Red Red Wine

I've decided to start drinking wine. Red wine, because it's winter, because I prefer it to white, and because it was one of the last things Jack tried to teach me: how to appreciate a Cabernet Sauvignon. He would pour it in a glass and swirl it, and talk about its legs. It was an inside joke. Jack was a leg man.

So I bought two bottles today, both from wineries in the homeland (a Merlot from Open, and a Cab from Peninsula Ridge). My homeland, that is. That strip of sandy soil on top of the Niagara Peninsula where, when I was a little girl, they used to grow Concord grapes and make them into pie fillings and jelly. When Free Trade came into effect in 1988 all the farmers ripped out their Concords and retired, and ten years later the carpet baggers moved in and opened dozens of chichi new wineries with designer labels. Even my home boys Dan Ackroyd and Wayne Gretzky did it.

The other thing I did today was go underwear shopping. It was on my list. It's a long list; longer than what I showed you, and I intend to work my way diligently through it this week while Gilbert, Mrs. Gilbert, Rex, and a couple of their friends are in Cuba at an all-inclusive resort. The all-inclusive includes all the golf you can golf, and they can have it. I'm having a vacation of my own, being alone while they're away.

Don't get me wrong, I love them all, I really do. Gilbert is my second-best friend, after Kay, and Rex is, well, Rex — I've seen him naked, so we're bonded for life — but I spend 90% of my time with them and I need a break. I live in Gilbert's house, and work for his company; and I live with Rex, drive to work with Rex, and work with Rex.

I really need a break.

Gilbert gave me no instructions, no responsibilities, while he's away. Astro is in charge, which is as it should be. Astro is Mrs. Gilbert's son; I've known him since he was a teenager, he's worked for Gilbert just as long, and the company would undoubtedly fall apart without him — still, I thought he, Gilbert, would have given me some responsibility. He didn't. I don't have a key to the office, so I can't stay late.

So I'm making a real effort to not work hard. It's hard for me to not work hard, having been taught by my father that if you're going to do anything, you must give it your all. But I'm trying.

I checked my personal email today, something I used to do all day every day, and something which, since I've been back home and working a real job in the real world, I sometimes go days without doing at all.

There was an email from Rex, sent two days ago (see?), a message from his mother that he forwarded. She wished him a happy new year, and she said "and the same to Sass," which was the first time she's acknowledged my existence since Rex and I were in grade 13.

So I emailed her. Yeah, I know, and this was before the wine.

You can see how this must look to her, can't you? Chronologically, I mean. I'll summarize, and if you want more detail you can read Rex's blog. Two years ago, I found Rex on Facebook. We chatted briefly, and I put him back in touch with Gilbert. Then he started working for Gilbert. Then last Christmas I went out with Rex and Gilbert. I told you about it here. (He wrote about it here.) It was the first time I'd seen Rex in more than 20 years.

In February this year — I mean last year — Rex left his wife and moved into Gilbert's house. And then in September I got kicked out of California, so I came home and moved into Gilbert's house.

With Rex.

You can see how this must look, can't you? To Rex's mother, I mean? And why the memory of her scares the crap out of me?

In the next story, Sass calls her best friend, Kay.

Gentle On My Mind

Yesterday I took Beauty, or, rather, she took me, to the City for the first time since we've been together. Jack's city, San Francisco, that is.


It's not that we haven't been together, Beauty and I, in and out of, and all over, San Francisco. It's just that I used to be in the passenger's seat. It still seems strange, sometimes, to be driving her without Jack. To remember that we'll be ending our trip in San Jose, instead of Pacific Heights. It feels wrong, but at the same time, it feels absolutely right. Jack wanted us to be together.

We both miss him awfully.

I was a little nervous about driving her in the City, because Beauty is a 5-speed, and, well, you may have heard about the insanely steep hills for which San Francisco is famous. I can drive a stick, don't worry. Before Beauty, all my cars were Volkswagens. I don't even know how to drive an automatic. It's the people who might be behind me at a red light that I'm concerned about. The people who pull up too close, never thinking that a German car might need a little rollback room!

