Postmodern Sass

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

2008-05-09T22:00:00.000-07:00

I was doing okay through the first half hour of the service, I really was. I'd gone to Zellers that morning, and bought my own handkerchiefs, since I'd just recently returned all of Jack's (Oh, cruel irony!).

I was crying quietly, and barely shaking at all, but I kept expecting him to put his arm around me and comfort me, because that's what he did at times like this, so how could it be that he wasn't there for me now, when I needed him more than I'd ever needed him?

Peter, Jack's best friend since forever, delivered the eulogy, of course he did, and Peter is a writer, so it was a marvellous speech. Shot through with Star Trek and Monty Python references. We all laughed, then cried, and I continued to be impressed with my waterproof mascara.

Next, Jack's father gave a short speech, opening with a Jack Benny impression, and I cried all the harder because there was the man that Jack should have had another thirty years to become.

But I was doing okay, all things considered, I really was, until the music accompanying the slide show changed to I Left My Heart in San Francisco, and then it was too much to be borne, and the great heaving sobs won control.

A few years ago, when I was still living in Toronto, a courier package arrived before my birthday, and inside were a number of small bundles, each wrapped in a sheet of paper and labelled in Jack's exquisite handwriting, "Open me first," "Open me second," and so on. Inside the first was a plane ticket to San Francisco, first class on the upper deck of a 747. Inside the next was a postcard of the very grand Mark Hopkins hotel, on the top of Nob Hill. The next held a brochure from the Starlight Room, with a note from Jack saying, "Bring a dress. Everything else is taken care of."

The bundle that read "Open me last" was the smallest of the set. Inside was a tiny card reading San Francisco, with a little envelope that held a charm of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Inside, he had written, "Leave your heart."

Pretty in Pink

2008-05-04T18:00:00.000-07:00

I went shopping today, to buy a pair of gloves to wear to Jack's funeral on Thursday, because I know he would have liked that. He was a great lover of ceremony, of dressing formally, and of conducting one's self, in situations like these, with the utmost dignity.

I know, because he escorted me to my Dean's funeral last year.

I wasn't sure whether black gloves or white would be most appropriate with a black dress on such an occasion. Jack would have known. He was always the most elegantly dressed man in the room. His sartorial sense was unparalleled. And so, it is important to me to honour him in this way.

He loved the black dress. I wore it last year when we went to the theatre in San Francisco. We dressed up, of course, and I wore a black satin hairband and he giggled like a schoolboy when he saw it. "You look really pretty," he said, and then I swear he blushed.

I went to Nordstrom's today, in the upscale mall called Valley Fair in San Jose, and I had to take a moment to cry again, because there are so many memories in that place. That's where Jack took me when I first moved to California, and bought me a fabulous pair of Chanel sunglasses. I wanted pink ones, but there weren't any, and when I put these on he said, "Those are you."

Nordstrom didn't have any formal gloves, not one pair, and so I was forced to try a bridal store. (The horror!) So it was with unexpected delight that I found the perfect pair of gloves.

They're pink.

They're perfect.

Best of all, they go with the shoes — and oh yes, Gentle Reader, I will be wearing them!

I know Jack would approve. I like to think he'll be smiling down on me, on Thursday. He might even blush.

Stop all the clocks

2008-04-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

Stop all the clocks
Cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos with a muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead
Put crepe bows round the white necks of doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves

He was my North my South, my East and West
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought that love would last forever
I was wrong

"Say goodnight Jack."

"Goodnight, Jack."

"Goodnight, Sassafras."

Hippy Hippy Shake

2008-04-14T18:00:00.000-07:00

"Mnhnhm, zo?" said my father into the phone, from three thousand miles away. That's code for, "Hello, this is your father calling."

It's funny; Kay does that, too, when she calls me. I'll pick up the phone and say, "Hello?" and she'll go, "Mmnhmn." She's been doing it since we were ten, and now that she lives in Bermuda, we almost never talk on the phone, but when we do, that's how she greets me. And it's OK, because she's my BFF.

It's OK with my Daddy, too.

So it wasn't his manner of greeting that alarmed me, but the fact that he called me at all. My father is one of those people for whom the phone is the vehicle for delivering only very bad, or very good, news. Your cousin in Germany had a baby would, in my father's priorities, warrant a mention next time he saw me, but would not warrant a phone call.

I tried to sound non-chalant. "How's my car?" I asked.

"Oh, vell, it's running good. I drove it the other day."

"Ah ha. That's good. So you're not calling to tell me anything happened to it, then?"

"No, no. I'm going into the hospital tomorrow morning at 7:00, for a hip replacement surgery."

I've been told more than once in my life, by people who know me well and some who know me hardly at all, that I'm not very good at small talk.

I come by it honestly.

