the security guard, a woman about my age, as she checked me through security inside the San Jose Federal Building.

Goodness, no! Do I have fangs?

"No," I laughed. "I'm a professor." I couldn't imagine how she would have guessed either of those professions, though, since on this day I was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and wearing running shoes on account of all the running around I'd been doing. On account of the fact that I don't have my car.

I'm a professor. I'm not used to saying that. It doesn't sound true. But it is, now.

At the end of my first full day as a resident of California, I had acquired an employee number, an I.D. card — nice photo; sunburned nose — and an office. I don't have keys to my office yet, nor a phone, but I have email, and that's much more important. There was mail in my mailbox, both at my new apartment and in the faculty office. And I got whistled at on the street. Twice.

All in all, a successful and productive day. Except that I don't have a social security number, which is the reason for my mission to the Federal Building.

Inside, I take a number and a seat in the waiting room. There are 34 other people there. I'm no fool; we have federal buildings at home, too, we just don't call them that. So I take out my notebook and write this story.

Americans are loud.

If you talk much louder you could get an award
From the federal communications board
—Blondie

There's a young man sitting in the row of chairs perpendicular to mine, and a little to my left. He's black, and has black hair pulled into what I can only describe as a low bun — like Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies. I'm sure this is not the look he was after. I'm equally sure he doesn't know who Granny is. He looks to be about 17 years old.

And he's rude. He's slouched in his chair, legs spread wide and away from him, like he was sitting on his divan watching a basketball game. As I watch him, he pulls a handful of candies out of his pocket, stuffs them in his mouth, and chews loudly, open-mouthedly.

Before he's quite done chewing, he calls to the security guard, who is stationed clear on the other side of the room, "Excuse me!"

The security guard walks over to the young man, but the young man doesn't wait until he gets there before he asks his question. "Can you tell me what number they're at?"

The tickets are distributed according to your situation. Numbers beginning with A are for change requests; Bs are for new issues, and Cs are for everything else. I have ticket number B213. The young man has B225.

They're serving B209, as is clearly indicated on the LED screen on the wall. Right beside where the young man is sitting.

The security guard points this out to him. He replies, "I know," as if that explains why he would ask, if he already knows. I've been sittting here since B199, and it's been over an hour. The young man came in about fifteen minutes ago. He makes some noises of frustration, then pulls a set of headphones out of his bag and straps them on. So he has no chance of hearing his number when it's called.

The woman beside me is Mexican, and we share a brief and quiet rolling of the eyes moment, as commentary on the young man's behaviour. She has her daughter beside her, and her daughter's birth certificate in her hand.

"See her name," she says to me, and holds the certificate so that I may see it clearly. "It says Barrayo, with a Y. Marissa Barrayo Valdez. That's her name. But when they make her social security card, they print a W instead of a Y."

"It never ceases to amaze me how that happens," I tell her. "I have a difficult to spell family name, too, but I know how to spell it, so I know that when I fill out forms, I spelled it correctly. But official paperwork still comes back to me with it spelled wrong."

"I'm from Mexico but she was born here, in Santa Clara County," continues Mrs. Barrayo. "But now they say she can't register at high school by her real name unless it matches on her social." She moves her head first to the left, then to the right, so as to include Marissa in our conversation. The girl nods my way and smiles. She's quiet, and polite.

"Why are you here?" Mrs. Barrayo asks.

No Canadian would ever ask so foward a question of a total stranger in these surroundings, but I don't mind. I sense a good story.

"I just moved here, yesterday, so I'm here to get a social security card. You're not a real person in this country until you have one, I've learned."

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Toronto," I reply.

"That's in Canada?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Don't you have social security down there?"

"Well, no, it's a different country."

She seems surprised at this. Not at the idea that Canada is a different country, but that we wouldn't have all the same administrative minutae as America. I've learned to expect this attitude from home-grown Americans, but she's an import.

"Well, do you have social security numbers in Mexico?" I ask, not unkindly.

"No," she replies. "It's Mexico. We have something else there for I.D. numbers."

Americans can be loud, but they can also be geeks, and Sass loves geeks. The social security system is a mystery to Sass, but that's nothing compared to the American health care system. And ten weeks later, Sass is still waiting for her social security card.

I'm goin' back someday, come what may

In eight hours I'm getting on a plane and flying three thousand miles away from my country, my home, and everyone I know and love (bar one), and if one more person asks me if I'm excited I'm going to deck them.

Wake Me When It's Over

I'm not looking forward to flying to San Francisco Thursday morning with Pinky in his tiny black kitty bag, and neither is he, so at the suggestion of the vet I've just come from the drugstore with a bottle of Baby Gravol and a syringe with which to shoot it down his little throat.

He was not impressed with the test run, but it seems to be working.

Then again, who can tell with cats? They sleep all day, anyway.

