I Left My Heart in San Francisco

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

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

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."

Three is the loneliest number

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.

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

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.

My therapist said not to see him no more

I was supposed to be on a plane to Hawaii today, but instead, I'm taking Colleen's advice, four months late but better than never, and going to see a therapist.


What you don't see in that picture of the breakwater at the south end of the beach at Santa Cruz, is Jack, but he was there, Gentle Reader. You'll just have to take my word for it. I cut him out of the picture, and, it would seem out of my life.

I had been rehearsing the speech for a week. Wrote it down, even. Then, that day on the beach, recited only a very small part of it to him. It went like this: I know you make the rules in this relationship, and you know I like it that way, but I get to choose what I will and won't tolerate. I will be your just-friend, I will be your girlfriend, but what I won't be is your second choice. I can't be with you if you're thinking about someone else. It hurts too much.

And then the man who said these things to me, and who said, when I told him I was moving to California, "I'm going to be awesome for you, Sass."; the man who promised he'd never abandon me, and that he'd always have my back, said this: Then don't be with me.

James's "Laid" continues here.

Crazy

Crazy, I'm crazy for feelin' so lonely.
I'm crazy, crazy for feelin' so blue.
I knew you'd love me as long as you wanted
And then someday, you'd leave me for somebody new.

Worry, why do I let myself worry?
Wonderin', what in the world did I do?
Oh, crazy, for thinking that my love could hold you.
I'm crazy for tryin', and I'm crazy for cryin',
And I'm crazy for lovin' you.

No, no reason. Why?

When Kay and I travelled to Memphis together, at Halloween two years ago, we visited the famous Sun Studio and I recorded that song in the booth where Elvis used to sing. I have the recording on a CD that looks like an old 45 rpm. It's one of my most cherished possessions.

I chose that song not because it's my best, but because they didn't have any Connie Francis or Nancy Sinatra or Blondie. Those are my best. But it doesn't suck, at least I don't think it does, and Ace, who is a trained musician, and can tell suckitude when he hears it, said it wasn't bad.

Of course, he's my friend and may have just been being kind.

I wish I had a microphone. I could totally nail that song right now. And I want to have a cigarette in my hand while I'm doing it.

Oh, man, do I want a cig bad right now.

Instead of having a cigarette, Sass takes drugs.

My head is like a football, I think I'm gonna die

It's not from a hangover, far from it, but there don't seem to be any songs written about plain old being sick.

That's my Throwdown Chicken Soup over there, made on Sunday night and inspired by my new hero, Bobby Flay. My mother, whose 1970s soup pot I still use, would have loved him.

The last two weeks I've been spending most of my time at home, writing, with the TV on in the background for inspiration and company, and I've become a fan of the Food Network. Not, you understand, because I like to cook, but because I like to watch other people cook. Especially Bobby Flay.

This cough and cold, and, as of last night, earache, were acquired, if I had to guess, from Jack, the night we went to see Chris Isaak at the Mountain Winery, and if you can imagine a more romantic setting in which to hear perform a man who makes women's knees turn to jelly, I'd like to hear about it, Gentle Reader. It was a fabulous evening, or would have been, had Jack not been sick. He'd been coughing at me over the phone for a couple of days before the concert, and I'd been working on a plan B to sell the tickets on Craigslist but he insisted he was well enough to make the trip. He wasn't, really, but he did it anyway.

Jack's recovered from his cold by now, I suppose. We're not exactly speaking these days, I explained to Ace the other day, because he asked, and then I added: and by the way I want to rip his head off and stuff it down his throat.

So today I'm staying in my jammies and I'm watching All My Children, something I haven't done since around the time that Maria was Edmund's wife, not a DNA expert on CSI: Miami. Can I tell you how much I love that Jack and Erica are married? Gosh, I love Jack. I've always loved Jack.

This Jack. The character on All My Children.

Sheesh.

Next, Postmodern Sass rides the bus and overhears a conversation.

Now playing: The Theme from Gone With The Wind

"I've met someone," is what he said on the phone that day, and whether it was the tone of his voice, or the shock of hearing those three simple words articulated in that order, I'm not sure, but nothing after that registered in my mind.

"A knight proves his worthiness through his deeds," Jack used to say, and because I believed he believed it, I chose to believe his deeds over his words, which could sometimes be cruel and which were often contradictory. I learned to be selective in which words I'd remember, which I'd dismiss, and which I'd believe.

I choose to believe the words he said to me that day in Stratford.

I will never love another.

I choose to believe the words he said while we were driving back from Santa Barbara last Christmas.

With everyone else, I can make them see the Jack I want them to see, but I can't do that with you because you know me too well. I know you see through all the bullshit and you know that deep down I love you and I want to be with you.

I choose to believe the words he said to his father.

I couldn't possibly love her more.

He's always been my knight, and though I've doubted him in the past, and caused him pain, I've never doubted that he would slay a dragon for me. Never once. Not ever.

So you see, don't you, Gentle Reader, why I can find no nexus in my mental schema on which to place the information that there might be someone he would rather be with than me? Someone whose father's accent he'll imitate? Someone he'd rather hang out at the Black Horse and drink pints with? Someone he'd rather watch fireworks and ride the rollercoasters with? Someone else he'll tell about the Very Bad Things? Someone else he'll read stories and sing songs to? Someone else he'll tease about ending sentences with a preposition?