Teacher teacher, teach me more

2008-04-06T19:39:00.000-07:00

This is why I do it:

Dear Professor Sass,

Just wanted to drop a quick note to say thanks!

For what? Well, for being such a great teacher, of course.

A teacher's job, first and foremost, is to teach, right? I think we can all agree on that. But you took it a step further. Your input, passion, and encouragement really took that role to the next level.

You not only taught me the curriculum of a given class, you taught life and career lessons that prepare for the long haul ahead, and for that I'm truly grateful.

I've had countless teachers throughout my long path as a student, and I can honestly count on one hand the ones that stick in my mind throughout the years that pass. These are teachers that make an impression, ones that really teach, and not just the simple task of teaching from a book or a series of lectures, but ones that help to shape and mold your view of what is actually possible in your future.

Now I'll be the first to admit, there's still a plethora of obstacles and challenges yet to overcome. But with graduation fast approaching, remembering the voices of those few teachers, yourself included, throughout my life who have pushed me to become greater with each step, and realize the potential I am really capable of; it's without question I can say that I have the foundation with which anything can be built.

-Billy

Pennies from Heaven

2008-04-05T11:00:00.000-07:00

The young man operating the cash register at my corner grocery this morning handed me back one of the three pennies I'd given him because it a Canadian coin.

"Good eye," I said, "Although, you know, it's worth more than yours right now."

"You mean ours," he replied.

"No, I mean yours. I'm not American."

The look on his face was not one of surprise, but of indignation.

"You're a citizen, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not."

He scoffed, as though to indicate that he hadn't time to play this game with me, and turned his attention to the next customer.

Monty Python - Spam

2008-03-24T14:54:00.001-07:00

Lovely spam, wonderful spam

2008-03-22T13:00:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure whether this is spam. It sounds vaguely like a bizarre yet sincere fan letter:

Just wishing you well, since
the gist of you,
from scanning a bit of your blog,
is much worth well-wishes. . .

Also, a tip, from one who values carefully horrified words, to another. . .

Right-Means matter!

And now for something completely different:

I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, what an asshole)

2008-03-19T16:00:00.000-07:00

Are all men jerks, or is it just the ones in my life?

See that bed? That's the most comfortable bed in the world, a Marriott hotel bed, and I was supposed to be sleeping in it tonight and tomorrow night and the night after that, at the San Francisco Marriott, but instead what I did this afternoon was call and cancel my reservation, and it's all the fault of the Librarian, because he's an asshole.

Let me back up.

Last fall, before he became an asshole — or, at least, before I realized exactly how much of an asshole he truly is — he and I got to arguing about U2, and The Buzzcocks, and bands that either have or have not "sold out" by licensing their music for use in television commercials. He knows about music, and I know about advertising, and so as we argued we bashed out an idea for a paper we could write together. Rather than bash each other over the head.

We agreed, surprisingly enough because we so rarely do, that this would be a brilliant paper to give at the Pop Culture Association conference in San Francisco in March. We submitted an abstract and it was accepted and so, whenever we would hang out together, which was frequently two or three times a week, we would talk about our paper.

As the date of our presentation crept up on us, the first sign of incompatibility reared its head when, referring to the stack of papers he'd gathered for our initial research, he said, rather pointedly "I'll look through them first."

A week later he realized the deadline was approaching and not only hadn't he looked at the papers yet, but he was planning to go out of town for the weekend. He dropped by my office with the stack, and began whining about how he had no time. I asked how he was travelling. By plane, he replied. Then why not take the stack, or at least part of it, with you? Because I can't read on planes. What about the rest of the weekend, then? I don't know whether I'll have time...

Then leave them here, and I'll vet them. I have the time.

Well, I think I should look through them first...

Then take them with you.

Oh, I don't know, it's just too stressful...

I refrained from calling him a girl and said, How about this: why don't we divide the pile in half? I'll look through some; you take the rest with you, and if you have time, look at them. When are you coming back?

Sunday afternoon.

Why don't you give me a call when you're back, and maybe we can get together and see where we're at then.

No, I can't, I'll be too tired from the trip, and I know I'm going to need to relax and recover, you know?

Then give me at least some of the papers, and I'll look at them this weekend, and start drafting out our paper and our Powerpoint. He sighed, as though this were all too much for him to handle, and reluctantly agreed.

Last Monday, after his weekend away, we got together and I showed him what I had done, and what I had done was this: I'd vetted 20 papers and noted half were worthy of citation, and I'd cited them in Endnote. I'd begun a draft document (with citations) of our paper. And I'd created about a dozen snazzy slides, with links and pictures, in Powerpoint. I put it all on a Flash drive for him and told him I'd be out of commission all day Tuesday, because I had to be with a friend who was going to be in the hostpital. He said that's ok, he would work on it on Tuesday. I said I'd call him Tuesday night when I was home, and he could tell me where he was at.

