Iko Iko [part i]

The reason I haven't yet told you about my date, Gentle Reader, is that I have to make some editorial decisions first. You see, the person — ok, man — to whom I refer does not fit easily into the three categories of characters I have defined and, so far, have adhered to. To wit:

Category 1: People I'll never meet again, like Tommy and Orlicia and Phil. I can write about them with impugnity.

Category 2: Real people who blog under their real names, like Maria and Tim and Joey, and real people who sometimes read my blog, like my cousin Markus and my karaoke buddies. I am careful what I write about them, because they recognize what's true and what's fabricated, so there is a line I try not to cross.

Category 3: Real people like Angela and Boz and Zee who know the real Sass but who have no idea who Postmodern Sass is, and are about as likely to find out as I am to live happily ever after with Jack, which is to say that it's theoretically possible, in a splitting-the-atom sort of way, but the thought of it doesn't disturb my sleep.

The person causing my conundrum definitely doesn't fit into Category 1. He meets the criteria of Category 2, but the problem there is, if I treat him, bloggitorily speaking, the same way I treat the others in Category 2, I'd be curtailing my future options. And Category 3 is right out because, well, he's one of my readers.

Therefore, in the true spirit of reflexive, ironic postmodernism, I'm gonna need to reflect on it a while, all the while consciously cognizant of the fact that he's reading these words. And, very likely thinking to himself, "What? Was that a date? I didn't think that was a date!"

So instead I'll tell you about my it-wasn't-a-date-either with Kapp on Mardi Gras.

To be continued in part ii. The actual Story of the Was-It-A-Date won't be told until Sophia drags it out of me at Tequilacon in Portland.

Yes Sir, That's My Baby

Philadelphia Freedom

One night about a month ago I was talking on the phone to Jack and he said, apropos of nothing, "I haven't been on a date in years."

"Thanks a lot," I replied.

That anecdote says just about all there is to say about our relationship. Or, at least, all there is that I'm going to say to you, Gentle Reader.

He'd been mentioning bagels a lot lately, too, and I don't mean the kind that come with cream cheese and lox. I mean the kind that come with toenail polish and greed, and that have names like Lauren.

I know Jack well enough to know why he does this. It happens periodically, and always when things seem to be going well between us. He does it when he feels we're getting too close, and it's his way of slapping me down, metaphorically. Of putting me in my place, you might say. and it works, because it makes me want to tear his head off and shove it down the hole in his neck which I don't do, because I remember we're not in highschool any longer, and besides, I don't want to be that girl. You know the one. The clingy, jealous, crazy bitch.

So I say nothing. Pretend I didn't hear. Wait for him to mention something that allows for a smooth segue into a more agreeable topic, like what's happening on 24.

This approach works every time, except that last time. We talked for over an hour, during which time I counted three bagel references. He was on a roll.

So I let him talk, and he told me a story about... I don't remember, anymore, and it wasn't important, really; it was just a tale of something that had happened at work, or at Big Ass American Software Company's annual sales kickoff that he'd attended the week before; nothing unusual, nothing out of the ordinary, until he uttered the following sentence mid-story: "You know what I mean, don't you, Catherine?" and then it was as though time had stopped, and his words hung above both our heads, a hundred miles apart, like a lead zeppelin that had run out of hydrogen.

Oh yes, he apologized. He's made a point of apologizing every time we've talked since then. Profusely. Until I told him to please stop apologizing, because I really didn't need to be reminded again and again of the unfortunate slip of the tongue, and to wonder continually what prompted it, and no, he has never slipped like that before, not in the sixteen years I've known Jack, and yes, I do know who Catherine is and no, it's not this one and no, I'm not going to tell you about her, not now, not ever.

He stopped apologizing, then, and instead offered an olive branch. Last week he called and told me about the car show that would be happening in the City that weekend, and asked if I wanted to come up on Saturday, and I said oh, sorry, I'd like to, but actually, well, I'm already planning to come up there for something else, and even though it is unlike me to be deliberately vague, and even less like him to pry, he asked, for what? So I told him.

"I have a date."

Yes, I'll get around to it, Gentle Reader, but first I have to tell you what happened on Mardi Gras.

My Imagination

Continued from Girls who are boys.

We walked from the library, Kapp and I, because neither one of us has a car. This was only the second of many personal details it turns out we have in common. I learned quite a bit about him over the course of the evening, and such facts as I did not learn, I simply made up. It's more fun that way.