My strategy, therefore, was to race up Van Ness, burning the first few yellow lights on the up side, so that I could make it to the peak without having anyone behind me. It worked, and we coasted over the top and down toward Union Street without incident.

We were going to The Black Horse. Jack's pub.


The charm of The Black Horse lies in the feeling that you're not so much in a public bar, but in a friend's home. You might be asked to run to the corner store for some ice, for example, or to wash a few glasses. If you're standing at the back by the storeroom, you probably already know that you'll be required to haul some beer to the bathtub, which serves as the fridge. Drink there frequently enough and you'll end up tending bar.

The Black Horse is the smallest bar in San Francisco. A dozen patrons make it crowded. This is also part of its charm; part of the reason why Jack loved it so, and why I loved going there with him. You can't help but meet everyone.

James, the regular bartender and owner of the pub, is another reason why I love it there. He's a charming Irishman with literary sensibilities, who posts pithy quotes on the tiny blackboard behind the bar for patrons to guess at. The first time I went to The Black Horse with Jack, on the way home, walking up the hill, he said to me, "You love him, don't you? James, I mean." And I had to admit it was true.

Last night, I asked if I might write on the board, and James allowed me to. This is what I wrote:

Death cannot stop true love. It can only delay it for a while.

Constant Craving

I promised you this story a while ago, Gentle Reader, the story of Beauty's license plate.

I ordered it from the DMV in San Mateo, because that was Beauty's home for years, and that's where her car doctor is. After I picked it up today, I dropped in for a visit, because I hadn't seen him since last summer's drama ended, the day I brought Beauty home.

I figured he missed me.

(He did.)

We went outside, where Beauty was waiting in the beautiful California sunshine, and smiled at her, and he said, "Wow, that's really a beautiful car. She doesn't look anything like the car I picked up for you at the auction house."

I blushed on behalf of Beauty, who can't. Then I told him how I'd visited Jack's father over the Christmas holidays, and how we'd agreed to blame the Awful Events on the incompetence of the administrators of Jack's estate, so that we could go on. I didn't tell him that, even though there was a great deal of incompetence on that front, I know in my heart that it was Jason, Jack's brother, who kept me from Beauty. But it's all in the past now, there was a happy ending, Beauty is with me, and I'm going to keep my promise to Jack, to look after her. Forever.

Besides, Jack's father let me play the storied Fender Stratocaster. And he let me put on Jack's old leather flight jacket.

When Jack bought Beauty, back in the homeland in 1996, her license plate was 105 YZT. That's how plates were doled out back then: three numbers, followed by three letters. It's different now. That was a long time ago.

When he moved to California in 1998 Jack flew, and Beauty took the train. Jack told me he planned to get the same license plate for her in California as she had at home. Just because he could.

Except he couldn't.

There was some sort of rule about choosing a vanity plate that was too similar to a regular, randomly assigned plate. It's a stupid rule, but such is the nature of bureaucracy. So he got 1O5YZTA instead.


The astute Gentle Reader who is also a Star Trek fan might take a moment to examine the plates in the two pictures above, and smile. For everyone else, I shall explain:

The registration number of the first starship Enterprise, the one we know from the original Star Trek series, was NCC-1701. That Enterprise is destroyed in the movie, The Search For Spock, and in subsequent movies the new Enterprise is NCC-1701A. Captain Picard's Enterprise is NCC-1701C.

When Beauty finally came to me, her plates had been removed. My first impulse, because I knew the meaning of the plates Jack assigned to her, was to get hers back. But then I got a better idea.

I got 1O5YZTB.


Do you remember the episode of Lost when Desmond gets stuck in a time warp, and Daniel Faraday tells him he needs to find a constant, something that was important to him in the past, and the present, and Desmond chooses Penelope?