I can't think about this now. I'll go crazy if I do. I'll think about it tomorrow.

Maybe it's her Gone With The Wind -themed week that draws Sass, in the next story, to the scene of a fire.

Go back, Jack, do it again

I know, I know, it's been forever.

I still owe you the story about how I met Jack's father, and what he said about me after I left, and what Jack replied, and I realize I haven't even finished the story about my condo, much less told you about how I went home to Toronto for a week and, at the very last second, found a tenant.

It's not that nothing's been happening. It's not that nothing story-worthy has been happening. Why, the story about how Genie told me that Clifford Jerel actually did end up stumbling onto my blog (though, thankfully, not my yellow vinyl-covered diary) is priceless. Worth volumes.

Tim Bray, who is in Silicon Valley today, and is taking me out for dinner tonight, asked the other day why I haven't been writing. I have no excuse, is what I told him, and I really don't. I just haven't felt like it.

I was beginning to think that, well, perhaps, just perhaps, there was a possibility, or at least there was the outside chance I might be approaching the periphery of the possibility of maybe not hating it here so much. That maybe, just maybe, one day, I might even be happy here. That I was even beginning to approach that possibility had a lot to do with Jack.

It's like I told you, Gentle Reader, last fall, on the occasion of my second blogiversary: I write when I'm upset, when I'm angry, when I'm scared. When things are going, well, kind of OK, I lack the urge. If my life isn't feeling like an existential angst-ridden episode of The Twilight Zone, I figure, there's nothing you're going to want to read about. I mean, where's the schadenfreude in Postmodern Sass being happy?

That's probably why I didn't tell you that Jack promised to take me to Hawaii for my birthday. I'd had the whole Internet convinced he was a bit of a bastard, you see; something of a rogue deep down, and that if he and I ever did end up, against all odds, riding off into the sunset together, well, you'd all keel over in a dead heap, snoring from the boredom of it all.

Which is why, too, when he called this afternoon to break my heart for the third time, not that I'm counting (here and here), it shouldn't have come as as great a shock to me as it did. Really, it shouldn't have. I feel like such an enormous great big fat fool, and I know what you think, Gentle Reader, which is why I've turned the comments off. Sorry. I just can't bear the I-told-you-so's right now.

Let's just say it's Sex and the City, season 2, episode 29.* I may even have the opportunity to throw up on the beach tonight. (Sorry, Tim.)

Photo by Tim Bray

God, how I wish I hadn't told my dad about Hawaii.

I'm the biggest fool on the planet. Here's why.

*In this episode, Carrie-as-narrator says, "And then, everything I knew was promptly blown to pieces." It's two months after Mr. Big has broken her heart for the second time, when Carrie sees him at a beach party on Long Island, a 26-year old new girlfriend in tow. Carrie's response is to run out to the ocean and throw up.

But there were times, Dear...

Continued from this story.

I took it very hard, the death of my Dean, not only because she was an incredible woman who did not deserve to die so early — though she was, and she didn't — but because her death came as a complete surprise to me. You see, I learned too late that everyone knew she was dying, everyone except me, that is.

It was almost exactly one year ago, a warm day in early May, a week after I'd flown to San Jose for my interview at USJ, when the phone rang in my condo in Toronto and it was her, the Dean, calling to say that she would like to offer me a tenure-track position, and that a letter was being drawn up, and then she elaborated on the terms and asked, was I inclined to accept. I can still hear her voice, her Norwegian accent.

I replied: Probably.

You know the rest, Gentle Reader. I decided to accept, and then I moved to California.

The day after classes began in January, an email came from the Dean's office, from the Dean herself. She had cancer, she said, and she would be taking a leave, effective immediately. She would be back as soon as she could, she said, and I never doubted it, not for one moment. People get cancer every day. They have surgery, chemo, radiation; they get better, they come back to work, and the people who love them get to love them a while longer.

Especially the tough ones; the tough ones always come back, and she was tougher than most, my Dean. She was tough with me, and I respected her for it. I'd been throwing myself into academia, serving on committees and writing grant proposals and conference papers, and I was going to show her she'd made the right decision, hiring me, that I was worth what I'd asked for, the terms we'd negotiated, you bet I was.

Three weeks passed, or maybe it was five, and another email came, this time from the associate dean, inviting all to attend a reception — that was the term they used, a reception, fucking euphemisms — that was to be held a week hence in the Dean's honour. A reception, what a silly idea, I thought, what was the point of that, when she'd be back in her office, maybe not as good as new, but good, and soon, and I would see her then, and so because the time and date of the reception were not convenient for me to attend, I did not attend, and only when she died two weeks after that did I realize that the reception had been held so that we might say goodbye.

I did not say goodbye, it's my stupid fault that I did not say goodbye, and I did not thank her, or tell her that I wouldn't let her down and that I'd never, never forget her, so I cancelled my classes Monday, because I was going to that funeral, you better fucking believe I was. I didn't know how I was going to get there, or how I was going to get home, but if I had to walk the 20 miles to Palo Alto that's what I'd do, and that's when he called: Jack. He called exactly when I needed him to, like he'd been hearing my thoughts with some sort of emotional radar. He asked what time I needed him to pick me up, not whether I needed him or what I needed, because he knew, he only asked when and where and said he'd be there. He'd cancelled his business trip, and he'd be there, because I needed him to be there.

