We don't get fooled again

Here we are in Miami, me and my best friend since we were ten, Kay. It's spring break, and we have a strategic plan for avoiding the drunk kids and the girls gone wild. We're going to look for David Caruso instead.


What, don't they film CSI:Miami on location?

Seriously, though, if you watch the show, I'm dying to know something. When there's a scene showing them outside the building, the one where their lab is — is that a real building? Or is it CGI? There's something about it that always seems surreal.

But I digress. I'm in Miami, with my BFF, and because of the time zone change, and me coming from California, and her from Bermuda, she is fast asleep and I am writing to you and surfing late night television.

(To tell you the truth, we're not in Miami. We're in North Miami Beach. There's also Miami Shores, Miami Beach, Miami Lakes, West Miami... and, of course Miami proper.)

It took me most of the day to get here. Kay had arrived first, before noon, I think, so she picked up the car, checked into the hotel, and checked out the little huts on the beach, while waiting for me and my plane from Denver to get here. Everything that could be delayed was, so it was midnight by the time I saw her.

"Meet me at the Alamo," she said. They need to see your driver's license.

Then she filled me in on her day: "The hotel is nice. I went to the beach for a while, then took a nap. I only got home from work at 3:00 this morning, so I just packed and went to the airport. Now is not a good time to go on vacation. My boss tried to talk me out of it, but I said there was no way I wasn't going."

Kay is a banker in Bermuda. She has five clients, who, between them, have wealth equal to the GNP of a medium-size European country.

"So, you mean you have to do work while we're here? Please say yes!"

"Well, not exactly work, but I have to be available if my assistant calls. One of my clients is flying in tomorrow, and she's vexed that I won't be there."

I love that she uses vex in a sentence. That's my pal. I had been feeling guilty because I have a whack of work that needs doing in the next week, and I was worried she'd think I was a freak because I can't be separated from my computer for more than six hours.

Our hotel room is nice, but not so nice that we feel guilty about how much we're paying for it. It has the expected tropical flower print bedspread, and parrots on the wall. We don't have an ocean view, but who cares, we have THE OCEAN!

So here we are, or at least were, before she fell asleep; sitting on our two beds, Kay with a glass of wine, me with a beer, and both of us with our laptops. She shows me pictures of her son, and I show her Rochester's video of the frozen tundra of Iceland, where he's been for the last year. His commentary slays me.

She laughs at the same things I do, and that's what best friends are for.

Thanks For The Memory

Now I know how the Jews feel at Christmas. Americans make a Friggin' Huge Deal about the Thanksgiving holiday, but to me it's just a day where I don't have to go to work, it's quieter than usual, and mildly annoying that everything is closed.

So I stayed in, and had a productive morning. I touched up my roots. I vacuumed. I reviewed the first pass proofs of the first two chapters of my textbook (due to be published in March). Then Monica called, and invited me over.

"I've been up since 6:00 this morning, cooking," she exclaimed into the phone, a claim I found puzzling, since Monica's idea of cooking is opening cans or packages and heating up their contents.

Nevertheless, I have a rule, and she knows what it is: any time anyone wants to prepare food for me, I am happy to consume it. So I headed downstairs.

"Jazz is coming, and I bought beer, but it's still in the trunk of my car," said Monica as she opened the door. Jazz is her Bible-thumping, drug-addicted sister, and the beer was undoubtedly Corona, but still I offered: "Give me your key and I'll go get it."

I waited fifteen minutes for the beer to chill in the freezer, then opened one and joined Monica and Jazz on the patio. They were in mid conversation about something so to amuse myself momentarily I replayed my visit to the parking lot, where I'd waved hello to Beauty.

"Monica, I think I may have forgotten to lock your car just now," I said. "Do you want me to go back down and make sure?"

"No, don't worry about it. It locks itself."

"Seriously? You mean it knows? How can it know?"

"It just does."

"I wish your car would talk to my car!" said Jazz. She's a crazy Christian Bible thumper, and frequently makes those around her want to tear off her head and punt it across the room, but in between those moments she's a hoot.

"I can't believe I've been up since six this morning cooking!" said Monica again. She appeared to be waiting for us to ooh and aah at her skill and dedication, but I for one was puzzled about what she'd been doing, lo those nine hours hence. She'd shown me the pre-cooked turkey breast she'd put in the oven to heat, along with a dish of something that looked like stuffing. On the counter were a few sweet potatoes and an onion, but no evidence that they'd been called into service. There was a store-bought pumpkin pie in a box on the counter, and mashed potatoes in a pot on the stove. As I watched her open the can of that cranberry goo that Americans seem to love so much, I wondered whether the nine hours had been spent, perhaps, peeling three or four potatoes, or whether the mash had also come from a box.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" moaned Monica, looking truly distressed. "I made appetizers!" Then she opened the fridge and pulled out a plate of deviled eggs. "I just love deviled eggs, don't you?"

"I sure do," I said, and I meant it. See rule, above.

I still wonder what she did for eight hours and fifteen minutes, before I arrived, though.

My Hero, Zero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Bless you and i hope to read from you soon

Kisses and Hugs

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

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

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

I Hate Everything About You

That's the title of a song by Three Days Grace, a Canadian band of the I'm-an-angst-filled-twenty- something- from- a- middle- class- family genre, epitomized by Nickelback, and which I can't abide. What follows in the refrain is "Why do I love you?"

This song perfectly expresses how I feel about Facebook.

(Ha! Gotcha! You thought I was going to say Jack, didn't you?)