Well, Beauty was Jack's constant. And now she's mine.

There must be some word today, from my boyfriend so far away

Even as I watch, in another application window, the messages from Jack continue to arrive. More than 200, so far, and Thunderbird alerts me to the fact that several thousand more emails are being downloaded. They arrive in the inbox with the sender's name bolded, just as they do when a new, real-time message arrives. I think that's what's freaking me out the most, to see his name pop up like that, over and over, as though he'd just pressed the send button.

When I moved to California two and a half years ago I didn't take my computer because it was old, and I knew Jack was setting up his Mac G4 laptop for me. He'd only had it for six months, but he was giving it to me. So I backed up everything on my old computer onto a pack of CDs, and left the CPU in the corner of a friend's apartment, you know, just in case.

Just in case someone I loved died, and I'd need to scour the machine for every last scrap of his existence.

The other day, after my visit to Jack's homeland, where Peter and I took a flask of Scotch and two glasses to the cemetery, I decided it was time. Time to crank up the old box and give it one last forensic exam. I didn't care about the hundreds of megs of TV commercials or the years of Powerpoint presentations from all the classes I'd ever taught. I cared about the email messages in my Thunderbird client.

First, I read all the messages to and from Jack. It was easy, because they'd all be gathered into their own folder years ago. Then I deleted all the messages that weren't from him, emptied the trash, and tried to figure out how to move the messages off the old box and onto my laptop.

It occurred to me a good place to start might be to install Thunderbird on the laptop. I hadn't used it for years, not since I discovered Gmail. I thought I'd install it but not activate it. Use it just as a viewer for the old Jack messages. But as I began the installation, it wouldn't let me proceed without entering a POP and SMTP server address. One of the options it gave me was "use Gmail," so I did that. What the heck, I figured, it didn't really matter what I entered, I wasn't planning to use the Thunderbird email client anyway.

So I typed my Gmail password into the required field, pressed the finish button, and the client opened.

And then it started downloading messages. They poured into my new inbox like water rushing over Niagara Falls, and I don't use the metaphor lightly; I grew up there.

I didn't understand what was happening at first. What, exactly, was it downloading? The date stamps on the messages were years old, so I scrolled up to the first one, and saw that it was the welcome message from Gmail, dated February 24, 2005.

It was downloading every Gmail message I'd ever sent or received. SENT or RECEIVED. Four years' worth of email!

They're still arriving. It seems to have limits and works in batches; it downloads a thousand or so, and then I have to delete, open, or otherwise address them before it will continue. Most of the biggest messages are between me and my publisher, with large file attachments. They are easy to group together and delete.

And the messages from Jack continue to pour into my email inbox. They are, for the most part, short and to the point. Dates and times and flight information for every trip we took together. The occasional sharing of a link to something the other would find amusing. A few pictures. A poem, or a song. And a great many apologies, from each to the other, but most from him to me, and most, I think, unwarranted. It breaks my heart to read them again.

This one made me laugh out loud, though the irony wasn't lost on me, either. Describing his day of checkups at the hospital, Jack reported, "The endocrinologist didn't like my approach to medication. As far as I'm concerned she can take her approach, fold it five ways, and shove it where the moon don't shine."

They're still arriving, the messages from Jack. Hundreds of tiny text missives. Oh, how I wish that this same sort of magic could be conjured with Bell or AT&T.

In the meantime, Gentle Readers who are tech savvy, since my personal geek is gone can one of you tell me where the mail files are in Thunderbird, and whether it's possible to copy and move them to my laptop?

Friday I'm In Love

You can understand, can't you, Gentle Reader, why Jack loved Beauty?

Soon, I'll tell you the story about the license plate. I think you'll find it amusing. Jack would have loved it.

Do Wah Diddy Diddy

Well I'm hers! (I'm hers)

She's mine! (she's mine)



Finally, Gentle Reader, Beauty is where she belongs. With her Auntie Sass, where Jack wanted her to be.