He and Beauty arrived right on time, both of them dressed in black, and we drove to the church, and I was quiet because I was thinking about her, the Dean, for real this time, and Jack knew that, of course he did, and when I was a little too quiet he would ask me about her, so that I could tell him about her, even though they'd never met, and would never meet.

He sat at my side through the service, and he listened to her loved ones tell stories about her, and he laughed when they laughed, and he looked sad when they were sad, and he said, she was quite a woman, wasn't she, and I agreed that she was. There were five hundred people in that room. Five hundred people who cared about the Dean, and one who cared about me. One who I'd thought had let me down, but I was wrong, he hasn't let me down for a long, long time, and I wouldn't be here, I mean in California, if it weren't for him, not because I came here for him, but because I wouldn't have been able to come here without his help. He's the best man I know. I need to stop doubting that.

The Dean's son talked about his mother, and maybe because it made me think of my mother, and about how she died of cancer, too, but not suddenly; no, not at all, that I started to cry then, just a little, and I reached into my purse and rummaged to find the tissues that I knew were there, but I couldn't find them, and then, like he was Cary Grant in an old black and white movie, with one graceful swoop of his arm, Jack pulled his white linen handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to me.

The final speaker was the Dean's husband, who told the story of how they'd met, more than three decades ago. How they'd been dating for a few months when she said to him, you talk about marriage, but you haven't actually asked me to marry you, so he proposed right then and there, will you marry me, he asked, and she replied: probably.

Jack laughed heartily at that. I laughed, too, but not quite as hard, because I could hear her speaking the words even though her husband had been the one telling the story. I could hear her saying it.

He'll never ask, I know that, no one every will again, it's too late for that, but if, just if the moons line up just right one day, and Jack asks me the question that I'd always thought I'd answer immediately with yes, well, I think now what I'll say is this:

Probably.

I Fall to Pieces

Continued from this story.

Every so often, about once a year, the boy would break the girl's heart, and each time it would happen, she'd be surprised. Sometimes, he knew he was doing it, and he did it anyway, did it deliberately, even, and months would pass and then, on the day that she'd decide to give up on him, he would slay a dragon for her, and the pieces would stitch themselves back together, like a crazy patchwork quilt.

Forget about him, others would say every time it happened, he's no good for you. But they didn't know how good he was to her, how he could be exciting and unpredictable, how charming he was; how entertaining, and how generous, if not magnanimous.

She loved to listen to him talk. She loved his voice, just the sound of it, no matter what he was saying. He would tell her stories about his travels, and he would mimic voices, perform sound effects, even sing, and sometimes, in an unguarded moment, or emboldened by alcohol, he would say something that he had meant, but hadn't meant to say, and the loosely stitched pieces would fuse together again. She had learned, though, to pretend she hadn't heard; to make no reference to the things he had said, because he'd forget that he'd said them. He'd deny that he'd said them.

Am I a good man? he would ask her, and she would reply, you are good to me, and most of the time, it was true. She understood how very desperately he wanted to be loved, but only by strangers in bars, and dogs, and little children, because that was safe; because they could never betray him.

So she would come to his beautiful city by the bay, and he would show her things: the bar where a famous writer used to drink; the best pizza by the slice; the world-famous art and jewelry store on Post Street whence had come her extravagant and absolutely perfect Christmas present; a quirky café in his neighbourhood with a canoe and a sled on the wall; an old Jewish man named Phil, who cleaned his shirts and gave her a lint brush. She's a handful, he would tell others, and they would laugh, and then he would spoil it by saying, but she's not my girlfriend, not so that they would know, but so that she would be reminded, and then later he would hold her so tightly that the breath was pushed out of her but she didn't mind not breathing, not one little bit, if he would hold her like that forever and never let her go. But he always let her go.

She knew that he knew that she loved him, and he knew that she loved him, but it was never enough; it could never be enough, because the other thing he knew, just as surely as he believed that the sun would rise tomorrow, was that one day she would betray him. It did not matter to him that years worth of days had passed and that she had not done so, because tomorrow could easily be the day, and he was convinced that the day that he stopped believing that, would be the day it would happen.

She, for her part, could not allow herself to believe that he would not one day abandon her, even though he had said (though not promised) that he would not, even though he was almost always there for her when she needed him (though she tried not to need him), because as soon as she'd let herself begin to believe, something would happen, something like what happened yesterday, when she saw the pictures in his apartment, the pictures she tried first to ignore, then to forget, and she'd thought she was managing, because she had managed not to cry (she hated to cry, and she hated even more to have him see her cry), not then, at least; not until much later; so when he'd asked, have you got it?, meaning the enormous television set that he was giving her, meaning had she got her end of it, and could she lift it, and she said yes, got it, and she thought she had, but she hadn't, and she dropped it, and she told herself it was because her hands were sweaty, not because they were standing right in front of the pictures, because surely he hadn't done that intentionally; hadn't placed the television on the floor right in front of the pictures so that she couldn't possibly miss them.