Meanwhile, I'd long ago made my reservation at the hotel where the conference would be held, and had planned to be up there for the duration. I figured that, if there was still work that needed to be done on our paper, that we'd do it in my room

— I don't like the way that sounded —

and I felt confident, since both of us are, we said, deadline-driven, that we'd have our presentation ready to go on Friday morning.

On Tuesday night he called me and said, I've decided I'm not going to come up to the City on Wednesday or Thursday, I need to stay in my office and work on the paper alone.

What do you mean, work on the paper alone? We're supposed to be in this together.

I'm not like you; I can't work on a train or a bus or wherever; I have to be in my office, it's my sanctuary.

Um... this is not a novel you're writing, this is an academic paper. We need to be in the same place, brainstorming, looking things up, discussing, and writing.

I can't do that. I can't work that way. When I'm writing I have to write here, and alone.

Look, Kapp, this is not what we agreed to. We're supposed to be doing this together.

Why can't you go up there, and I'll stay here, and we'll just talk on the phone and email?

Because I'm going to strangle you, Jennifer.

We need to work on this together. I have the hotel room. We can work on it there. I thought you wanted to go to some of the conference sessions? They start tomorrow.

I know, I know, but I started thinking, if I go I'll have to change my voice mail message.... it's just too stressful, I don't want to do that to myself.

You have got to be kidding, Marsha.

That's just lame. I mean, seriously, that has to be the lamest excuse I've ever heard. Are you listening to yourself? You don't want to go because you'll have to change your voice mail greeting?

Oh... I don't know... I don't want to fight about this... I have to go, my ride is here. I'll call you when I get home.

Kapp doesn't have a car, and he doesn't have a computer at home — that's why he stays late in his office when he has work to do. He's not exactly a chart climber, if you take my meaning.

An hour later the phone rings. He says, how's this for a compromise. If you can postpone your reservation and stay in San Jose tomorrow, we can work on it tomorrow. Then you can go up on Thursday and I'll stay here and write the paper.

Do you hear yourself?

What?

You'll write the paper? What do you call that eleven page Word document I gave you on Monday?

Well, I thought those were just rough notes —

They are. That's how you begin a document. Kapp, have you ever worked on a paper with another person before?

Yes, once. And I guess I sort of took over then, too. I'm sorry, I'm being a jerk, aren't I?

Yes, you are.

Oh, oh, I'm sorry...

And that's when he started to cry.

No, I'm not kidding.

Then he said I have to go and hung up.

He's a big giant baby with a penis, and I'm done with him.

* * *

No More Words

2008-03-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm talking and it all seems fair, but really, I have no excuse.

Oh, I could tell you about how, for the past five weeks, I've had no Internet access in my apartment. I could explain to you how one day of "it's down" becomes a week of trying something that doesn't work, to another week of excuses, to another week of making do by going to the building's coffee room and drinking cup after cup of café au lait while emailing and Facebooking until my laptop's battery runs down, all the while thinking, I don't have enough time to write a blog story, I'll just check my email...

But finally last Saturday, without any help from my favourite geek (since, well, he's currently being an asshole) I set up a wireless router and now I've got my pretty Mac-top running my iTunes over there on the built-in with my stereo components, and at night I can unplug it and take it to bed with me and watch episodes of Terminator on Fox.com; and over here at my desk I've got my USJ work computer, a beat-up old Dell laptop, for writing.

I'm getting back into the swing.

Today I got a letter from George Bush. You know the one, you got one too, didn't you? The notice about the Economic Stimulus package? Those billions of dollars George is going to send to us, a couple of hundred dollars at a time, that we're all going to run out and spend, and stimulate the economy.

I'm not American, so what do I know, but I just don't get how this is going to work. I mean, if you got $300, or $600 in the mail, wouldn't you apply it to some existing debt? And if you don't have any debt, well, are you even eligible for this money?

I've thought about what I'll do with my money. I considered spending it frivolously; buying something I've wanted, but was never willing to spend the money on. Like that pair of pink Chanel sunglasses I've always wanted. Or a super duper Swiss Army Knife. Go ahead, laugh. Or maybe I'll get my birthstone ring redesigned — I have a nice stone, but the setting is worn thin and the band is on the verge of breaking.

Any of those purchases would stimulate the economy, wouldn't they?

I think that, instead, I'll send it home to my bank in Toronto and have them apply it to my mortgage. (Attention Alanis Morissette: That would be ironic.)

Next, The Librarian turns out to be an asshole.

Freakshow

2008-01-27T17:00:00.000-08:00

I never thought the day would come, at least not on the Gregorian calendar, when I'd learn a life lesson from Britney Spears, but that day is today.