The Poor House Bistro is within cat-swinging distance of the train station; I'm surprised I hadn't noticed it before. I've become quite familiar with the public transit routes to the City, and I go up there as often as I'm invited. Yes, I know, Gentle Reader, it's a big city and I don't need to be invited to visit it, but I do, anyway. I'm going there tomorrow, as a matter of fact, but that's another story.

Then again, it looks like a little house.

The Poor House Bistro, I mean, not San Francisco.

"Those biologists really know how to party," Kapp was saying. We were meeting a baker's dozen of other professors there, most of them members of his freshman year cohort, which had been four years earlier. I was looking forward to meeting them. It's hard to meet people when you work at a university.

I know that must sound strange, and it's not entirely accurate. I meet lots of people there, it's just that they're either 20-somethings, or they're in their sixties and married. The former may know how to party, but you won't find me partying with them, and the latter are too busy running home to go to sleep.

Kapp claimed us the big table right in front of where the band was setting up. He'd come mainly because he was a fan of this blues guitarist. He took off his jacket and hung it on the seat beside him, to save it for the others. I put my purse on the chair at the end of the table.

"No one messes with a woman's purse," I said.

Kapp went to the bar to get us a couple of beers. He drinks beer, not wine, and he's not even Canadian. I was liking him more and more.

We ordered po'boys and chatted between bites and drips of mayonnaise and pickle juice. Kapp was telling me about a TV program, and asked whether I'd seen it, and I had to make a confession:

"I don't have a TV," I confessed.

"Oh yeah? Well, I don't have a cell phone!" Kapp smiled.

"Oh yeah? Well, I don't have a home phone, I only have a cell phone. Trump!"

"I don't have a car."

"Me neither. We've covered that already."

"Tie?"

"Cheers."

"To clarify, lest you think I'm one of those weirdo fanatics who insists they don't watch TV, I fully intend to have one, and I hope it's soon. It's just that when I moved here I didn't bring much besides my books and clothes. And my records."

"How many records do you have?" Kapp asked.

"About this many," I replied, holding my hands three feet apart, "Times two shelves."

"I've got about ten times that many," said Kapp. "It's such a pain to move them, I've been avoiding moving."

"I know what you mean. It was so much easier when we could use milk cases and our friends all helped us move in exchange for beer and pizza."

The band was getting ready to begin. The trumpet player stood right at the end of our table, tuning up my favourite instrument. I believe I was conceived to Herb Alpert, and the emotional attachment to the trumpet has never left me.

Kapp got us another round and we settled in to watch. Sitting this close to the stage, you can't talk, and that suited us both fine.

The other professors arrived during the first set, and we spoke in sign language to each other: they indicated they were going to the back, because it was too loud up here, and we replied that we wanted to be up front, and would come back to visit with them after the set.

The singer was singing "My Imagination," and we really did have to use ours to remind ourselves where we were. Downtown San Jose. In a New Orleans style bar. And dancing on the seven square inches of floor in front of the band were a middle aged woman with a bad dye job, and an enormous man in a Stetson. Dancing badly, I might add, and dancing inappropriately. That is, they were trying to do the jitterbug, and they had all the rhythm of a pair of hippopotamuses sunning themselves along the muddy banks of the Nile. Or wherever it is that hippopotamuses sun themselves.

"That's just wrong on so many levels," I said to Kapp. And then I admitted to him that I would be going outside for a cigarette. He can think less of me if he likes; we're not on a date.

I'd been outside for only a minute when Bad Hair and Stetson came out onto the sidewalk, and joined a small group of their friends, all of whom looked like they just came from a country and western bar.

"Hey, it's Mardi Gras next week," one of them said, and another replied, "Even better, it's NASCAR!"

I was doubled over trying not to laugh at them, and so I didn't notice that Kapp was standing beside me, with his beer in one hand and mine in the other.

Next, Postmodern Sass's imagination comes in handy when she takes the train to San Francisco to meet a man for what may (or may not) be a blind date. And no amount of imagination could have prepared her for Mardi Gras in San Jose.

Drive

One of the things I love about California is that there are always flowers blooming. Back home, we don't see cherry blossoms until May, but these were trimming the parking lot of the San Jose DMV office yesterday:

I studied The California Drivers Handbook as I rode the #82 bus to the DMV. Irony appreciated, Gentle Reader. The handbook sounds like it was written by Arnold Schwartzenegger, in terms of both style and theme. To wit:

"The maximum speed limit on most California highways is 65 mph. You may drive 70 mph where posted. Unless otherwise posted, the maximum speed limit is 55 mph."

and,

"THINGS YOU MUST NOT DO:
Do not shoot firearms on a highway or at traffic signs."

and, my favourite,

"Prevent a potentially violent incident by avoiding eye contact with an angry driver."