Somewhere, Over The Rainbow

This picture is for you, Gentle Reader, because you've expressed curiosity about my karaoke buddies — especially The Viking.



You first met my three favourite guys here, in November 2004. Back then I referred to them only as initials. Now, I love them all and I'm going to miss them terribly when I move to California. So this is a greatest karaoke hits post, especially for them.

Sparky is my Scarecrow: sometimes, he acts like he has no brains, especially when he's been drinking, but he can belt out a song like the best Jim Nabors impersonator you ever saw.

Mo is my Tin Man: he's cool and suave, but I've learned it helps to carry an oil can in my basket. He's the one who reconciled us when Sparky and I had a spat, and he let me get him all rusty when The Viking rejected me.

Goldilocks is my Cowardly Lion, not because he's cowardly but because of his lion's mane. At my farewell party he let me mess up his hair whenever I wanted to, and never complained once — like I said before, I suspect he secretly likes it — and he sang "Jackson" with me. Even dressed like the Man in Black for the occasion. You should have seen his shoes! It's like I told Jenny: Goldilocks, I'm going to miss you most of all.

My Dingaling [redux]

Zee had a goodbye present for me, a gorgeous black and white photo of her Weimaraner, Gracie, and so we went to The Banknote. Lulu was there, as usual, and she tells us she has a new cell phone.

"Again?" I ask.

"Just tell me your number. I lost everyone's, and now when people call me I don't answer because I don't know who they are."

"Again, I must ask: again?"

She sighs.

This time, she explains, it was lost. Well, stolen, at the boozecan.

"So you know how there are co-ed washrooms, and half of them don't even have doors to the stall? There's this guy trying to use his phone, swearing at it, and me, being the nice person that I am, offer to let him use mine. I mean, we're in a bathroom, where's he going to go, right?"

"Can you see where this is going?" I ask Zee.

"The next thing I know, he's disappeared with it! I go running to the front, and ask the bouncer where he went, but no one knows. So, gone. Poof. There goes my phone. By now someone's talking to their great aunt in Beijing on my phone," sighs Lulu.

She's only had this phone for five months. Her last one fell into the toilet.

"Tell Zee about the last time," I suggest, and so she begins:

"My bathroom is my office."

Zee looks puzzled, but patient. I had told her about Lulu's stories. She knew to be wary, and duck if necessary.

"I have one of those long counter tops, the kind that goes right over the top of the toilet, you know? And there's stuff all over it. Makeup, papers. I don't have a desk," she explains. "You know those little reverse-divots on that back of your phone? Well, they sure do slide easily. My phone was on vibrate and by the time I got to it to answer it... well, thank goodness I had just scrubbed the toilet the day before, so it wasn't too gross to reach in and pull it out."

We are laughing, and that's OK, because Lulu tells stories to make you laugh.

"I put it on the counter, on a towel, and dried it with my hairdryer a little, then let it sit to see what would happen, and what happened was, it turns itself on and starts randomly calling people in my address book! It's calling The Banknote at 8:00 in the morning! It's calling England! Stop, stop! Fuck; stop it!!"

Zee is ducking now.

"So I took the battery out."

Lulu's got a new boyfriend, who looks just like Gary Sinise, but I'll tell you about him later. I'm supposed to be here to console Zee, who's broken up with Darryl again.

* * *
Next on Postmodern Sass: a photo of Sass and her karaoke buddies.

I'm about to put the hammer down

When the truck pulled up in front of the storage place on Richmond Street, where such household belongings as are making the trip west with me have been stored for the past six weeks, I couldn't help but wonder:

Do you think it'll be big enough?

"It's 80 feet long," Sean, the head mover, informed me.

Too long to be backed into the second loading bay without blocking all three lanes of one-way Richmond Street. The main loading bay, the one specifically designed to accomodate an 80 foot trailer, was blocked. A city maintenance worker was re-paving the sidewalk right in front of it.

Figures.

I'd been holding a spot for them with my car. No point now. I lit a cigarette. Encouraged, so did Sean. And Jake, and Roscoe, the other two movers — it was a three-man job, my job, because it was mostly boxes. The three of them considered their options.

I know about how movers work because all through university X and his friends, who were also my friends, but who are no longer, worked for a moving company. The stories I could tell you, let me tell you. But later; right now this here's my moving story.

The decision was made to request permission from the manager of the parking lot beside the storage building to park the truck there. Permission was granted, and, after the neatest three point turnaround I've ever seen executed, the truck was parked, parallel to the storage building, nose resting against Richmond Street, but on the far side of the parking lot. It was the only way, so as not to block their traffic.