So she let him believe that the reason she hardly spoke on the long drive to her place was that the woman who had hired her had died suddenly of cancer, and that this had affected her greatly (which it had, it's just that that wasn't what she was thinking about in the car; what she was thinking about was that face in the picture, and how to erase it from her memory), and when she told him that the funeral was on Monday, he had offered to escort her, but then when she told him what time it was he realized that he wouldn't be able to make it, and that was fine, really, because she knew that he had meant the offer sincerely and that if he could have arranged his schedule he would have, and that his work comes first, of course it does, and that none of this means that he is abandoning her, she tells herself; there's nothing for her to fear.

But you see, Gentle Reader, the thing we fear the most is the thing that has already happened to us.

The girl found out later that the pictures were not what she had thought they were, but they are what they are, and they still are, but none of that matters anymore because of this.

Calendar Girl [part I]

My friend Tod Hoffman once told me, years ago in Montreal, as we were sitting on a patio drinking beer, one of the secrets to understanding men. This was at a time long before he married Sally, and while I was with X, so it was spoken in the spirit of camaraderie, not as a pickup line. What he said was this:

"You should bear in mind that, whenever a man is sitting across a table from a woman he is always thinking to himself, I wonder what it would be like to sleep with her, which is followed immediately by, I wonder if there's any chance?"

"You realize you're sitting across a table from me," I pointed out.

"Yes."

I don't know why I was reminded of Tod's words last weekend in Portland, as I sat across the table from Neil Kramer and his separated wife, Sophia, eating sushi, although it may have had something to do with the fact that Neil's Penis writes blog posts. That, and Neil kinda reminds me of Tod. They're both smart, funny, tall, and Jewish, I haven't slept with either of them, and going out with them is in no way a date. I'm not always that certain of that many facts, especially where men are concerned.

My cell phone had rung as I was sitting in the back seat of Sophia's Prius. I looked at the caller I.D., and said into the phone, "Hey, you."

"Hey. I just wanted to tell you, knock 'em dead in Portland," said Jack. "Are you wearing the shoes?"

"Um, not exactly, but my white go-go boots match the dress perfectly. I brought the shoes, but it's raining tonight, and on the chilly side; I was thinking maybe open-toed shoes were not the best choice."

"Save them for California, then."

"So, um, do you remember me telling you about the blogger in Los Angeles, the one who is married, but separated, and he writes about his separated wife in a way that reminds me of the way I write about you, and how a couple of months ago they moved back in together and he wrote that she had told him that even though they were living together they were still separated?"

"Yes. I believe you said, he wins."

"Right. I had thought that our relationship was bizarre, but he wins."

"We don't have a Relationship."

"Small R."

"OK."

"Anyway, I'm sitting in his car right now, and we're on our way to have sushi before we go to the blogger party." Then, to Neil and Sophia, I say, "It's Jack."

Jack and I said a few more words, then I said goodbye, and Sophia asked, "Who's Jack?" and I was both crushed and relieved that Sophia, who terrifies me, obviously doesn't read my blog, but at that moment the Prius began talking to Neil, directing him to the restaurant, so we held our conversation until the Unagi had been served.

"So, who's Jack?" Sophia asked again.

"It's complicated," I replied.

"It's complicated," said Neil. "She writes about him on her blog."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Oh no! I mean, not exactly. Like I said, it's complicated. We've known each other for sixteen years. When I first met him, I was married to someone else." I didn't know where to begin.

"But you're not married anymore?" Sophia asked.

"No. And I can't exactly say that Jack doesn't have anything to do with that."

"So he has been your boyfriend, then?" Sophia persisted.

Sophia was terrifying me less and less. She has a way about her that makes you want to tell her everything; to beg her to be your best friend. It's disarming. I thought about Tod again, and what he would be thinking if he were sitting here. I can only imagine the effect she has on men. Well, imagine, plus I read Neil's blog.

"We've known each other a very long time; we've been everything at one time or another, but he's not my boyfriend. In fact, a couple of weeks ago, I went on a date. That is, at least, I think I did. That is, I'm not sure whether it was a date or not, and I've been meaning to write about it on my blog but I can't quite figure out how to do that."

"I can't write a story until I figure out an angle," said Neil, and I remembered that he was the writer at the table, not Sophia.

"That's it exactly!" I exclaimed. "I haven't figured out an angle." Then I asked Neil what his secret was; how he has managed to accumulate so many adoring fans, almost all of them women, and so many so that when it's his birthday he is deluged by cards and gifts.

So we talked blog shop for a while, and dunked our Hamachi in soy sauce, and then Sophia said to me, "I noticed that you changed the subject and didn't tell me about your date."

To be continued on Thursday.

Drive [redux]

The drive test examiner wore a white lab coat without a smile and carried a clipboard. I'd been sitting in Beauty, in the designated spot, for ten minutes, waiting. I'd turned off the engine as the sign on the brick wall ordered me to do, and I'd just taken the keys out of the ignition because I'd begun to suspect that perhaps I was supposed to go inside again and alert them to the fact that I was outside. That I was the girl in the gorgeous, shiny, black BMW.

She approached the driver's door and rapped on the window with her knuckles. I opened the door slightly so I could talk to her, and she ordered me to roll down the window.