A short form to fill out, one very bad photo, and $27 dollars later, and I had a temporary driver's license. And then I had to write a test.

I learned to drive when I was 12 years old, and until I moved to California I'd had my own car since I was 16. It's killing me, not having a car here. I feel like I'm missing a limb. I've been driving legally for more than 20 years, and have had only one accident, which happened the same month I got my license. And now I have to take a test, and I feel like I'm 12 again.

Nothing to be done about it. You can't argue with the Governator.

The written test consisted of 36 multiple choice questions. A woman wearing a uniform and a shiny badge, and having a very bad hair day, asked, "You write test?"

"Yes," I replied.

She ordered me to turn off my cell phone, then handed me the paper and shoved me into a cubicle.

Ten minutes later I was standing in line with a herd of teenagers accompanied by their parents, waiting to have my test graded, and feeling like peeing my pants. Another woman with equally bad hair and command of the English language took my paper, and laid it side-by-side with the answer sheet. She ran her pencil down the column, then turned the page over and did the same. Then she did both the front and the back again. She looked puzzled. I wanted to cry.

"You got them all right," she said, finally, in exactly the same tone of voice your grade six teacher used when she suspected you had cheated on the midterm.

I didn't mind being treated like a criminal. I've gotten used to it, what with being an alien and all. Besides, who cares? I passed, and that means I'm about to become of legal age in this state. Finally, I'll be able to buy beer at the 7/11!

But Creepella wasn't finished with me yet. She got out of her chair, took my paper, and went to consult with a man behind the counter. Then she returned and smiled evilly. "You have to take drive test."

"I do?"

"Yes. Because you Canadian."

"But I don't have a car!"

"You have to take drive test," she repeated, which I understood was code for, "Not my problem, let's see you cheat on that one." She pointed across the room to Window 27, above which hung a sign reading, DRIVING TEST APPOINTMENTS, but instead of walking to the window, I went outside and sat under the cherry tree, where I lit a cigarette, and called Jack.

Next, the continuation of happy hour at the Poor House Bistro with Kapp the librarian. Two years ago today, Postmodern Sass learned a valuable lesson about folding. Click here to read about what happened when Sass went for her driving test.

Come On-A My House

I first got to know Norm when he advised me via email on the meaning and use of stemware. This was back when I was shopping for a wedding gift for my friend Sara.

A couple of weeks ago I met the analog Norm, when he was in San Jose on business, and you'll never guess where we went.

OK, well, maybe you will.

It's become something of an inside joke that Friends of Sass who come to San Jose must either (1) take her grocery shopping or (b) help her put together a piece of furniture. Or, if you're really lucky, both.

The tradition was inaugurated by Jack, who picked me up at the airport on the day my alien ship landed from Canada, bought me the Aerobed, then took me to Safeway and even filled out the application for a Safeway club card for me. Next came Tim Bray, who consulted on the arrangement of my stereo, particularly the placement of my huge speakers which I dragged here from Toronto, but who, instead of taking me to Safeway took me to Gordon Biersch for dinner.

Then Blundering American flew all the way from the other sunshine coast, Florida, just to help me put my desk together. And to take me to Safeway.

Kay was here for two weeks in September, during which time we shopped for furniture at Ikea, which she then helped me put together, and from which experience we learned it's best to hold off on the cork-popping until you've figured out how to attach those cupboard doors. Then we went to Safeway.

Norm and I had a wonderful time bar-hopping around downtown San Jose, and, had there been any furniture left in need of putting together, I have no doubt he would have complied with tradition, however, my new sofa arrived only after he'd left, and Pinky was able to help me put it together:


Tonight there's no furniture that needs putting together, and my fridge is full, but since Wendy and Joey are in San Jose for the weekend, maybe I'll take one of my bookshelves apart so they don't feel left out.

Girls who are boys

I was waiting for my new friend Kapp in the lobby of the university library on Friday afternoon when I saw my student, Pat, just outside, walking back and forth and talking on a cell phone.

Hurry up, hurry up, I mentally willed Kapp to come down from his fourth floor office. He's a librarian, and president of the Friday Nighters Club, but right now I needed him because he was a man.

I have a problem, with Pat, you see, that requires a male perspective. I'd been considering asking my colleagues what to do about it; even you, Gentle Reader, but as long as Pat was right outside on the library plaza, talking on that cell phone, it was the perfect opportunity to ask Kapp. He'd be able to see Pat, which would be much more useful than only to hear me describe the situation.

If only he would hurry up!

We were to meet at 5:00. I'd been there since five to, and so had Pat, but still no Kapp.