And all it took was nine weeks of sleepless nights, one private investigator, one skeezy auction house, two bartenders, two incompetent case investigators, one friendly landlady, one sympathetic neighbour, six incredible friends, $5,000 in cash, one lawyer, one awesome BMW broker, a really swell guy named Aaron (at the skeezy auction house), three understanding colleagues, one sympathetic sound designer (oddly enough), and a truckload of Internet karma — to defeat one evil bastard son of a bitch asshole brother.

At least now I understand why Jack moved so far away from his family, and why he never wanted me to get close to them.

Just look at the indignity they suffered upon his most prized and beloved possession.

It pains me to show you that photo, Gentle Reader, but I wanted you to understand what she's been through. But she's safe, now. Beauty is safe. She just arrived at her new car doctor's, in San Mateo. She'll need to spend a few days there, kind of like a visit to the spa. And when she's recovered, we're going to ride off into the empyrean sunset together, toward Half Moon Bay.

Last Kiss

That song always made me cry when I was a little girl, and later, when I was a big girl, and I heard the Pearl Jam version, it made me cry again. I don't know why.

Well, where, oh, where can my baby be? The Lord took him away from me.

Or maybe I do. Epic love stories with tragic endings. A Star is Born (the original, with Judy Garland). Wuthering Heights. Tess of the d'Urbervilles, which I read five times because I kept hoping that this time, Angel wouldn't abandon her.

I knew I shouldn't have told anyone that Beauty was coming to live with me until she got here. It happens all the time, at least to me, or at least it seems like it always happens to me. The jinx. If you talk about something before it's in the past, you'll jinx it, and it won't happen.

I should have known better.

Jack's father promised I could have Beauty. He said it would be complicated, and I would have to buy her from the estate, and I said fine, and then thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you. I know it's what Jack would have wanted.

(The whole freakin' Internet knows it's what Jack would have wanted!)

He told me I could have Beauty when he called me from the cottage where he'd been for two weeks, and during our conversation he invited me to come up there some time, and told me how much Jack loved it, which I already knew, because I'd been hearing the stories for years. He said, think about it, see if you can find out what the car is worth, and send me an email. Then he asked me a lot of questions about Jack's apartment, and his possessions, and asked if I could tell him about any of Jack's friends who might like to have something of his.

I spent the rest of the week composing a long, detailed email message for Mr M. I said, I have a friend with a truck who has volunteered to come up and help move things, whatever you need, just call me. I thought of all the things of sentimental value to me, and told him a little story about each one. I braced him for the naughty pictures of me in the schoolgirl outfit that he was likely to find. I told him I'd like to have Jack's Zippo, because I had a Pavlovian response to the sound of it clicking. I sent him pictures of Jerry, and Joomzey, and Rudy, so that he would recognize Jack's friends.

I sent the message that Friday, and on Saturday Mr M replied and thanked me, and said they'd be arriving Tuesday afternoon. He asked me to contact Jack's friends and arrange for everyone to meet at the Black Horse on Friday night. He thanked me again for all my help, and said he'd call me when they were here.

On Monday, I began to make arrangements for Beauty's arrival. I negotiated a parking spot. I asked colleagues for recommendations for car insurance, called Allstate, and arranged for the policy to take effect as soon as the transfer was complete. I located the DMV office nearest to Jack's apartment.

And then I waited.

I didn't expect them to call on Tuesday night, what with the jet lag and time zone change. I turned up the volume of my phone on Tuesday night, though, and slept with it beside my head, just in case. On Wednesday evening I still hadn't heard from them, but my friend with the truck called and asked what was happening. He said he could help me on Wednesday or Thursday, but not on Friday. I called the hotel and left a message.

All day Thursday I held the phone in my hand, waiting. I even took it into the bathroom with me; something I never do. By the time I went to bed on Thursday night, I was just this side of crazy.