Fortunately for me, I'm able to do it without actually having to listen to her music. I needed only to search for lyrics relevant to tell you the following story, and I found a reference to her latest album, Blackout, and a song titled Freakshow.

It would seem, Gentle Reader, that last night I became something of a Britneyesque Freakshow. I'm so embarrassed by what I vaguely remember doing, and even more by what I'm afraid I might have done, that I turned off my phone and may not turn it back on until ever.

I'm certain I drunk-dialled crazy Nadine. I think I even sat outside her door for a while. I think I may have done the same to Monica. See, she's the building manager, so she would be able to open my apartment, which I kinda needed her to do because I locked myself out. That's right, it was Hotel California all over again.

I probably called The Librarian, since it was he with whom I had been drinking. I don't remember where he went, or how I got home, but when I woke up this morning — and, by this morning, I mean 3:00 a.m. — he wasn't here. So that's something.

Oh god, I hope I didn't dial Jack's number. Please, Lord, if you're up there.

Last night's much too drunk drunk and this morning's resulting hangover is all The Librarian's fault, really it is. He's the one who suggested drinking bourbon after our third pint at O'Flaherty's. He's the one who always wants to go there, so now we're regulars and the bartender likes us and so, when we order a shot, he makes it a triple. So you can see, can't you, why The Librarian is to blame?

What did I learn from Brit Brit? That when you get drunk and behave like an idiot, you're, well, you're an idiot. As penance, and owing to the fact that I could do little else, I spent the afternoon watching the charming 1980 BBC production of Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, grateful for the reminder that there is subtlety in literature, if no longer in society.

Next, Postmodern Sass explains her two month blog sabbatical.

Crisis? What Crisis?

2008-01-15T10:12:00.001-08:00

I don't usually watch The View but I turned on the TV in the background this morning while I was making coffee, and was too lazy to change the channel.

Whoopi Goldberg reported on a study that asked the question, is the male midlife crisis a real phenomenon, or is it just an excuse for men to say, I'm a narcissistic jerk having a meltdown?

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Pretty Vacant

2008-01-09T10:15:00.000-08:00

"What's the matter with you?" asked Sparky, "You look... vacant."

"Gee, thanks," I replied.

In retrospect, I think the look on my face he was attempting to describe was the one that said, dear god, please don't make me go back to America... I don't think I can bear it.

I've been home for three weeks, exactly the right length of time for things to begin to seem normal to me. This is home. This is where my heart is, and where, at the moment, my cat is. I've been away for enough time for memories of living in that armpit of California they call San Jose to begin to fade. Enough time for Jack to seem like someone I once knew in a fairy tale.

What was I thinking?

Oh, right. The job. That's why I moved there. It's the only reason, and a pretty powerful one at that.

I'm coming home, I've done my time

2007-12-03T08:00:00.000-08:00

Actually, I haven't. I gotta do at least three yards on the inside. Inside America, that is. Inside California. Inside San Jose, the armpit of the San Francisco Bay area.

I'm so sick of hearing that phrase, the bay area. See, the way they wield it here, the locals, I mean, is with the implication that it is the centre of the universe. They say "bay area" like everyone everywhere in the known world should know which bay they're referring to. Like there are no other bays.

Of course, this is the only one that matters to them, I get that. I get that nothing outside of a fifty mile radius matters to anyone here. I used to think Americans were provincial, woefully ignorant, and xenophobic. Now I'm sure of it.

I can't wait to go home. I booked my ticket this week, and decided to throw budget to the wind and take Pinky with me. That means no flexibility in booking, because I have to be on the United nonstop from San Francisco to Toronto, and there's only one a day. All in, including Pinky's fare, and travel to and from SFO, it'll be more than $1,000 which, nowadays, is about $1,500 Canadian. I never thought I'd see the day that that would happen. So much for, "At least you get paid in American money!"

Sixteen months down, twenty to go.

Yeah, I'm counting.

Turkey in the Straw

2007-11-24T13:00:00.000-08:00

This is Big Bud's Beer Can Chicken Recipe, by Guy Fieri on Guy's Big Bite. It's a TV show, on The Food Network. An American thing.

God bless Guy. The Food Network has been featuring turkey since the first day of November, and if you can't imagine, Gentle Reader, how sick I am of turkey by now then you have little imagination, and I know that's not true.

Americans continue to amuse me in new ways every day. Of course I knew about their Thanksgiving, but this is the first time I've been in situ and paying attention to their customs. (Last year, I skipped town with Jack to hang with fellow Canadians.)

What amuses me today is what a big deal they make about turkey. How much they claim to love it. If they love it so much, why do they eat it only once a year?

Me, I'm making a big ass chicken with a beer in its ass, and Sparky's coming over to help me eat it. I'll post pictures of this endeavor later.