I may hate it — heck, I do hate it — but that's not stopping me from being obsessed with it. And I do mean obsessed. Last night I hung out on Nadine's fabulous patio with Nadine and Monica, drinking beer until 2:00 in the morning, and refused, even through my drunken haze, to answer their questions about Jack, except for to say, "Do you remember what Hilary Clinton said, when she was on her book tour a few years ago, when all the talk show hosts would ask her why she stayed with Bill?"

"What?"

"He's far from perfect, and yes, he's hurt me, but for all his faults, he's still the most interesting, intelligent man I know, and I'd rather spend time with him than with any other man I've ever met."

When I got home I logged on and saw that three more people had added themselves to my Facebook friend list. I'd broken the 30 mark on my first day!

Top Ten Things I Hate About Facebook:

1. It forces you to enter your year of birth.
2. It encourages you to enter years for everything else, so that people can do the math.
3. The word "random," used incorrectly, appears as an option for almost every indicator.
4. It wants you to indicate your political and religious views.
5. It doesn't offer "random" as an option for your political and religious views.
6. People whose profile photo is not of them alone.
7. The childish third-party apps, like Boozemail.
8. Student/teacher is not an option for indicating your relationship with a new friend.
9. The Americanness of it: It views "college" as not being an institution one gets a degree from.
10. Poking. It's just idiotic.

Number One Thing I Love About Facebook:

1. It gives as an option, under relationship status, "It's complicated."

My bloggerly friend, Neil Kramer, also lists his relationship status as "it's complicated." If you're not familiar with Neil's blog, he's an L.A. writer who lives with his estranged wife, Sophia, whom he absolutely adores. We're unsure how she feels about him. They're not divorced, they're just separated, but they live together. See? And you thought my relationship with Jack was barmy.

My friend Genie, whom I've known since grade three, is on Facebook. She emailed me a few weeks back to ask, "Do you remember a boy named Clifford Jerel, from Miss Parker's grade three class at Jacob Beam?"

"Um, yeah! I thought you said you read back to the beginning of my stories? Didn't you notice that I mentioned him? Real name and all, figuring, what the heck, it's not like he'll ever... see it... waitasec... NO!!"

"Yes!"

"No way!"

"Way!"

Thank you, Facebook. I can't wait until I hear from Roger Larmon.

In the next story, Sass eats chicken soup and watches All My Children.

Let it Go [part II - fin]

Continued from part I.

She called back just over half an hour later, and said, "Sorry about that, but you won't believe it, I was sitting down in the garage in my Mercedes for half an hour waiting for Ramon to show up, and then I finally went over to my parking spot and decided to drive in anyway. I'm so pissed off at him, it was just so inconsiderate, him going off for a day and a half and now it's been four days and I haven't been able to park in my parking space that I pay good money for, and have every right to park in, and now every day I've been coming home after a twelve-hour day and not being able to get into my parking spot and it's just been so frustrating..."

"Hang on," I say. "Back up. You mean he still hasn't moved his car? What happened when you talked with him just now?"

"I could sue him, you know. He's partly responsible for my car getting scratched, because he was parked over the line and he forced me to drive my Mercedes into that post. I'm not saying I would do that, but I could, if I were that kind of person. And I know that he did it on purpose, and that Pamela probably told him not to move his car, just because she likes to play those kinds of mind games. She likes to show that she has power, when really she doesn't have any. Ramon was playing power games with me. I can guarantee you that Pamela told him to do that."

There was no use trying to explain to her that Ramon cannot be held responsible for damage to her car that happened while his car was parked, and hers was the only one moving.

"So this has been going on since Monday..."

"But it's OK now? He moved his car?"

"Well yeah, but what's not good is that he left town on Tuesday and didn't even bother to move his car before he left, and it took him until Thursday to move his frickin' car! He told me on Monday he would take care of it but he didn't, and then to top if off he goes out of town and ignores all my messages..."

"But wait, are you saying that he went down just now and moved it, before you were able to get down there?"

"Yeah, but I sat down there in my car for half an hour because I didn't know he'd moved it..."

"But that's good, isn't it?"

"No! Because I've had to park on the street every day because I couldn't get into my parking spot..." Nadine is crying now, and has to pause every so often to inhale. "The temp in the office said she couldn't help me. What the fuck is with this management? I mean, I called every day, and Monica is off sick this week and I tried to explain to the temp what was going on and she was so useless!"

"But it's OK now? Your car is in its spot? Ramon moved his car?"

"Yes, but it shouldn't have taken him so long. He goes out of town for two days, I mean what the fuck? I left him three messages, and I said hey, you need to move your car, I can't get into my spot and I already dented my Mercedes against the post, so move your damned car. I have a twelve-hour day and then all week another 45 minutes is added to it because I have to try to find another place to park. And that bitch Pamela! I saw her in the garage and I said hey, there's someone in that parking spot you said I could use, where should I park? And she said, I'm not working right now, I can't help you."

"You mean Pamela was down in the garage just now?"

"No! That was on Tuesday. You know I know Richard, he's the owner of the building, and Pamela is after Monica's job and everyone knows it. They had a meeting with Richard and he said, Pamela I'm totally on to you, and if you don't shape up you're out of here, and you're not getting Monica's job so forget that. Whatever you do, do not trust her!"

I didn't ask how she could possibly know what was said in such a meeting, if it in fact did take place. I couldn't imagine Monica relaying that information to Nadine.

"She's young, she's stupid. And she's really dumb. She thinks she can better herself by putting other people down. You should have seen the look on her face when she saw me tonight in my Mercedes, down in the garage, she could have done something but no, she says she's not working she can't help me. And then she smirked. I can guarantee that Manny hasn't moved his car because Pamela said to him, fuck with her."

"But Nadine, he's moved his car now, right? And your car is in it's spot, and everything is OK? You can relax, and stop being stressed out. Even if you're right about Pamela, who cares? Don't let her get to you like that."