"I have to turn the car back on first," I said, and, simultaneously, did. The door was still ajar.

"Close your door properly," she barked, and I explained that I would have to roll the window up first, then close the door, then roll the window back down. Jack had given me the Beauty training an hour earlier, and his first point had been, never slam the door with the window rolled down, or it will break.

If you've ever driven a not-so-new car, Gentle Reader, I'm sure you understand that they all have their quirks. I knew Beauty's, and I wasn't going to let anything harm her on my watch.

While I dealt with the window she walked around the car, barking at me to touch the brakes, signal left, signal right. Then she got into the car.

"Show me your turn signals."

I did so.

"Show me your hazard flasher."

I did so.

"Show me your front window defroster."

The heat, A/C, and fan controls in a BMW are similar to those in a VW, with which I'm intimately familiar. There is not one control, but three. One controls the location of the vent. One controls the temperature. And one controls the speed of the fan. I hesitated, because I didn't know whether to simply point to the three controls, or to explain their function.

Note to self: hesitation during driving test, bad.

"It's here," the examiner reached over and pointed at the fan symbol. Then she made a note on her clipboard.

"How do I move this?" she asked, indicating the part of the seat on which she was seated. I didn't know whether she was testing me, or whether she really wanted to adjust the seat. And I didn't know how to do it, either. Adjust the seat, that is. Not when I'm not sitting in it.

"It's not my car," I told her. "I'm not really sure..."

"It's not your car!" she exclaimed. "That's not good."

Apparently I'm the first citizen of California to ever take a driving test in a car that's not her own. She was confusing me, getting to me, and we hadn't yet left the parking lot.

I wish I could report, Gentle Reader, that things improved once Beauty and I started moving. They did not. The instructor barked commands, and I did my best to follow them, but there were times when I didn't understand what she meant, and she had instructed me not to ask her any questions, and so it shouldn't have come as as big a surprise as it did, ten minutes later, back in the parking lot, when she tore the top sheet off her clipboard, handed it to me, and said, "You'll have to come back and do it again."

Fuck.

Double fuck.

I felt like I was eight years old and had just been sent to my room for a timeout. I felt like strangling that bitch for making me feel that way. I felt like kicking myself, were it only possible, for having failed my fucking driving test when I've been driving nearly every day of my life for twenty-five years.

Jack was inside the DMV office, sitting in the waiting room, working on his laptop. I seriously considered leaving him there and taking off in Beauty, the repurcussions of which would be easier for me to bear than having to tell him I failed my fucking driving test.

But I didn't. I waved for him to come outside, and I lit up a cigarette to calm my frazzled nerves.

I told him what had happened. I said fuck at least twelve more times.

He did that thing that he does, which is to say nothing and wait for me to tire myself out, and when I did, he took Beauty's keys from my hand and said, "Come on, let's go shopping. What you need right now is a ridiculously expensive pair of shoes."

A year ago a similar set of events took place. It was not a driving examiner, but simply an X, that brought Postmodern Sass to her knees in anger and frustration, and, once again, it was Jack who rescued her.

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 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.

All is quiet on New Year's Day

This picture of me was taken just a few hours ago, on a spectacularly warm and sunny January 1, 2007 in San Francisco. It's a little hazy in the City by the Bay today, but that's the Golden Gate Bridge behind me.

Go ahead and click on the photo to make it bigger. See it now?

And where was that picture taken? the astute Gentle Reader asks. Why, on the rooftop of Jack's apartment building, replies your humble narrator. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

I've learned many things during the past twenty-four hours; the streets of San Francisco are becoming familiar to me, at least the ones in North Beach and Chinatown are. There's a jukebox — a real jukebox, with records, at Tosca. You can smoke at Bow Bow in Chinatown. And there's a bartender named Mike at Vesuvio who, if he places a fresh pint in front of the handsome gentleman you are with, even though it is long past last call, and neglects to place one in front of you, erroneously believing that you will be unable to consume it in the fifteen minutes that remain before all alcohol must be cleared from the bar, and if this error is politely but firmly brought to his attention, the beer that he will then quickly place before you will be free.

San Francisco is the best thing about living in San Jose.

I'm back home, now, and Pinky is sitting in my lap as I write. I'm wondering if I should make a New Year's resolution. I hesitate to do so, and rarely have done, because I've always had a problem with promises, both the giving and receiving of them, and a resolution is just a promise by another name. Though two years ago I did resolve to go about less carelessly.

Perhaps I'll just set some New Year's goals instead. I can think of one, after seeing that photo of me.

Here they are, Postmodern Sass's New Year's resolutions goals for 2007:

1. Lose ten pounds
2. Finish unpacking
3. Publish a paper in an academic journal
4. Go on a date with Gavin Newsom
5. Be nominated for a Bloggie

You'll notice I've run the gamut from sacred to profane. That old chestnut, lose weight. Yes, I know, if I put my mind to it I can certainly do that. Perhaps I'll try the Duck Diet. Number two also requires nothing more than determination and fortitude, and the ability to brave discoveries of once-favoured clothing that no longer fits, half-finished knitting projects, and Valentine's cards from X.

Number three is just plain boring, so I won't discuss it. Besides, I know you're wondering about number four.