LATER

It's much later, as a matter of fact. Two days later. I needed all day yesterday to recover from Thursday's cooking experience. The chicken was awesome, as was the beer. Perhaps there might have been a bit too much of the latter. Perhaps that's the reason I'll have to renege on my promise of photos. I took them yes, but they are in focus, not so much.

More coffee, please!

Roll out the barrel

2007-11-09T15:00:00.000-08:00

Pinky is helping me make spätzle because I'm going to an Oktoberfest party tonight at my new friend Anna's house, and I know what you're thinking, Gentle Reader, so I won't say it.

Well, OK, maybe I will. It's November. Yes, I know.

I Feel The Earth Move

2007-11-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

I was just about to sit down at my computer yesterday afternoon to tell you about my first California earthquake experience, when I had my second California earthquake experience. The second one didn't make even the local news.

The first one, on the other hand, made only the local news, judging by the fact that I got no phone calls or emails, not one, from any friends or family outside of California inquiring as to my continued existence.

I've learned that The Big One, in earthquake terms, is a mythical creature related to the One That Got Away on the fishing trip, which is to say, it never arrives. It's always in the future. The earthquake in 1989, the one that broke bridges and destroyed neighbourhoods in San Francisco, wasn't the big one. Neither was the one in 1906 — though it was big enough to warrant an elaborate centennial celebration in the City last year.

The earthquake that I experienced on Tuesday night, though it registered 5.6 on the Richter Scale and was by far the biggest one since 1989, was water cooler fodder for one day only. Two days, max. Britney Spears's daily escapades attract, and probably deserve, more media attention.

For me, though, it was a unique experience. You know how in movies, when they want to indicate slow motion, you see a shadow trailing a moving object? Sort of like time-lapse photography? Well, that's what I saw on Tuesday night. I was in my local, the bar in the same block as my apartment building. It's a two storey affair, with a beautiful brick wall that spans the height of the two floors. I swear, I saw that wall move in slow motion, with a trailing shadow.

Then a huge cloud of dust, or smoke, I didn't know which, billowed down the stairs. Through it ran a dozen or so people, down, then straight out onto the street.

Where everyone immediately got on their cell phones.

Fifteen seconds later it was over. I was still standing, frozen, wondering if that had been an earthquake. I know how stupid that sounds. So I called Sparky, who was upstairs in his apartment, and asked if he had felt it.

"Felt it? Yeah, I felt it! I nearly peed my pants!"

So good, it wasn't just me.

My Hero, Zero

2007-10-24T21:00:00.000-07:00

One night last spring Monica, Nadine, and I were sitting on Nadine's fabulous patio, the one that overlooks the courtyard, and is so much nicer than mine, which overlooks the chicken place where the students hang out, when Nadine started telling us about a friend of hers who'd recently married a millionaire she met online. Some site called Millionaire Match, or something like that, Nadine wasn't sure.

You can probably guess what happened next, Gentle Reader. That's right, I signed up. Heck, it's free to browse them millionaires, and they, the millionaires, almost all of whom are men, of course, have to initiate communication, because they're the ones paying to be advertised, so to speak.

I spent a couple of hours browsing, had a couple of "winks" (and you thought Facebook was moronic), but nothing materialized storywise, never mind date-wise. Until now. I got this email today:

My Name is Kelvin and i am 46 of age i am a Polish American by nationallity and i seek to find the love of my live.. Having gone through your profile i find it really cool and i decided to email you peharps we could have a chance to get along and who knows where it could lead us to.

For Me true love must be characterised by honesty and sincerity and the foundation must be build on Trust and with the help of God we could make this work..

I am a Building Engineer by Profession and i love my Job.. I am sure you love your Job as well. For me i am Honest and Sincere and i possess a great sense of humor. I would love that you write me back it is my very first time on this dating stuff and i hope i find my soulmate soon enough.

I did prefer that you email me at my private Email dontplaykelivn1@yahoo.com so we could have a good conversation and also use the Instant Messenger.

God Bless you and i hope to read from you soon

Kisses and Hugs

K.
http://www.MillionaireMatch.com/user_details?user=Kelvinisgreat

Other than deleting his last name (yes, he included it), I haven't altered so much as a comma in his message.

By the way, doesn't Kelvin mean absolute zero?

Sunny one so true

2007-10-21T11:00:00.000-07:00

She's a dame, all right. A dame like only a man can write her. For other men. For only a man could write a woman like a man so she'll appeal to men both as a man and as a woman.

That's Sunny Randall.

Sunny isn't sunny at all, disposition-wise. She's a smart alec. She says things like, "I had nothing to say about that, and I said it." She gets into it with a bad-ass pimp, and tells him, calmly, "I'm a small blonde cutie. You're a big ugly pimp. I shoot you, who's gonna take your side?"