"I can't help it! You would have been pissed off too. I think I was actually cool and calm and collected compared to anyone else in the building."

Tomorrow is the release date of Postmodern Sass's Greatest Hits Volume V, in honour of her two-and-a-half year blogiversary.

Let it Go [part I]

The caller I.D. said "Restricted" so I knew it was Nadine. I had spinach and feta ravioli boiling on the stove, last week's episode of "What About Brian" playing on my laptop on the kitchen counter, and I'd just poured a beer, but I answered it anyway. We exchanged opening pleasantries, then she asked if I had a few minutes, and, silly me, I said yes, so she began to tell me about this week's drama.

"I'm so stressed out," she began, and I could hear the worry in her voice. "I get up at 6:00 in the morning and put in a twelve hour day, and I just don't need this kind of bullshit when I come home. I want to relax, and maybe have a drink, you know? But it's been four days now that I can't get into my parking space, and I can't deal with this anymore!"

"Hold on, Nadine, start at the beginning. What's the matter with your parking space?"

"Well it started on Monday when I came home from work, and there was this car parked next to me and it was over the line and I couldn't get my Mercedes into my spot. I have a concrete post on the other side and I couldn't squeeze in."

"So where did you park? What did you do?"

"Well, I had to go back out and park on the street, what else could I do?" The horror of having to park on the street was being clearly telegraphed in Nadine's voice. "What would you have done?"

I started to say that I would have written a polite note asking the owner to please allow me a little more space next time he or she parks, and left it on the windshield, but I only got as far as "Well, I..." before Nadine continued her saga.

"The bullshit politics that's going on in this place! Don't trust Pamela. She's a bitch and a gossip and she has a huge drinking problem. A couple of weeks ago I called the building cell phone when she was on call, and it was 1:00 in the morning and she didn't answer because she was passed out drunk." Nadine hiccups, then continues: "She was drunk at 3:00 in the morning and tried to get out of the parking garage and she stalled her car and then couldn't figure out how to start it again!"

Pamela is the assistant building manager. She's approximately twelve years old and as dumb as a sack of weeds, but I've found her to be responsive on the occasions when I've called the office about something. But then, I don't call the office in the middle of the night, and I wondered how Nadine had come by this information. I also wondered what it had to do with her car parking problem, but I've learned that where Nadine is concerned, the Perry Mason principle, as taught to me by my mother, applies: Wait until the end of the story. It will all make sense.

"She's such a bitch. I called her on Tuesday and told her what was going on and she didn't even care. I should demand a different parking space. So when I came home on Tuesday the damn fucking car was still there in exactly the same spot, and I didn't know what to do so I squeezed the Mercedes into the spot but I was right up against the post and there's about an inch of space between my passenger side and the other car and..."

I took a stab at an interjection, in hopes of clarification: "Is it a new car in that space, or is it the same one that's always parked there?"

"Oh, it's the same one that's always there. It's Ramon's car," she added, calmly, as though I should have known so all along. I know Ramon. He lives on the first floor. Last fall I'd heard from Monica that he had some furniture he wanted to get rid of, so I knocked on his door and we chatted and had a beer, and then he and I carried a chest of drawers up to my place. And then we had another beer. He seemed like a nice guy.

"Nadine, have you talked to Ramon about it?"

"Yeah, so, I called him on Tuesday night and he said no problem, he'd move his car, but on Wednesday when I was leaving for work at 6:00 in the morning the fucking car was still there in exactly the same place. He hadn't moved it an inch! And I had to get to work, what could I do, so I tried to back the Mercedes out and I scratched my car on the post and I was so upset and how can people be like that? I've left three messages on his phone saying hey, Ramon, how's Anna Lucia — we have the same maid, you know — hey, come on, Ramon, move your damn car."

Nadine paused, briefly, to take a sip of her vodka and cranberry. I could hear the ice tinkling in the glass.

"When I got to work I called the office and Pamela answered and she was all sarcastic and like, that's too bad but what can she do. I bet she told him not to move his car. She's such a bitch. Did you know Monica only hired her because their families were friends. She has three older sisters and she's always been the bad sheep of the family, and Monica gave her a chance when she would have been out on the street otherwise."

Nadine was nearly hysterical, now, but every time I tried to say something soothing, it had the effect of riling her even more. So I just let her talk.

"I am so tempted to go down there right now and park right beside his car and leave one inch in between just to piss him off. That'd teach him a lesson! I'm so upset! I'm going to call the office and demand that he be reprimanded. He should be told to put his car in its proper place!"

Her other phone rings, and she tells me to hang on a second. I hear, "Hello?" A pause, then, "Oh, hi, Ramon." Another pause, then to me: "I'll call you back."

To be continued tomorrow.

Calendar Girl [part II - fin]

Continued from Part I.

Sophia was terrifying me again.

"I wasn't changing the subject, honestly. It's just that there really isn't much to tell," I offered, in reply to her question. This was the truth. Mostly.

"Didn't you have a good time?" asked Sophia.

"Oh yes! At least I did. We spent almost an entire day together, going to different bars, coffee shops, and for pizza. We walked all over San Francisco."

"I see," said Sophia.

"It's just that nothing blogworthy happened," I told her. And this, too, was the truth. Mostly.

I know that I told you, Gentle Reader, that I had a date, but it was largely for Jack's benefit that I used the D-word. OK, and, well, I also said that to my salon girl when she was doing my eyebrows the day before, but the point is, in my own mind, I didn't know whether it was a date or not. In this day and age when children go on play dates, how does a grown-up define a date?

Just going out alone with a man does not a Date make. I know, for example, that when Blundering American visited me in San Jose it was not a date because he said so here. With Norm it was not a date because he's married. Same with Tim Bray, whom I've gone out with many times over the years, despite the fact that the first time was very nearly a career limiting move.