Maybe it's completely crazy, I'll grant you that, but I've seen crazier things happen. Like me moving to California, for example. Never would have called that one this time last year. Never would have imagined it. And yet, here I am. Besides, one of the first things I learned when I came here last April to check things out is, the mayor of San Francisco is hot. I won't lie: it's one of the reasons why I decided to take the job at USJ and move to the Bay Area. OK, so that's a lie. But it could be true!

Number five, I leave to you, Gentle Reader. The nominations for the 2007 Bloggie awards are now open. You do not need to be a blogger to vote — I tell you this, because I know many of you are not bloggers yourselves.

Me, I especially like the sound of "Best-kept secret weblog." I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Click here to cast your votes for your favourite blogs.

A new year calls for a new look. Postmodern Sass turns purple.

Count Your Blessings

In the event, Gentle Reader, that reports reach you of a crazy redhead singing Rosemary Clooney songs at the top of her lungs from a fourth floor balcony of the Marriott hotel at Bonaventura Beach on Christmas Eve, I want you to know — and, understand that this is in no way admitting to any firsthand knowledge of said events — that the tall, handsome gentleman who accompanied her on one or two numbers (though in a much lower and more dignified register) did persuade her to come inside before security needed to be called.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass calls her friend Sara, in New York.

In a land called Hanah Lee

Once upon a time in a land far away, where it snows in the winter and people say eh, there was a girl who lived with a boy whom she loved very, very much. One night, as the girl and the boy lay in bed, in the dark, not quite sleeping, the girl asked the boy a question.

"Would you slay a dragon for me?"

The boy scoffed, and said, "There's no such thing as dragons."

The girl was quiet. She didn't love the boy any less, but it saddened her that the boy could not understand her question, and therefore could not give the right answer.

Six years later, the girl met another boy, whom she'd actually met for the first time six years earlier. They worked together, and became friends, and one day, at a coffee shop on their lunch break, the girl looked across the table, over her giant mug of café latte, at the boy she called Jack, and asked him, "Would you slay a dragon for me?"

"Of course I would," he replied, without hesitation, and she tried very hard not to love him.

Many years without dragons passed.

The boy named Jack moved to California, and the girl remained with the boy who didn't believe in dragons. She was happy, though, because there were no dragons to slay. Until he grew scales, and leathery wings, and began to breathe fire, and abandoned her.

More years passed with many dragons, and then the girl moved to California, too. And though she was not happy, she was happier because the boy named Jack was there, and because most of the time he was there for her, and because sometimes, sometimes he was quite wonderful.

The Christmas season approached. Christmases in the time of the dragons made the girl feel blue, and the boy named Jack, though he would never admit it, felt the same way. He said he liked to be alone on Christmas, but the girl didn't believe him.

One night they talked about Christmas, and dragons, in the dark, on the phone; he, in his apartment high atop a hill in the magical City by the Bay, and she, in her apartment in the grey, rainy city in the South Bay.

"I hate Christmas," he said.

"I hate Christmas," she said.

"I'll be fine in January, when the holidays are all over," he said.

"What if...?" she began.

"Yes?" he said. He listened. He waited.

"What if we went away, to someplace where there is no Christmas? Someplace that is the anti-Christmas." He continued to wait, so she continued, "Like Antarctica. I've always wanted to go to Antarctica."

"Antarctica?"

"I like the penguins."

The boy was quiet.

"Or, how about Las Vegas?"

The boy said nothing for a long while, and then he said, "We'll go to Santa Barbara."

And so it was decided that on Christmas Eve day, the girl and the boy she called Jack would climb into his magical carriage, and ride off together, south on 101, in search of new Christmas memories.

* * *
Next on Postmodern Sass: Sass counts her blessings that hotel security is on light duty Christmas Eve.

Stand By Me

The real name for the tool is the reciprocating saw, but I first heard about it on a podcast on The Jin & Jerry Show, wherein Jerry described at great length his home improvement project, which involved cutting thorough drywall deliberately, and pipes inadvertently, and he referred to it as a sawzall. As in, it saws all, even that which you might not wish to saw.

So when I found myself invited to Jerry's house for a barbeque over the Labour Day weekend, and learned beforehand that the host was an audioblogger, I checked out his site and then accepted on the condition that I be shown the storied device. You may think I jest, Gentle Reader, but upon arriving at Jin and Jerry's lovely home in the mountains somewhere between San Jose and Santa Cruz, and after being introduced to the other guests; and after Jerry had been kind enough to place a glass of red wine into my hands, my first question was, "So, where is it?"

"Oh, we'll get to it, don't worry," Jerry laughed, "But first we must consume vast amounts of alcohol."

The thing you notice first about Jerry is that he's always laughing. Mostly at his own jokes — which, in themselves are not all that funny, but you can't help but laugh once he starts. It's his most endearing quality next to his wife, Jin, who had worked with Jack at Big Ass American Software Company, until she left to have babies.

Jerry was particularly amused by the difficulties we'd encountered trying to find the house. Difficulties which were only slightly complicated by Jin calling Jack just as we'd taken what turned out to be the wrong exit, to ask whether we could pick up some ribs.

"Sure," said Jack. "What else do you need? Burgers? Dogs? A new grill?"