Hold me, darling, for a little while.

I love Jerry, I really do, and so I made a point of telling Jack's father all about him in the email. "They were so very funny together," I said. "Jack would make fun of Jerry, because he didn't have 'suit body,' and Jerry would laugh harder than anyone. I know it would mean a lot to Jerry to have something of Jack's. Perhaps a tie, or a set of cufflinks, would not only be appropriate, but funny, in a way that Jack would have appreciated."

I was the go-between: Jerry hadn't called or written Jack's family; he said it didn't feel right, by which he meant he was too shy. People react in many different ways when someone they love dies; you can't blame them for that. So I talked to Mr M, and to Jerry, and told one about the other, relayed messages. Jerry wanted to take them out for dinner at Jack's favourite restaurant while they were here.

So last Friday, late afternoon, after three full days of literally waiting by the phone, and three full days of hearing nothing from anyone, I called Jerry to ask if he would be going to the bar that night. Jack's favourite bar, his Cheers, where everybody knew his name, and the owner was one of his closest friends.

"I'm on my way home to Morgan Hill," he said. "I'm not going tonight. We all went out for dinner last night. Jack's mother gave me a tie, and a pair of cufflinks..."

I didn't know what to say; I had to muster the vocal cords, so as not to cry uncontrollably.

"You... you went out for dinner?"

"Oh yes, Scotty arranged it, and all the people from Big Ass were there..." and again he went on and on about how wonderful it had been, obviously oblivious to the fact that no one had thought to invite me.

And then he twisted the knife: "Ace was there." Ace, who I've known for as long as I've known Jack; Ace, who lives 32 miles away — I remember, because he Google-mapped it the time he drove here to hold my hand and talk about Jack during one of the Very Bad Times — Ace, who hasn't returned my calls since the funeral.

I found the love that I knew I would miss.

Things I know about Jack that no one else knows: That he wanted bagpipes at his funeral. That he loved ceremony, and wanted me to have the flag. That he had a kilt, and knew I was a sucker for them, but would not wear it for me, not yet. He said there were only three occasions for which he would put it on: the funeral of his mother, the funeral of his father, and his own wedding. That he loved Beauty as much as he loved me, and that that was okay. That the bagels were his way of punishing me for knowing him too well. That after Sara's wedding, we shopped for diamonds at Tiffany's. And exactly what he meant when he said, I'm working on it.

Things Jack knew about me that no one else knows: That despite everything, I love my Daddy, and he loves me. That the reason I didn't want to elope to the Bellagio was because I wanted my Daddy to dance with me at my wedding. That I wish I had said yes ten years ago when Jack asked me to move to California with him. That I loved Beauty as much as I loved him, and that that was okay. My ring size. That if he asked, this time I would say yes, and that I'd want it to be here.

He's gone to Heaven so I got to be good, so I can see my baby when I leave this world.

* * *

Jack's Evil Brother has no idea who he's dealing with. I'm eight million times smarter than he is, and I will fight to the death for Beauty. We're going to have the happy ending that was stolen from me and Jack, no matter what it takes.

And Venus was her name

She's got it, ooh baby, she's got it. She's so beautiful, that's why Jack named her Black Beauty, or Beauty for short. She was always his best girl, and I was his second, and the three of us, well, we had quite a ride these last thirteen years.

Next week, she'll be coming to live with her Auntie Sass in San Jose. And one day, we'll go home together, for good.

Little did Postmodern Sass realize that Jack's Evil Brother was hatching an evil plan to break her heart all over again.

Dye my eyes and call me pretty

This is a very difficult week for me, for several reasons, all of them having to do with Jack. It's my birthday next week, and he hasn't missed it since 1995, and he knows that there's only one thing I ever wanted on my birthday, because it's the same thing he always wanted: another one. He didn't get his wish this year, and I probably will, and I'm feeling guilty about that, as well as 48 other things I'm not going to enumerate to you, Gentle Reader.