On the other hand, the times I've gone out with Jack to formally arranged events, such as Sara's wedding, or dancing on my birthday, or even to Jerry's party, I would have considered dates, but he, clearly, did not.

I'd like to propose, for your consideration, that what makes a date a date is that, though the get-together may have been arranged in all casualness, there is a possibility of, shall we say, a non-platonic encounter at the end of the evening.

The women among you will vouch for this, I'm sure, and may even wish to discuss the matching underwear question. The men among you, well, you can tell me whether Tod was right or not.

"Are you going to go out with him again?" Sophia was asking me now.

"Well, I'm not sure," I replied. "You see, I sort of ran out on him at the end of the night. We'd been walking from place to place, and were nowhere near the train station at 10:00, so I missed that train, and the last one is at midnight. So we wandered down to the Embarcadero and spent an hour at this wonderful little bar. It's right on the water, practically right underneath the Bay Bridge..."

"What do you mean you ran out on him?" Sophia asked.

"It kind of happened by accident. Suddenly it was 11:45, and the train station was a fifteen minute walk... and so as The Italian called for the check I said I'd run outside and try to find a cab, and that he should please forgive me if I was gone by the time he came out..."

"And you were?"

"Not exactly. It gets worse. I stood in the middle of the Embarcadero for what felt like ten minutes, and didn't see a cab, and then he came out and we started walking really fast, and he said he lived a block away and he would run and get his car, and I said OK but as a plan B I'll walk up to that corner and try to find a cab, so if I'm not there when you come back, you'll know it's because I found a cab and OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY TO DO THIS TO YOU I'M SUCH A TERRIBLE PERSON!"

Did I mention he's Italian?

I suppose there are simpler ways to ensure you'll never be asked on a second date. Mist 1 carries a wedding dress in the trunk of her car for this exact reason.

The photo is of Sophia, Hilly, and Sizzle, at Tequilacon in Portland. Notice the looks of abject terror in their faces. There's one more Tequilacon story, but in the meantime, Postmodern Sass smokes out Canadians.

Vertigo

My ticket for last night's San Jose Sharks game cost me only slightly more than my allowance had been as a teenager: $24. We sat dead centre behind the Sharks' goalie, 847 rows up, and I had an overwhelming urge to dye my hair blonde and dress up like Kim Novak.

There was me, épanouie, LBF, LBF's husband, a Mormon, a Brit, and an Australian. They're all science nerds. Real science, you know, like, with test tubes and mice and bits of intestines. I'd just met them all, because épanouie had only given me one hour's advance notice. Lucky for her I'm a hockey slut.

I'd worn my Toronto Maple Leafs jersey so that my people could recognize me. Not épanouie and her friends, I mean Canadians. I also own a red Montreal jersey (Chris Nilan #30) and a white Pittsburgh one (Mario Lemieux #66), but I figured those would be complete non-sequiters. Worse, even, than palm trees outside a hockey arena.


I had walked to the HP Pavilion along Santa Clara Street, where I joined in the parade of sweaters.


Two guys about my age, one short, the other tall, fell in beside me at a traffic light. The tall one had lived in Toronto, and expressed sympathy at the Belfourness of my sweater.

We chatted about hockey, and how it is done here in San Jose, as we walked. They explained that there's free parking in the direction from which I'd come, and that this pre-game westbound parade is therefore part of the festivities.

"Wait until you see the bunny," said the short one.

"The bunny?" I asked.

"Yeah. He belongs to the trumpet player."


"So, does the bunny have a name?" I asked my travelling companions.

"Dinner!" the tall one replied.

I bid my companions goodbye at the entrance to the Pavilion. They were anxious not to miss the opening ceremony, during which, they told me, the home team skated onto the ice through a giant shark head. Miss it I did, however, as I had to wait outside for LBF to come out with my ticket. Epanouie was still on 280, but LBF was already inside with the others, watching the players being vomited through flaming sharks' teeth.

She found me easily enough. I imagine épanouie directed her to look for the Amazon in the Toronto hockey sweater.

When the Sharks scored their first goal, two minutes into the first period, the giant dismembered shark head, now suspended from the ceiling, flashed its red eyes and blew smoke out its neck.


"I don't see anyone drinking beer," I commented to LBF, after scanning the crowd for plastic cups filled with amber liquid. "Are we not allowed to?" Then I noticed the people beside me had beer bottles in their hands. "Holy shit, they let you take the bottles to your seats?"


"They're probably plastic," says LBF.

"No way, beer bottles aren't plastic!"

"They make them especially for sporting events," LBF insisted.

I had to buy one. Turns out she was right, they are plastic:


Then I bought another one, you know, just to be sure.

Epanouie was late arriving, so in the mean time I answered LBF's questions about hockey. This was her first time at a game, and she wanted to know, for example, what the rules were for taking the puck from another player.

Um, are there rules for that?

Instead, I explained offside.

After the first period, while waiting in line for a $7.25 beer, an enormous young man wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with FRISCO asked me, "Is there a break after every part? I thought it wasn't until after the second."

"Can I have a beer, please?" I asked the service person behind the counter, an older Hispanic woman.

"What kind?"

"You mean I have a choice?" I was excited now. I'd only seen Budweiser; I hadn't realized there were other kinds available. "What have you got?"

"Budweiser," she said.

The beer was insanely expensive, but the steak burrito was awesome. Burritos are big here in California. I know, I'm surprised, too.

Back inside, bad metal was playing, and I felt very at home.

When the Sharks go on a power play, the theme from Jaws plays, and the fans in the audience extend one arm and move it up and down, imitating shark jaws opening and closing. It's ridiculous, silly, and cheesy, and I loved every minute of it.