Finally, at 5:02 the elevator door opened and Kapp stepped out. I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the glass doors, through which I could see Pat walking away from us, toward the intersection.

"I need you to look at a student for me, like right now. I'll explain later."

Pat was at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn.

"See that student there? The tall, thin one talking on the cell phone?"

"Yes..."

"Is it a girl or a boy?"

Kapp considered for a moment. He had a good view of Pat's right side, crossing the street about thirty feet away.

"Well..." he began, "Short hair; no clue there. The shoes could go either way, and the bag is androgynous."

Pat was carrying a canvas tote, the kind you slip over your neck so the strap is on your opposite shoulder.

"The coat has a hood, which would seem to suggest female. It looks like a boy, but it could also be a thin, flat-chested girl."

"I was hoping to get her — er, or him — to talk so you could hear his her its voice."

"Oh! You mean he's your student?"

"Yes."

"And you don't know whether its a boy or a girl?"

"Well, I thought I did. He — it — argh; she was in my class last semester, and I thought she was a girl, judging mostly by the voice and, well, just by the usual way one judges that sort of thing. There wasn't any doubt in my mind until last week. See, she's in my class again this semester, and the students have to work in partners and write a report on each other's consumer behaviour. Her partner's report referred to her as a he. So now I'm confused."

"Maybe it was just a typo."

"That's what I thought when I read the first instance, but it was sustained throughout the report. Then I thought, maybe English is not the first language of the student writing the report, but that's not the case either."

"Maybe the other student has it wrong," Kapp suggested.

"Well, that's possible, but the thing is, they went shopping together. They had to spend time together, talking. So I'm starting to think that the other student knows something I don't know. I wish I knew how to find out for sure."

"What's the student's name?"

"No help there. It's an Asian name, so who knows? Chinese, I think. Maybe I could ask one of my Chinese friends if they can tell from the name. I would hate to address her, or him, incorrectly and embarass both of us."

"So, just avoid using either pronoun. That should be easy enough."

Kapp was nonplussed. We were on our way to the Poor House Bistro to listen to some blues and eat po' boys, and the prospect of beer and jambalya, to him, far outweighed any academic considerations at this moment.

To be continued in My Imagination, but first, Sass has more out of town visitors.

It Sucks [part II]

Actually, this one doesn't suck.

Er; well, rather, it does. The way a vacuum cleaner is supposed to, that is.

Where did I get it, the Gentle Reader asks?

Ebay, of course.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass is in a connundrum with a student.

My lack of education hasn't hurt me none

When my phone rang last night I didn't recognize the area code, but since the only area codes I do recognize in these here parts are 408 and 415, this came as no surprise.

It was Ace.

"Hey," he said, "Jack tells me you're the eBay expert."

"I'm sure he didn't mean it as a compliment," I replied. He's seen the three rows of shoeboxes lining the entire length of my Carrie Bradshaw walk-through closet, and he knows they came from eBay. Mostly from this place. But don't worry, Gentle Reader, I have not yet hit rock bottom; no intervention is required. When you catch me bidding on a pair of Uggs take it as a sign of the apocolypse. Until then, just admire my shoes, OK?

"Jack said you're the man," Ace said.

"I'm going to have to have a word with him about that. I mean, I know he's seen the contradictory parts," I said. "I've bought a few things on eBay, it's true."

"Have you sold stuff?"

"Yes, a few things. Mostly stuff I bought that didn't fit. And last summer I decided to try to sell this pair of fabulous red shoes I'd had since 1985, and that were always half a size too small but I could never bear to give them to Goodwill, so I listed them on eBay for $5.99, called them "vintage," and ended up getting $85 for them from some woman in Hollywood."

"Cool!"

"Yeah, it's all marketing, man. So, what do you want to know?"

We discussed the pros and cons of PayPal for a few minutes, then discussed the weather as all Canadians are wont to do. Then I asked, "So how are The Rock Star and The Big Giant Head?"

"They're great. Oak is eating everything in sight and Rowan is applying to kindergarten."

"You have to apply to go to kindergarten?"

"No, man, I already went, but he does," Ace joked. "Seriously, they want a letter of reference from his pre-school teacher."

"And he didn't have one?"

"No, he does, it's just funny. A letter of reference. Like, what are they gonna say, Rowan, man, he's great to work with but a little on the immature side. I can see he has musical talent but we're unsure at this juncture where those skills will lead him, however, I highly recommend him for a position in your school."

I laughed. Ace has perfectly deadpan delivery, which makes his joking all the more funny.