Sorry.

So here's what I did this week, to keep from crying all the time, to keep from going crazy: I went tattoo shopping, and I went therapist shopping. I've done both of these things before: therapist shopping, and tattoo shopping.

Jack had a therapist, Doc G, he called him. I always had his number, in case of emergencies, but when the emergency happened, well, it was too late, and I thought maybe it wouldn't be appropriate for me to call him. I struggled with it for weeks. And then one day, I picked up the phone and left him a message. I thanked him, for what he had done for Jack for all those years. I said, I'm not sure if you know who I am... and I left my number.

He called me back within the hour, and invited me to come see him, in the City. And I did. And the first thing he said to me was, of course I know who you are! Jack told me all about you. He loved you, you know, and I said I know, but no one else does, and then I cried more than I'd cried any time since Jack died.

The second thing Doc G said to me was, Jack wanted you to have his car. Doc G is the only other person on Earth who understands what Jack's car meant to him. That Beauty is more than just a car. That not only did he want me to have her, to look after her for him, but that I owe that to Jack. I owe it to him to take care of her for the rest of her life, and I will, if I am allowed to. But it's not up to me.

She's sitting there, still, in the basement of his building in Pacific Heights.

I sat in Doc G's office for an hour, in the same chair that Jack had sat in for all those years. We looked out the window, and there was Jack's building, you could see the roof, where the owls are. Where Jack and I stood, and watched the fog roll in.


Talking with Doc G, I felt closer to Jack, that here was another soul who really, truly, understood him, and who knew about the bad shit. I love Jack's father, I really do, and he knows me, and I think he likes me just fine, and not just because of the bottle of single malt Scotch I carried throughout the wake, but he doesn't know about the... um, complications, of my relationship with his son. He doesn't know, because his son kept me a secret. From everyone except Doc G. He's the one person, the only person on the entire planet, who knows what I know, who really, truly, understands. The one person I don't have to pretend with.

And I can't see him anymore, Doc G, I mean. Because he belonged to Jack, not to me, and we both agreed that it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be proper; would be, somehow, disloyal, if we were to have a doctor-patient relationship. There's no other kind of relationship we could have, I mean, it's not like we're going to go out for a beer together, that would be too weird; it's never going to happen.

So I have to find another therapist. Someone I can talk to about Jack. Someone who I can cry in front of, because I can't cry in front of my friends anymore. If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's that friends, no matter how great they are — and I have some really great friends, I do — they want you to hurry up and get over the sadness, and get back to you being your regular self, and if you cry in front of them for too long, it scares them away, and they don't want to be around you anymore, because you bring them down.

To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars

My cousin Cinderella is on her way here, and we're driving up to The City tonight. That's San Francisco, where my heart is, for those of you who may be local to some other city.

It's not the first time I've been there since Jack died. There was the wake at his local pub, for one. Jerry took me to that party, quite the celebration of his life, it was, and just like Jack would have done he looked after me, made sure I didn't get too drunk, and made sure I got home safely.

He's awful swell, Jerry is.

Then there was the Friday night I talked Jeremy into driving me up to The City. I promised to take him out for dinner to a place of his choosing so long as he'd take me to The Black Horse for a pint afterwards. It was Jack's birthday, and that's where I wanted to be.

But the first time I was in Jack's city without Jack was the week after he died, when Tim invited me up to hang with the Java nerds. To take my mind off the frustration I was feeling then, because no date had been set for the funeral yet, and I thought my head would explode from frustration. I love to hang out with nerds, especially with Tim, because he's, like, a pretty famous one, and it's never boring to meet the propellerheads that flock to him.

And hang we did, from one Java fest to another, then one bar to another. Now, I don't believe in karma, as a rule, but I had to wonder what cosmic forces had aligned when the Java troop trooped into Jack's after-work bar, the House of Shields.

To be continued.

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 improbablename 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.