With only 12 seconds left in the game, Bill Guerin took a penalty shot, making the final score 7-1 and earning a hat trick for himself. The fans threw hats — baseball caps — onto the ice.

Just before that spectacular final play, during a musical interlude, I heard the familiar honkey hokieness of Stompin' Tom's "The Good Old Hockey Game." My sinuses got all pluggy and my eyes got that weird welling up-edness and I made a joke about it to épanouie and she giggled but it was all I could do not to bawl.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass learns that it's OK to be impolite to Jehovah's Witnesses.

Chicago, Chicago, it's my kind of town

I've been skating at Logitech Ice, where the San Jose Sharks practice, and I've whined about the lack of hockey bars in this city.

I've watched the Canadiens play in Montreal. I've been to countless Toronto Maple Leafs games. And back when there was X I used to give him hockey tickets as a birthday present: one year we drove to Detroit, once to Pittsburgh, and a couple of times to Buffalo. There was a time when it was my goal to see all of the Original Six.

Tonight I'll make it four out of six: I'm going to see Chicago play the Sharks. My met-through-my-blog buddy, épanouie, just called and offered me an extra ticket to tonight's game, on the condition that I cheer for Chicago.

I am fine with that. I love Chicago.

I'll return to Tequilacon Tale Telling soon, but first, the good old hockey game.

Tragedy

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

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

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

"No problem," I replied.

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

"I never leave home without it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened in your closet?" I asked.

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

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

"Good lord!" I exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Three?"

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

"The same toe?"

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

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

Her cats are both shorthairs.

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

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

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

Life's like Sanskrit read to a pony

Now, I'm not calling my friend Genie a horse or anything but she's been reading my stories lately and believing them too much. She sent me an email today and told me that this one both amused and alarmed her. Amused, because she recognized the boys in question — she was there, you see, in grade five with me and Kay, and she had a crush on Roger Larmon too. I can tell you that now, because it was so long ago, and we're all grownups, and so if by some bizarre accident Roger reads this, neither Genie nor I will die of embarrassment.

Back then, though, we thought we might. When you're ten, and your bra strap peeks out from under your top, there's nothing anyone can say to make you disbelieve the end of the world is coming.

The story alarmed her, though, because she worried that Kay's boyfriend, the motorcycle boy, was killed, and why hadn't she heard about it and when, exactly, had it happened?

Well, Genie, the reason no one told you about it is because it didn't really happen. What you're reading here are stories, not an autobiography. Like most stories, they are based on events and people in the author's life, but there's a difference between based on, and really happened. Kay's boyfriend — yes, you know who I mean, Genie; the guy with the red hair and the great smile, who looked a little like Parker Stevenson — wasn't killed on his motorcycle. He did have a motorcycle, though, and so did all his friends. And it was one of them who was in-real-life killed. If you email Kay, she can tell you his name. I can't remember it.

Genie was my best friend, too. Before Kay. Genie and I go back to grade three. And all three of us are still close. Well, as close as we can be when we live in different cities, some of us in different countries. We have email.

There was me, Kay, Genie, and three other people I haven't told you about yet, but will one day soon. I've had a story in draft form for months about my friend Red. Genie, you know who I mean, don't you? Red and I were in grade two together. She's the oldest friend I have, and I still have her. The other two, I hadn't yet given names, so give me a moment.

OK, the girl who was in our circle of friends from grade three until the end of grade thirteen, when she moved to Calgary, is Kaya. She had black hair and dark eyes, and always told us she was part native. Cree, I think. And the only boy in our circle, the one who used to drive all five of us girls around in the back of his El Dorado convertible, with the top down and us sitting in a row along the back, just like in the movies; the one who was shorter than all of us and whom we all loved like a brother, except for Kaya, who loved him for real, I'm going to call Gilbert.

(That's his real middle name, Genie. Or his confirmation name. Or something like that.)

Next to Kay, I've always been closest to Gilbert, and he's closest to me now, both physically and emotionally. He lives not three miles from me, in Toronto, and we see each other about once a week.

So there you have it, Gentle Reader, a new cast of characters. I have so many stories to tell you about them...

And only Genie and Kay, because they both know who Postmodern Sass is, will know what's true and what's not.

In the next story, Jack talks nerdy to Sass.

Crush With Eyeliner

Sunday was The Viking's birthday, and in keeping with the philosophy that life's not fair, there was no Kickass Karaoke at The Rivoli that night. There is no more loyal KAK devotee, and nearly no better singer, than The Viking (seriously: The White Stripes. Cream. Radiohead), and it's such a shame that we couldn't all sing together that night, me and my karaoke buddies. Last year The Viking accepted karaoke challenges on his birthday. I got him to sing REM's "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" then. This year, I was going to have him sing "One Way Or Another," my signature song, because I know he can do it, and because he's told me that he thinks that a guy singing that song would sound like a stalker and he's right, and so because he doesn't want to do it is exactly why I want him to do it.

So instead I went to The Banknote with Maria.

I got there before her, and Martin, the bartender, says to me, "You're all dressed up tonight, what's up?"

I was wearing black jeans and a sweater, but I'd washed and combed my hair, and was wearing mascara. Lesson learned.

I tell him my date for the evening is Maria, the chicken wing girl who's recently lost her mitten. She promised to bring The Mitten along, so he could have a beer with us.

Martin asks about Maria, and I tell him she's the one who was here with me a couple of weeks ago, who reviewed the chicken wings. I tell him about her blog. He tells me he doesn't do that Internet thing much. I tell him a little bit about blogs, and how Maria writes about knitting, and chicken wings, and lost mittens. He says,

"She must have a lot of time on her hands."