"I dunno," he says, "When I was a kid we just enrolled in the nearest school, you know?"

"Yeah."

Two years ago today, Postmodern Sass was invited to her friend Sara's wedding in New York. In the next story, Sass finally gets a new vacuum cleaner. And then she has a unique problem with a student.

Tragedy

Not long after I met my new neighbour, Nadine Klotz, the lightbulb of recognition went off. You know, like when you meet a lawyer named Justice or a right winger named Player. You'll get what I mean, Gentle Reader, after I've told you her toenail story.

I heard about it the other night, as we were hanging out at Nadine's place, watching American Idol. Me, with her two cats, Abbot and Costello, on my lap; her, with her leg resting on a pile of pillows, foot suspended in the air and a half mile of bandage wrapped around her insole. She told me what had happened that morning.

"It all began when I slid down the stairs," she began, "which is why my back is killing me and I'm not getting up from this sofa. You'll have to get your own beer, and mine."

"No problem," I replied.

"And do you happen to have any Aleve on you?"

"I never leave home without it."

"But you live next door," Nadine pointed out.

"Oh, right. Do you want me to go get you some?"

"Maybe in a bit. I've already had six today. But get me another beer, will you please?" I did, and she resumed her story.

"I'm just not used to getting up at 6:00 in the morning." Nadine had been off work for almost a year, and just started a new job in Menlo Park this week. "I mean, it's still dark, and I hate turning on the light and so I came downstairs in the dark and I was wearing my mukluks — you know, the kind with the soft bottoms &mdash and I slipped and skidded down the last few stairs on my ass."

"Ouch," I sympathized through sips of Becks. I've known Nadine for a month now, long enough to know she exaggerates her stories for dramatic effect. Not that there's anything the matter with that, you understand.

"Is that how you hurt your foot?" I asked.

"No, that happened in my closet, when I went back upstairs," she continued. "You should see, I have a hole in the bottom of my foot, it must be half an inch deep at least." She made as if to unwind the bandage to show me. "I'm going to need stitches!"

"You mean you didn't go to the hospital?" I'd never thought of stitches as being an optional remedy. Either the blood won't stop flowing and you need to be sewn together to hold it in, or a flap of skin is dangling immodestly from a thread, demanding to be zigzagged back in place; and, if not, then you don't need stitches.

"No, I'll go tomorrow. I had to go to work!"

I couldn't imagine her going to work like this, but she insisted she had. Of course, that would have been before the beer and at least a few of the Aleves.

"What happened in your closet?" I asked.

"Well, you know I have that big walk-in closet upstairs? I walked into it, kicked off the mukluks, and stepped on a coat hangar and it went straight up into my foot. It actually occurred to me that you might have heard me scream, and then I felt guilty for waking you up."

Nadine is the kind of person who lays more guilt on herself than a rabid pack of mothers could ever do.

"Good lord!" I exclaimed.

"Don't worry, it didn't even bleed, it just fucking hurt like hell, so I pulled the damn thing out and wrapped a bandage around it and drove to work. You know how sometimes puncture wounds go so deep they just seal up right away? I figured that's what happened."

I couldn't tell whether she was crazy, or just exaggerating. Maybe it had just been a pinprick.

"Then I got to work and took my shoe off, and all this blood poured out."

"Oh my god! What did you do? Didn't you go to the hospital?"

"No, I told you, I'll go get stitches tomorrow. Really, it's OK, I'm used to it. My feet are so bad. See my toenail there? See how lopsided it is? That's from karate."

Nadine had mentioned taking a karate class a few years ago, but hadn't spoken of toenails until now.

"I was doing a karate kick and my toenail just flew off. I went through three toenails that year."

"Three?"

"They grow back. The second one was when I was in Italy, staying at my friend's place, and I pulled out a drawer and it came out all the way and fell straight down onto — you'll never guess."

"The same toe?"

"About two weeks after the nail had finally grown back."

We watched American Idol in silence for a few minutes. At the next commercial break, Nadine got up to go to the bathroom. When she came back she was holding one of those sticky-tape clothes brushes, the kind where you peel off the used layers as they get hairy. She stood at the end of the sofa, obsessively brushing the cat hair off her sweatshirt.

Her cats are both shorthairs.

She sighed in frustration. "I wish there was some sort of machine, you know? Something that would magically suck all the hair off."

"Um... something like a vacuum cleaner, you mean?"

Two years ago today, Postmoden Sass had a spat with her karaoke buddy, Sparky. In the next story, Sass and Ace discuss the weather, eBay, and The Big Giant Head. Later, Nadine calls Sass with a new tragedy.