It seems Jerry had left the ribs on about an hour longer than he should have. When we arrived, one of the men at the table, whose name turned out to be Rick, was joking about dried venison, camping supplies, and how the ribs would do if survival became absolutely necessary.

The ribs actually snapped when you tried to separate them.

But the company was excellent. There were Jerry and Jin, Rick and Adele, and Stash and his wife Nola. They were all neighbours, in country terms. Nola showed me the flashlight they'd be using to navigate their way home later.

The conversation and amusement was an endsummer night's dream. Jack and I did an adequate Doug and Bob Mackenzie, which never fails to entertain Americans. Jerry played us recordings of his cousin from Michigan, who is a standup comedian. And Stash told jokes, too, mostly Polish ones, which he's allowed to do because, as he says, he's proud to be a Polack. My boyfriend Josh, from high school, was Polish, and he taught me to say Noz-drovia! Which is a toast, and which means, of course, "Nice driveway!"

"What do you get when you cross an Italian with an octopus?" asked Stash, and then he answered himself, "I don't know, but can that sucker lay bricks!" You may not find that one as funny as I did, Gentle Reader, but that's because you didn't grow up in Beamsville, Ontario, during the 1970s, and maybe your daddy wasn't a German bricklayer who worked with them. Italians, that is, not octopuses.

Then Stash lit a cigarette, and so, since that was clearly okay with Jerry — we were out on the back deck, overlooking the spectacular box canyons — I did, too, and so did Jack, as he came to stand by me. We all smoked quietly for a while, taking in the view of steeply rolling hills covered in golden grass, and then I said to Jack, "I'm looking at those hills, and you know what I'm thinking?"

"Tobogganing," he replied. "Except it doesn't snow here."

* * *
We'd spent the day in Santa Cruz, on the beach, Jack and I, and I stepped into the Pacific Ocean for the first time since arriving in California, two weeks ago. We walked along the beach, and the boardwalk, and out to the end of the pier, and we listened to the sea lions barking, and laughed as they tried, and very often failed, to hurl themselves up onto the struts and shelves of the pier supports.

And we rode the roller coaster again. Twice. In the front seat of the front car, and by the second time I was brave enough to let go during the small hills, but not the really big one. Jack rides the whole way with his hands in the air. He has no fear. Not of roller coasters, that is.

The tide had come in by the time we decided to leave, and so instead of walking through the water we took the long way around, across the train trestle, and I remembered that other time Jack and I had taken a walk along the tracks. And so did Jack, because when we were half way across he said, ""I dunno, Vern, by the time we get to Jerry's the guy won't even be dead anymore!"

* * *
"So, how did you two meet, anyway?" asked Jerry. We had begun to approach the vast amounts of consumption to which he had referred earlier. It was nearing the end of the evening. Jack was inside, talking to Jin. Jerry, Stash, his wife, and the other couple, Rick and Adele, were still outside on the deck, with me. It hadn't been difficult for me to discern which of the guests Jack had been aquainted with before tonight, and which he hadn't, and so, mindful of the fact that those with whom he was likely knew very little about him, because that's just Jack's way, and those with whom he wasn't wouldn't care at all, but would be entertained by a good story, I shot the rest of my wine, selected a set of appropriate data, and began:

"We met in a class at university, fifteen years ago," I said.

"In Toronto?" asked Adele.

"No, in a small town not far from there, where we were both living at the time. And we got into an argument in class that continued after the class had ended, outside, into the parking lot, into my car, and..."

"Into bed!" finished Rick, who I guessed hadn't known Jack before tonight, and the others laughed.

"Well, no," I said, "You see, at the time I was married to someone else."

They oohed and tsked, and that gave me time to select from the data but their next question was unexpected:

"What was the class?"

Phew. An easy one.

"Rhetoric," I replied. And that was the tangent they needed. Jerry ran inside to get Jack.

"Who won the argument?" asked Stash in the meantime.

"He did," I replied. Without hesitation, because that issue had been settled long ago.

Then Jerry returned, dragging Jack with him, and they pounced upon him demanding to know what rhetoric was, and why he'd taken it, and then in a weirdly Newlywed Game sort of way, Jerry asked Jack, "So did you win the argument? No, wait, who do you think she said won?

* * *
"But that's called a jigsaw, isn't it?" I asked, when the sawzall was finally displayed, in all its glory, in Jerry's backyard shed at the end of the party. Jerry had led Jack and me outside, into the darkness, guided by a flashlight, to the shed, which was secured by a combination lock.

"It's 18-32-36, right?" Jerry asked.

"Sounds right," I offered, though of course I had no idea. "Remember from high school? You have to go all the way around, after the first number."

Three or four tries later, we were in, and the demo had begun.

"It's not a jigsaw!" Jerry insisted. "A jigsaw just goes back and forth, like this." He demonstrated, using the sawzall. "But this, this reciprocates, like this," and he powered it up and again demonstrated.

"So what you're saying is, it's a jigsaw that cuts through not only drywall but two-by-fours, nails, and pipes."

"Exactly!"

"Even when the pipes are not so much what you wanted to actually cut through."

"Yes!"

He was still weilding the power tool, and it was still humming.