I say, "Most bloggers have real jobs, and only write online as a hobby."

He asks what she does. I tell him she has a degree from the London School of Economics and works for a market research firm.

He seems to have difficulty parsing this information.

"What do you do?" he asks.

"I write about The Banknote, mostly," I tell him.

"No, I mean, in real life."

"I teach marketing."

"Where do you teach?" he asks, so I tell him about the university I work at now, and the one I worked at before that, and about the first one I taught at, right after I left the real world of marketing, in New Brunswick.

"In Nova Scotia?" he asks. "Halifax?"

"No," I say, "St. John. New Brunswick."

A minute later tonight's Murphy Brown waitress is at my side. "Did you ever teach in Nova Scotia?" she asks.

"No, only in New Brunswick. St. John."

"But are you from there?"

"Oh, no. I'm an Ontario girl, through and through." I reply. "My four months out east were a culture shock. They almost stoned me when I told them I'd never heard of Great Big Sea."

"You look really familar," she says.

"Maybe because I'm here all the time."

"Tonight's my first night."

And probably your last, sweetheart. Did you not watch Murphy Brown?

Yeah, I'm three miles of bad road tonight, and Maria's s'mitten.

* * *
Next, Sass gets a chain letter from her friend Angela. Friday, it's another chorus of "Working for the Weekend".

Don't Leave Me This Way

"She'll laugh," I heard Lulu exclaim, before I'd even had a chance to take off my coat and settle into my usual bar stool at The Banknote. She was talking to a shortish, long-haired man wearing a CTV logoed vest and drinking a Guinness. He had the look of a regular about him, yet I didn't recognize him as a Banknote regular.

The CTV guy turned toward me. It was clear that whatever story Lulu'd been telling before I came in, he hadn't laughed. This fact alone spoke volumes about him. If you'd ever met Lulu, you'd know it's hard not to laugh when she tells a story. The story doesn't even have to be funny; it's all in the way she tells it. Lulu is a pixieish woman with dark hair and eyes, and a dimple the size of a meteor that crinkles when she smiles—and she's always smiling. In telling her stories she imitates facial expressions, puts on voices, pretends to be chewing gum with all the daintiness of a horse chewing its oats, snorts and clicks her tongue for sound effects, and all the while wildly gesticulating for emphasis. The untutored patron who sits beside her, or passes too closely behind, is at no inconsiderable personal risk.

"Sass will laugh at this story," says Lulu to the CTV guy. Then, to me, "You'll laugh, I know it."

Then she tells the following story:

"So I'm waiting for the elevator after work, and it stops and there's a guy in it already, not anyone I know; he must work for one of the other companies up on one of the higher floors; so I get in and I've just put on my coat—you know my big puffy coat?"

Before I can offer a reply as to the state of my knowledge of her wardrobe, she continues:

"This one!" she squeals, realizing it's hanging on the chair behind her. She lifts up one of the sleeves to show me. It is indeed a puffy coat. Down filled.

"So I've got the coat on and I get into the elevator and I reach into my pockets to pull out my gloves—you know how you keep your gloves in your coat pockets?— and I pull out my glove from the one pocket and my pocket explodes!"

Lulu reenacts the elevator scene. A woman passing behind her chair ducks.

"It just exploded—feathers everywhere! And I looked up at the guy in the elevator and I said, 'Look, my pocket exploded,' and he says to me, without missing a beat, 'Good thing it's not duck season!'"

I laugh. The CTV guy does not. But Lulu's not done yet:

"And I burst out laughing, I mean that's funny, right? Duck season! And I said something like, yeah, good thing, ha ha, and then it's only later, when I'm on the streetcar on my way here that I'm peeing my pants laughing because I realize what I should have said. You know what the streetcar's like at 5:00, everyone's by themselves, on their way home, so nobody's talking; I mean nobody talks to anyone, and there I am, laughing so hard I'm just about peeing my pants, and they're all looking at me like I'm a retard, but I can't help it because it's so funny—duck season!—and then I realize what I should have said to the guy in the elevator."

Martin is bartending tonight, though it's Andrew's night, and that's why I come here on Monday nights—it's not just the $6.95 pasta pescatore special, it's because of Andrew. It's why all of us do. So when he's not here on his usual night it's hard not to feel...disappointed. Nothing against Martin, not at all; in fact, he's my second favourite bartender ever since he lent Dave his skates a few weeks ago, but he's too shy and quiet to make a great bartender, and, let's face it, there are plenty of places in this city where we could go for a pint. Like I tell my students, smart marketers know that it's not about the beer— or the coffee, or the haircut, or the screwdriver, or whatever it is that you're buying—it's about the experience. And Andrew is key to The Banknote experience.

But tomorrow is Tuesday; I'll come by after my evening class. Tuesday is Andrew's night, too. So's Wednesday, when it's half price appetizers until 10:00.

Lulu is about to tell me what she should have retorted to the man on the elevator:

"So it's only when I get on the streetcar and I'm halfway here that I think of what I should have said to the guy in the elevator, and you know what the streetcar's like at this time of the afternoon; it's rush hour, everyone's by themselves, on their way home, so nobody's talking, and there I am, laughing so hard I'm seriously peeing my pants, and they're all looking at me like I'm a retard, but I can't help it because that's when I realize what I should have said to the guy in the elevator:"

I wait.

"No—it's wabbit season!" she explodes.

I laugh.

"See, I told you she'd laugh!" says Lulu to CTV Guy.

I've managed to consume almost half of my Beck's while Lulu's been telling the wabbit story, and I haven't been drinking quickly. Like I said, it's all in the way she tells 'em.