The Sunny Randall novels remind me of what I hated about the TV show NYPD Blue: all the characters talk with the same distinctive mannerisms. Crooks, cops, teachers, kids, shopgirls, didn't matter. Snappy patter flowed equally snappily from all the characters' mouths.

So it is with Robert B. Parker's writing. See if you can tell which of these characters is the gangster, and which is the cop:

"You need help, you call me."

"I don't need help."

"You need attitude. The more things you can do, the more choices you have. You have more choices, life doesn't kick you around."

"So I learn to cook, my life will be better?"

"It could be worse."

Can you guess which is which? Either way, you're wrong. It's a conversation between Sunny, the blonde cutie smart-alec detective chick, and Millie, a fifteen year old prostitute runaway. Or runaway prostitute. That is to say, she ran away from home and became a prostitute, not that she ran away from being a prostitute.

Enough. Trying to write like Mr. Parker makes my left eye twitch. Thanks for the recommendation, Rex.

I've got big balls

2007-10-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

I'm not exaggerating when I say I've never driven a car as big as Nadine's big-ass Mercedes, the one I told you about here, so it shouldn't have startled me nearly as much as it did when I hit the curb while making a sharp turn as I raced Nadine to the airport last Friday. She was late, as usual.

I'd asked her the night before, what time do you need me to be at your place, and she'd replied, after two minutes of extemporaneous rambling, 3:45. Then she called me at 3:00, in a panic, demanding to know where I was, as her plane was taking off in one hour. So there was that.

Then there was the two vodkas and cranberry she'd consumed, obliging me to take the wheel instead of her.

Oh, and it was raining, did I mention? Not just raining raining, but pouring. The kind of rain that never happens in California, but for once each year on the day you are desperately needed to drive your friend to the airport.

As I raced up 87 I prayed that all the drivers surrounding me, idiots on their best days, would be slowed down by their terror of rain. If you're like me and have had your share of driving through six inches of snow, or skidding into a ditch during a blizzard, or having to abandon your car and walk the last half mile home because the snowplows haven't made it to your street yet, you'd die laughing too at these Californians, forever whining and crying about weather they don't have. Weather: they shouldn't be allowed to use the word, since they have no comprehension of its literal meaning.

Nadine, meanwhile, got on the phone. "Hello, yes, I'd like the number for Southwest airlines, please, and can you connect me directly? I don't have a pen and paper to write anything down." Her voice was curiously calm, considering I'd just whacked her car into concrete, possibly necessitating a wheel alignment at a future date.

"Hello, yes, Darlene? Hi, Darlene," Nadine continued, one hand holding her cell phone, the other bracing herself against the dash. "I'm flying to Albuquerque at 4:05 and I'm running late. The traffic was just terrible; I was stuck for an hour behind a three car pileup on 101, and then of course there's the rain... Oh, you're in Phoenix? Well, I'm in San Jose and it's been pouring all day here; it's unbelievable."

She sure was. I was in awe.

"I'm just pulling into the airport now..."

We were doing no such thing.

"... and I should be there in two minutes. Can you tell me if I'll make my flight?"

Nadine and Darlene continued chatting until I pulled up to the departures zone ten minutes later. The plane would be delayed, it seemed, on account of the rain. Nadine is one of those people for whom things always seem to work out, even when she doesn't deserve them to. She's like my friend Angela: helpless, always the damsel in distress. Always needing rescuing, and somehow always managing to get it.

Next: Postmodern Sass parallel parks the big-ass Mercedes in downtown Palo Alto.

Three is the loneliest number

2007-09-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

Happy blogiversary to me.

All people know the same truth: our life consists of how we choose to distort it.

I've never been a big Woody Allen fan, though I admire him, if that makes any sense, and so when a colleague of mine in the Film & TV department at USJ, who lectures part time in screenwriting and also teaches seminars at Dreamworks, listened as I outlined the plot of my screenplay over beers at The Loft, and then recommended I watch Deconstructing Harry, I ordered it right away. The tagline of the movie is, "Harry Block wrote a bestseller about his best friends. Now, his best friends are about to become his worst enemies."

I'm watching it right now.

I like it, I like it. A character who's too neurotic to function in life, and can only function in art.

A year ago I reflected on the strangeness of living in California. I wasn't happy to be here, and God knows I wasn't excited — I was so sick of people asking me that, just before I left Canada.

So now you're blaming me, because you're too scared to be loved?

I wrote last year that I don't write when I'm happy, but that's not why I'm not writing very much here, anymore. I haven't changed; I still write when I'm unhappy, and I'm still unhappy (though putting on a good front) so I'm still writing, but what I'm working on now is a screenplay.

You love too easily, and you love too much, and you shouldn't fall in love with me, because I'm the boy in that story, and I can't love anyone; I don't know how to love.