"You don't have a goalie mask, by chance, do you?" I inquired over the roar.

He didn't, but he did have a circular saw, and a chainsaw. It was a terribly well equipped shed.

"I'm the kind of guy who likes the idea of the thing better than the actual thing," Jerry explained. "I'll go buy $7,000 dollars worth of equipment..."

"Like, say, for podcasting?" interjected Jack.

"Yeah. And then not use it. But hey, if you guys ever need to borrow some power tools, just come on by!"

A few minutes later, with the sawzall safely and quietly returned to its case, the combination lock secured on the shed door, Jack and I said goodbye to our host and climbed into Beauty. It had been a perfect day, but we still had a long way to go.

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.

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

Continued from part III.

We went to Nordstrom's, Jack and I, because we'd finished apartment hunting much earlier than I'd anticipated. Nordstrom's is in a fancy shopping mall in the west end of San Jose, across the street from Santana Row, and as we were wandering through the mall Jack spied a sign advertising Nordstrom's twice-a-year menswear sale. His eyes lit up as he told me a story about a particular grey suit he'd had his eye on.

I've known Jack for more than 15 years, yet this was the first time we'd been shopping together. It felt like a girlfriendy-boyfriendy thing to do, and caused me a moment of cognitive dissonance because, well, because we're not girlfriend-boyfriend.

(I know what you're wondering, Gentle Reader, and the best I can offer is to quote Woody on Crossing Jordan last night, "It's complicated.")

The suit Jack wanted was not available in his size, and he was quite disappointed. I love that he enjoys shopping. This is not a man who needs a woman to give him wardrobe direction.

And no, he's not gay.

Trust me.

So instead he spent his money on me, another thing that I love. As we passed the sunglasses aisle I mentioned how the California sun was blinding me, and how my good Ray-Bans had broken a few weeks earlier, and how I was wearing cheapo sunglasses.

I may have also mentioned how I'd always wanted a pair of Chanel sunglasses.

I tried on a few pairs and Jack, just as he had behaved when we were apartment shopping, refused to give an opinion.

"Whatever I say, I'll have to hear about it later," he said.

"You must be confusing me with a bagel," I reminded him.

I tried a pair of tortoise shells, a pair of pale pink ones, and several pairs of big, black ones, all with the double-C Chanel logo on the arms. And when I tried on the pair with the rhinestone-embossed logo, is when Jack said, "Those are you," and then to Skye, the extremely helpful salesgirl, "We'll take them."

You may not understand nor approve of our relationship, Gentle Reader, but there are times when it is quite splendid. You see, Jack likes to be in charge, and I like to let him.

To be concluded in part V. But before she can get around to telling you the rest of this story, Postmodern Sass and Jack spend an afternoon in their old home town.

He Blinded Me With Science

Last night Jack called me from his hotel room in Dallas and we talked while he ironed his shirt.

"I'm trying to remove the RFID tag," he explained.

I know what RFID is, and so I let him talk. I didn't know that there's a tag on each individual item; I thought it was only the cartons or cases, and the loaded skids, that were tagged. But OK.

When he said FPGA I knew it was not golf he was referring to, so I waited until the phrase field programmable gate array crept into the conversation, and then I listened as he explained what an FPGA is, and how it works. Lest you think, Gentle Reader, that this was a dull conversation I can assure you it was no such thing. Jack has a flair for rhetoric.

He's talking nerdy to me again, and in the Jack and Sass universe, that's a promising prognostic.

In the next story, Sass remembers an old boyfriend's car.

California Dreamin' [part XIII - fin]

This is the last chapter of this story. Continued from part XII. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Jack took me to a place called Birk's which, in our country, is a jewellery store. Here, it's a very upscale steak house in a dot com park next door to McAfee.

"This is where all the power lunches used to happen, back in the boom days," said Jack. "The place would be packed all the time. You'd see people like Scott McNealy and Larry Ellison and Sergei Brinn, and you'd have a hard time getting a table if you weren't with one of them."

So, romantic it's not, is what you're saying?

I had a flash of my friend Darp, who is married and has three grown children, telling me, Don't try so hard to figure us out. Men aren't really that complicated. You just have to learn to ignore what we say, and pay attention to what we do.

Jack ordered a bottle of most excellent Shiraz, a spicy wine that inspired me to order the peppered sirloin. When Jack ordered his steak, he asked the waiter to prepare it "medium rare plus."

"I've never heard that term before," I said, "What does it mean?"

"You know that rare is cold on the inside, and warm on the outside, and medium is pink but warm in the middle, and hot on the outside? When you order it plus it's just slightly warm in the middle, and hot on the outside."

I took a moment to consider all the ironies and double entendres presenting themselves to me in that paragraph, but expressed none of them aloud to Jack. Instead, I asked him to tell me about life in California. "What is it that you like most about this place? Why have you stayed for so long?"

Jack was quiet for a minute or so, no doubt turning over all the data he has imparted to me thus far in his eight years of living among the Americans. Turning over the implications of living in Silicon Valley, in a world we both know so very well, in so many ways, and yet which is so different from where we were raised.

"They're the opposite of risk averse," he said slowly. "You know how Canadians are, on the whole, risk averse? How we evaluate each situation carefully, and then decide... Let me back up."

He ba