And so it was that my orange chair, my yellow and purple floor lamps, my bicycle, and my 100 boxes of books, records, and clothes (mostly boots), took the following route from my third floor locker to the truck:

1. From locker #3513 to freight elevator


2. Down to mezzanine level in freight elevator


3. Moved across to other side of mezzanine, to be out of the way of the elevator (this is the spot at which they should have been able to step directly into the back of the truck)


4. Repeat steps 1-3 for second elevator full of stuff


5. Move everything back to other side of mezzanine, into small lift (to go down to street level)


6. Roll out onto sidewalk, along sidewalk to parking lot, and across parking lot to back of truck


7. Push up ramp onto truck

I tipped them $20 each. Do you think that was enough?

In the next story, Postmodern Sass returns to The Banknote. This time, with two characters you've met, Gentle Reader, but who have not met one another.

This is our lives on holiday

Mustang Sally [redux]

"What I would do, is find myself a junked Corrado down there in California, peel off the VIN and stick it on your car. You only need the one on the dash," suggested Joe, my secondary mechanic, the one who does the emissions test that the Ontario government requires every two years. Hans, my primary mechanic, doesn't have the testing machine at his garage.

Two months ago, when I first made the decision to move to California, I asked everyone I could think of who might know, what I'd need to do to be able to take my car with me. I ignored those who advised me to get rid of it; that it wasn't worth it. You see, in my family we are irrationally emotionally attached to our cars. My friend Gilbert understands. Josh understood. So does Jack. But most people don't.

I couldn't get a straight answer from any official body. And so when Jack said, "Just bring it here, and we'll figure it out when you get here. I'll help you," I decided that's just exactly what I would do.

I didn't think about it again until last week, when I called the moving company to make the final arrangements for my move. I had discussed the car with them weeks ago, and they said they would be putting it on the truck, right along with my orange velour chair, my purple and yellow floor lamps, and my boxes full of boots. That's when they told me I'd need to get a letter of compliance from the manufacturer of the car. They made it sound like such a simple thing: "Just call Volkswagen Canada. They'll know what it is."

They knew what it is, that's true. But they couldn't give me one for my car. "I can see here, by the zero in the fifth position of your VIN number," said the extremely unhelpful customer service representative at Volkswagen North America, somewhere in Michigan, "that your car is equipped only with active restraint systems. You require passive restraint systems, such as air bags or ABS brakes."

"My car has ABS brakes," I offered. "Can you be more specific? That is, can you tell me from looking at the VIN number exactly what modifications I'd need to make to my car in order for it to conform to U.S. standards?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't have that information."

"Who does?"

"I don't know. All I know is, we would be unable at this time to issue a letter of conformity for this vehicle."

I tried to be polite when I hung up on him.

I called my local Volkswagen dealer to beg for their assistance as an official-type Volkwagen entity. "The question that I need answered is, assuming I can make whatever modifications are necessary to my car, how do I then go about getting that letter?"

The answer came half an hour later. I didn't like it, but at least it was an answer, and the woman at the dealer sounded certain of what she was telling me: "Unfortunately, if the car doesn't conform you can't ever get that letter from the manufacturer. The only way to get your car into the U.S. legally is to get a registered importer to handle it for you."

Emphasis on the word legally.

"But how can that be?" asked my cousin Markus, when I told him the story. "Don't tell me all the Corrados that are in the U.S. had to go and get airbags installed?"

"No, I don't think so. They're OK, because they were already there when the regulation was established. But you can't import a car without airbags."

"And it would cost a fortune to install airbags in your car, right?"

"Worse. They can't be installed at all. There's nowhere to put them."

Markus called his friend who works at the border — the town where I grew up, Beamsville, is only twenty miles or so from it; we learned to smuggle at a very early age.

"My friend says your problem is, you're trying to take it in legally. He says just drive it across the border, tell them you're going for a visit, and then have it shipped from there. Or drive it to California. And just keep your Ontario plates on it."

"Hmn. Well, while I'm not against alternative (to legal, that is) methods, the thing is, eventually that'd catch up to me. Can I insure a car with Ontario plates? Too many ifs... and if I get it down there, and then find out there's a larger problem, then I'm fucked."

Where Markus and I grew up, everyone goes "over the river" to the U.S. We used to go over just to drink, back when their drinking age was lower than ours. Now it's the other way around; American kids come to Canada to drink. But in California, home is not simply over the river.

I called the mover to see if he had any suggestions. "To be honest you're the first person I know who's ever tried to do this," he said. "Most people just sell their car here and buy a new one down there."

Easy for you to say. See, this car may not be much to you but I love her; she's my Baby. And, more importantly, she's paid for. I'm about to become a state employee. I'll be lucky to be able to afford to buy gas, never mind a new car.

"I can give you the number of the guy who works at the border in Blaine, Washington. It's where we cross all the time," said the mover, in response to my sigh of desperation. "It's a small station, and he's the only guy there. He'll be able to tell you for sure what you need to do if you want to get your car across."