He picked her up at the airport when she moved 3,000 miles to a foreign country, and helped her settle in. He wanted so much for Pinky to purr when he picked him up. He took her to a Labor Day party at his friends' home, and they called him afterwards and told him she was awesome and asked when they could see her again. They spent Thanksgiving together, and Christmas, and New Year's. He showed her his beautiful city by the Bay again and again and again. He took her to the theatre. She met his father. And when she cried for her Dean who died, he was there for her, and at the end of the day that's what you want, that's what really matters. It's maybe all that matters.

She loves you still, despite your obvious condescension for her life.

He was always there for her, right up until he wasn't anymore.

The man is incapable of an act of faith, and for that I pity him.

Faith isn't about believing in someone like God, whose existence you have no proof of. It's just the opposite, in fact. Faith is believing in someone despite one terrible thing they've done because you have years of proof.

Tomorrow Never Comes

2007-09-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had something important that you absolutely needed to do, no getting around it, no way out of it, and yet, despite your knowing you needed to do it you actively avoided doing it? Procrastinated shamefully, even? For weeks?

You keep saying you'll do it tomorrow, and then again tomorrow, and then again and again, but tomorrow never comes.

It's a special kind of self-sabotage. (Jack would be so proud, he's the master.) Like, in the back of your head there's a little voice saying, you know if you don't do X, Y will happen, and you know Y is a very bad thing, and still you don't do X. It's as though secretly you're hoping Y will happen, so then at least it will be over with. Or, in my case, maybe I'm just scared that if I do X, I will fail, and then something worse than Y will happen.

No, my blog is not X, and losing you, Gentle Reader, is not Y, but I've not been here to tell you stories because the equation is further complicated by the guilt of blogging when I should be doing X.

What brings me back today is the thought that you might be thinking that the reason I haven't been writing stories lately is because of what happened with Jack, and just the thought of that thought was enough to drive me with great speed back to the keyboard.

Meanshile, I've been going to Pilates classes once a week, twice a week when I can. I find it a terrific way to zen. And to avoid doing X.

What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson?

2007-08-31T15:00:00.000-07:00

"I want to go where you're going," said the Trader Joe's employee who was just coming in as I was going out, carrying a wine box loaded with Warsteiner and Bitburger.

There are many things I don't like about California, but the price of German beer at Trader Joe's just about makes up for all the lousy stuff. I mean, you can't believe how cheap the best German beer is at Trader Joe's. Six Warsteiners: $6.99. Six Bitburgers: $5.99.

(That's right, Markus, you heard correctly! I know, it's at least twice that much at home.)

I only bought 24 today, because that's as much as I can carry in one trip, but I'll be back to TJ's at least twice this long weekend, because, woo-hoo, I rented a car! That's right, a car. And oh my god, it's been so long since I wrapped my hands around a steering wheel, that I plan to spend at least 65 of the next 72 hours doing exactly that.

I'm leaving now for Half Moon Bay, where I'll be throwing rocks into the ocean until my arms get sore, then having dinner at Sam's Chowder House. Who's my date this evening? It's my favourite student, Jeremy, but before you go all "Ewwww" on me, let me explain why this is not creepy. First, he's not my student anymore. Second, he's gay. And third, he's only old enough to be my son if we were in Tennessee.

Which we're not.

Eve

2007-08-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

I was in my office at the university, the second day of classes, not yet in the swing of things at all. I was packing up my things to head home, trying to make it in time for the early weekday rerun of Scrubs, my new favourite show (well, at least until Lost begins again), when one of my students from last year, Eve, knocked on my open door and asked if she could talk to me for a few minutes.

"Of course," I said, "Come on in and sit down." There goes Scrubs, but it's not a big deal; there's another set of reruns on at 8:30, on WGN. Besides, I like Eve. She's borderline punky, has a cool haircut, and knows a lot about the underground and new music scene. She's an aspiring music journalist, and wrote one of the better blogs when I had my Survey of Media class blogging last fall.

"I've been thinking about becoming a teacher, and I wondered what you thought about that," she began.

"Well, I don't know yet. Why don't you tell me how this came about, and what makes you think you might want to do that?"

"I guess it's because I'm graduating in December, and though I want to be a magazine writer, I don't want to have to drive all the way to San Francisco every day to do it. I like living in Santa Cruz, and I don't want to commute anymore..." She went on to describe Santa Cruz, and why she likes living there. She said there's a college of education at UC Santa Cruz, and she's thinking of applying.

"Why do you think you might like teaching?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure I will, but I'd like to try. I've been looking into it, and to be a substitute teacher all you have to do is write a test. A friend of mine did it and he said it was really easy; he didn't even study. So I thought I'd do that, and try substituting, and see how I like it."