Martin's got the cable radio on channel 73, the throbbing disco channel. Since I've been sitting here I've heard Thelma Houston, Alicia Bridges, and a weird one hit disco wonder from a zillion years ago called "I Lost My Heart to a Starship Trooper."

"I don't suppose you'd maybe want to put the radio on channel 33?" I ask Martin, trying not to give him the impression that I wish Andrew were here, even though that's exactly what I'm wishing. "It's the Frank Sinatra station."

"Sorry, I can't," Martin replies, and he does seem sorry, "We've switched it about six times already tonight; I've got to leave it on this for a while."

Vince, one of the owners, is in the bar, and it's his favourite station.

"So where's that good for nothing Andrew tonight?" I ask, Martin, jokingly. "Too hungover from his other job as a bouncer at the gay strip club to drag his sorry ass in here?"

I like to think I'm The Banknote's resident quidnunc. Then again, like I've said before, I like to think I'm 29. But I like to know what's going on, and I think that I do. Oh, Lulu's the mayor of the place—she'll get to know the new people and make everyone feel at home; entertain them with her stories. But I watch. I observe.

I write stories.

"Andrew's gone," says Martin simply.

* * *
The next story is more about Angela and Boz. There will be more about Andrew the bartender in Don't Leave Me This Way [redux].

My Best Friend's Girl [redux - fin]

Continued from yesterday.

Lulu shows me the text message on her cell phone: ALL YOUR FRIENDS GET IN FREE. JUST SAY HERE FOR LULU'S PARTY. YOU DON'T PAY FOR DRINKS ALL NIGHT.

It's from the owner of the boozecan, the after-hours club on Dundas. Lulu dated him for a few months and recently dumped him when he started seeing his old girlfriend again.

"You should see this woman, she's such a piece; couldn't be less like me if she were standing on her head. It's baffling." Lulu was describing the old-now-new-again girlfriend. "She's such a skank. Stringy bleached blonde hair. Always doing this when she talks."

Lulu sneers, clicks her tongue, and huffs.

"Huffy?"

"Huffy, sniffy, sneery, always looking down her nose as if she's hot stuff and it's so, so funny because she's such a skank ho slut. Leaves a trail of slime when she walks. At the boozecan she sits in the back at the poker table picking at the scabs on her arm all night."

Lulu is petite, dark haired, wears Tina Fey glasses and has the biggest dimple in her right cheek that sparkles when she talks. She's a trader on Bay Street and typically dresses in black chic. While she was dating Mr. Boozecan she bartended there on Saturday nights, or rather Sunday mornings, from 3:00 until 9:00. I've never been, but I can imagine how out of place she must look in that place.

I'm howling at her description of the skank. "And Boozecan went back to her? What is he, blind? Stupid? Both? What?"

"Ah, I sent him back," Lulu explains. "She was skanking around, and I could see that there was some unfinished business there, so I told him look, you go on ahead and work out your shit that you need to work out. I don't have time for those kinds of problems, I'm 38 years old, I'm too old for that kind of crap. At least I know what my problems are, and I can deal with them."

Actually, Lulu's going to be 38 on Saturday. She seems fixated with the milestone. I totally get that. She's a Leo, just like me. And she's a lulu.

"If you've broken up with Boozecan, why do you want to have your party there?" I ask.

"The party's at 606 — starting around 9:00, by the way — and I'm planning to close the place down, but we'll go to the boozecan afterwards. There's a band playing, Whatziz, and they're great. They weren't supposed to play that night but when they found out from Boozecan that it was my birthday they said they'd come."

"Let me see if I've got this," I pause to review, "You dump the guy, and he not only allows you to hang out at his club but he makes arrangements for the party? I am not worthy!"

"Oh, yeah, well, when I told him to go ahead and play with the skank and it's ok, but I know what I want and blah blah all that, he said after, how can you be so nice when I'm such a prick? You're the best girlfriend!"

"I bow before your greatness."

Benjamin the architect is sitting across from us at the other side of the bar. I frisbee a coaster his way. It brushes the top of his brushcut and succeeds in its mission: he picks up his beer and comes over to our side. Benjamin is another one of the regulars. I know him as well as I know any of them, which is to say, enough to write stories about them. He and I had a long conversation one evening a few months ago, during which he drew me a sketch and explained the architectural design principles behind the T.D. Centre. I still have that sketch; it's on a napkin, and the story is in draft.

When I was here with Denise, my PhD buddy, in June, Benjamin was sitting on our side of the bar, and when he left, Denise said to me, "He was totally checking you out, you know."

He's really quite cute, though he's not very tall. One day, a few weeks back, he was telling me he was in the market for a new car. "I'm thinking about a Porsche," he said. Funny, I think about Porsches all the time. After that I always noticed when Benjamin was in the Banknote.

Benjamin makes a comment about my outfit. I'm wearing a black top and a black and gold skirt, and the gold sandals. It's not my usual Monday night attire. I'm at the Banknote every Monday for the pasta special after my tap class, wearing sweat pants and with my hair in a ponytail, but tap is on break for August, and I've just been out with a man with whom I can wear heels, so I am.

"So where is he?" asks Lulu.

"He's on a rooftop in the Annex with his best friend," I tell her.

"Pauper's?"

"That's it."

"I knew it," she says, "It's the only place up there with a rooftop. So, tell, tell, how was the weekend?"

"It was... better than I had hoped. Really good. He might come down here; I dunno. He might close Pauper's with his friend. Hard to see, the future is."

Lulu tells Benjamin about the party Saturday night, then he leaves us to go chat with some of the other regulars. That's when she's telling me about her party plans and showing me the text message from Boozecan, that's when her eyes drift up, and that's when she leans in and whispers,

"Big!"

I turn around and there's Jack, leaning against the pillar, Bogart style, against the pillar behind me.