So I called Blaine, and indeed he was helpful: "If you don't have that letter, the car would be turned back, so there's no way it can come in on the truck with your other items," Blaine explained. "I've had to turn back a lot of cars because people showed up without that letter. At least you were smart enough to investigate this before you shipped it. But I have to tell you, at this point, most people would just give up. It's not going to be worth the effort."

I hate to admit defeat. I will go to extreme, even outright ridiculous lengths to get done what I want to do.

I will not sell my car. Not yet.

I'm going to leave it with Markus until I come home at Christmastime. And then we'll see.

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass hugs Kickass Karaoke Carson goodbye.

Blue Moon

I hadn't been back to the town where I lived for seven years with X, the town where I first met Jack, in four years, but I remembered the way to the Blue Moon. It's an old German joint out on one of the surrounding rural highways, just one of many places in that part of the province where one can find pork hocks and, if one is really lucky, Laugenwecken. Today, we weren't that lucky, but the beer was fine and cold. We'd been cruising around town in the sweltering heat in Jack's mother's convertible.

Jack had just returned from a week spent up north with his father and brother, fishing. I've heard much about both of them but have never met either one. Nor his mother. Nor anyone else in his family.

"Where shall we go next?" asked Jack.

"How about your father's house?" I suggested, since he gave me the opening, but I knew what the reply would be. Jack's father played in a band in the 1960s, and still has his Fender Stratocaster. I've waited 15 years to meet him, and I'll have to wait a little longer.

"No."

"What about your brother?"

Jack considered for a moment, then said, "Sure."

Just when I think I've got him figured out.

Jack turned the convertible around and headed back to the city. "They do know about you, you know," he said, "In general terms, that is."

"Oh?" I was surprised at this. "How general?"

"They know that you're a tall redhead named Sass, and that you're moving to California."

"That's pretty general," I said, but secretly I was thrilled that he'd told them anything at all about me. Jack is a fiercely private man.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of a low-lying building. "This is where Jason works," explained Jack. "He called me earlier today and said he was having trouble with his laptop. I'm going to take it back to my mother's place and have a look at it."

Jason was exactly as I'd imagined him, and nothing like Jack. Not all siblings resemble one another, and Jack and Jason are a shining example of this. It's not that they look that different: they are both tall, handsome, and blue-eyed with sandy light brown hair. It's just that you wouldn't guess they were brothers.

We chatted about California, and I wondered whether Jack hadn't told Jason more about me than he let on. Jason hadn't known we were coming, yet he didn't seem the least bit surprised to be meeting me. I, on the other hand, couldn't stop grinning as I listened to their avuncular repartee.

Nor when we got back into the car.

"I'm going to have to take the computer back to my mom's place," said Jack. A convertible with the top down, in 44 degree heat, is no place for electronics.

I'd been to the house where Jack's mother and her second husband live once before, ten years ago when Jack and I worked together. It's a sixties style bungalow, with a fabulous back patio, the only place we're allowed to smoke. Jack took a seat on one of the rattan chairs and lit a cigarette with his Zippo. The expression on his face told me something was bothering him, and so I replayed the last hour in my mind, searching for the point at which his mood had turned.

He'd been his usual, jovial self with his brother, and when we got back into the car... let's see... he told me he was planning to meet Peter later, for some guy's night out drinking and cavorting. I asked whether I might join them for a beer — just one, and then I'd head back to Toronto, I promise. Jack had agreed and then...

Yes, that was it. He'd hardly spoken since then.

"Jack, something's bothering you. Is it me? Would you prefer it if I went back to the city?"

"Would you mind?" he asked, apologetically.

"Of course not," I said. Then he moved to the sofa where I was sitting, and kissed me. "I know you don't like to believe this, but I know you pretty well."

"You're always going to want more from me than I can give you," he said, and his eyes were sad. "That's gotta suck."

"Let's have one more cigarette, then I'll go, OK?"

"OK," he agreed. And then, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the thunder clouds, he was back to his old self. It was almost an hour before he walked me out to my car.

Jack opened my car door for me, as he always does, but instead of getting in I asked him a question.

"Jack, do you think my father loves me?"

He was taken aback by the question, not because it demanded an obvious answer — he's met my father, and he knows the answer is far from obvious — but simply because of the unexpectedness of it.

He took a moment to think about his answer, and then he said, "Yes."

"Why? A lot of people, many of my relatives included, wouldn't think so."

"Because I saw the look on his face when he watched you dance."

"There you go," I said, and smiled.

"What, you mean because they're our parents, they love us no matter what?"

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

Instead of answering, I kissed him goodbye, and got into my car.

"Think about it."

In the next story, Postmodern Sass learns she can't take her car to California. At least, not yet. The farewell party happens Sunday night at The Rivoli, goes until closing, and Sass and Carson sing the final number: Green Day's "Holiday." The moving truck arrives Thursday, and Zee breaks up with her boyfriend again.