"That sounds like a good plan," I offered, "Though it's important to remember that the experience substituting won't quite be the same as when you have a class of your own full time. You were a kid. What happened in your classroom when there was a substitute?"

Eve laughed. "Oh, I can handle them. I've been a bartender for six years. How different can it be?"

Then it was my turn to laugh.

Eve continued, "I think I'd be good at it. I want to be like you, the cool teacher that all the students want to do their best for."

Have you ever heard someone say something that was so marvelous, so wonderful, it just hangs there in the air, like barely formed condensation, but the manner in which they said it was so throwaway, that you were afraid to give any sign you'd heard, lest it evaporate and you begin to doubt it was there at all?

Like that.

He said I'm so obsessed that I'm becoming a bore

2007-08-20T19:00:00.000-07:00

The triage therapist called me back less than an hour after I'd called the HMO's information line to ask whether my plan covered therapy. Oh yes, she said, up to twenty sessions per year, for a co-pay of $10. That's fine, I said, I'll take it, and I thought, I don't know what Michael Moore is complaining about. So far, this HMO system was working just fine, thank you. She, the triage therapist, asked me a few questions then booked an appointment for me with a clinical psychologist with the improbably name of Dr. Sloane Payne.

I was fifteen minutes into my session with Dr. Payne when he said to me, it sounds like you may have some abandonment issues. Holy crap! And I hadn't even told him, yet, how I'd called my salon the other day and was informed that my hairdresser, Sam, had left. Maybe he knew something was up because of my roots.

I told him about Jack. Just the highlights. That we've known each other since 1991. That it's complicated. What he said to me, that day at the beach.

There may have been some crying. That Dr Payne, he's so emotional! He said, are you sure it's over? Which is exactly the wrong thing to say to someone like me. Someone who never knows when to give up.

He asked whether I'd ever been on medication for depression. I said no, and added, I'm not so sure I'm depressed. He almost laughed at me. Oh, you're depressed, all right, he assured me. Then he shocked me. I don't mean literally, with electricity, but with what he said next: I think you should try it. This, maybe twenty minutes after meeting me.

I say, with all due respect, I don't think you know me well enough to drug me. I say, I am not in agreement, philosophically speaking, to taking drugs to solve my problems. I say, I don't want to take drugs unless it's absolutely necessary, and you're going to need more than one session with me to convince me that it is.

I don't say, what is it with you fucking Americans, pushing drugs as a cure for everything? I'm so sick of all your fucking television commercials pushing drugs, pushing people to "ask their doctor about miracle drug X": ads for drugs to reduce cholesterol, ads for drugs to reduce your chances of succumbing to a heart attack, ads for drugs to reduce the risk of osteoporosis. Yeah, cutting back on fatty foods, losing weight, and eating more broccoli are tough. Easier to pop a pill. Did you people learn nothing from thalidomide?

I tell him about the Lorazepam. How I don't like the way it makes me feel, and how I only take it when I need to feel that way. Like when I have to bury my mother twice in the same week, or when everything I believe is blown to pieces, or when I go to a medical doctor who needs to poke me with a metal implement. In those cases, I want to be so mellow I can't move.

He asks why I came. What I want. I tell him I want someone to listen to me, someone who's shoulder I can cry on. Because I know that no matter how great your friends are, there is a limit to how long they'll listen to you whine about shit, and it's a lot shorter than you think. I don't want to be that girl, you know, the one who's always whining to her friends about men who done her wrong. I don't want to cry in front of anyone. I fucking hate to cry. But I need to whine, and I need to cry a little, so I want to do it to someone who gets paid to listen to me do it.

He suggests group therapy. I say, I can't express to you how uninterested in that I am, but I'll try: no way, I'd rather shove fiery hot pokers into my eyes. Why not, he says. Keep an open mind, he says. Don't be so rigid, he says.

But I am rigid, I say. And judgmental. And though I would lasso the moon for a friend, I couldn't care less about the problems of strangers, and have no interest in listening to them talk about them. But you might be able to learn something from them, he says. I say, that's what I want to see you for. A professional.

We talk some more and eventually he says, I'm going to change my opinion, I don't think drugs are the answer for you, and maybe group therapy isn't what you need, either. You seem to be a very intelligent person, and I think you sincerely want to change your behaviour. I think you're a good candidate for individual therapy.

Great, I say. I think I like you, too.

But oh, by the way, he says, he can't take me as a patient. He tells me, the HMO doesn't cover individual therapy, and didn't the triage therapist explain that to me? I get only this one appointment with him, then he writes a quickie diagnosis and it's on to the next patient that he'll never see again. He tells me, all he can do for me is prescribe drugs, or put me in a group.

No, the triage therapist did not explain that to me, yet all of a sudden, the American health care system was a lot less mysterious.