"Hey, you," he says. Then he extends his hand to Lulu and says, "I'm Jack."

"You're here," I say, trying to conceal my delight and not doing a very good job of it.

"I wanted to see you in your element," he says.

"This is Lulu," I tell him, "And it's only my element part time. She's the mayor here."

"Hey, Jack!" calls Andrew from inside the bar, "How the hell are you, man? What'll it be, the usual?"

"Andrew, good to see you, man," replies Jack, not missing a beat. "I'm drinking Stella these days."

"Long time, man."

"Yeah, so hey, how'd it go with that... thing?"

"Oh, that, well, it's good, man, it's good. And you?"

"Doing swell."

For a minute they had me believing they'd met before.

"How's Junior?" I ask Andrew. "Is he still home?"

"He's home, and he's doing great, just great," Andrew replies. "Bald as a doorknob, mind you, but he's fucking great."

"That's outstanding, man," says Jack. "Sass told me about your son, and that's just outstanding news. I'm so happy for you, man. Congratulations."

I'm in my local with my guy, and he's the best looking man in the place, and he's here because of me, and I want to pause this moment in time and keep it forever. And it seems like it's been only five minutes when Jack says, "I'm going to go. You'll come fetch me tomorrow?"

"Eight o'clock. I'll be there."

I walk him out front and pull out a cigarette which he lights immediately, instinctively, with his Zippo. "I have to find a cab," he says.

"This is King Street. One comes along every thirty seconds. Have a smoke," I tell him.

He does. It's an American cigarette, so it's done too quickly. A cab comes along and we walk toward it. Lulu, Benjamin, and Mridul are on the patio, and I know they're watching.

Jack has his arm around my waist, when he pulls me in for a semi dip. He can pick me up and swing me around, and I want so much to ask him to do that right now, right here on King Street, I don't care who sees, but I don't. He kisses me, then lets me go.

"See you tomorrow," he says.

When I come back into the bar Benjamin is with Lulu.

"Who was the big guy?" he asks.

"That was Mr. Big!" Lulu squeals.

"He's just a guy I've known for a long, long time," I say. "He lives in California." I want so much to add, he's my boyfriend, but I can't.

"Where's he going?" asks Lulu.

"To the Royal York," I tell her.

Her eyes widen and the dimple crinkles. "Why aren't you going with him?" she exclaims.

"He didn't ask," I say.

I order another beer and Benjamin tells us about the house he bought in the Beaches. He'll be moving at the end of September. I express disappointment at the prospect of him leaving us, but in my heart I don't want Benjamin. I didn't really want Boz. Upon reflection I doubt I truly wanted The Viking, back in February. My subconscious is good at pegging the ones who are unattainable, and when they reject me, I'm secretly relieved.

I'm not used to getting what I want, so I try not to want too much.

* * *
In the next story, Sass receives an unsettling phone call from Jack. And the next time she goes to The Banknote, she has a dream about, of all people, Jack's best friend.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do [part III - fin]

Continued from part II

"Did you see the final episode of Sex And The City?" Zee is asking. We're still at The Banknote, drinking, where we've been since part I. I've lost count of the pints, and it's a damned good thing we walked here.

"Yes, but only recently, in reruns," I reply. "What made you think of that?"

I have to be honest with you, Gentle Reader, I despise that show — but I watch it sometimes. I think all the women are self-centred, superficial, neurotic bitches. Yes, even Miranda. I only watch the episodes that feature Mr. Big, because Chris Noth is the celebrity man of my dreams. And even so, I'd much rather watch him as Detective Logan in a rerun of Law & Order. Tall, dark, and sarcastic; that's how I like 'em.

"I don't know; just thinking about relationships, I guess. I love that show. I'm so glad Carrie and Big got together in the end."

"Everybody loves a Cinderella story," I say.

Me, I just love Mr. Big.

"Girls do, at least," says Zee. "Do you remember the first episode? Where they keep bumping into each other, accidentally, until finally they decide to go out?"

"Love at first sight is a key component of the Cinderella story," I reply, by way of answering her question.

Sorry, I'm an English Lit major, I can't help myself. When I was at McGill I had Hugh MacLennan as a professor, and I remember him telling us there are only 12 stories.

"Also key to the Cinderella story are the Forces That Conspire To Keep Them Apart — evil stepmothers, lost shoes, what have you. That's why Carrie and Big spend the entire six years of the show getting together, then breaking up, then being just friends, then not speaking at all, and then he moves to California..."

Doesn't sound like anybody I know, that's for sure.

"Doesn't sound like anybody I know, that's for sure," says Zee. "Although, I can kind of identify with Carrie. Maybe that's just because, of the four of them, she's the one that I look most like."

"Be glad you don't look like Charlotte."

"Why?"

"I always thought she looks like Milton Berle."

"Are you talking about Sid behind his back again?" asks Andrew, as he places another round in front of us. Andrew is the sort of bartender who starts pouring as soon as he sees you come through the door, and keeps 'em coming all night until you tell him to stop. And you'd better tell him no more before you're halfway through your last, or it'll be too late.

Sid is the other bartender at The Banknote. He works weekends. He hasn't appeared in this story, yet, but he will if we don't go home soon.

"I think Carrie's the most real of all the characters," says Zee. "She's cute and fun, but can be insecure."

"Mr. Big is her Prince Charming: tall and handsome."

"She is sometimes fabulous, sometimes a clueless dork."

We've all been there...

"He is sophisticated, but distant."

"She's a writer."

"He's rich."

"She doesn't love him for his money, though."

"She has way too many shoes."

"He's in the driver's seat in their relationship."

"She loves him like crazy, and all she wants is for him to love her."

"He loves her, but he doesn't realize it."

In the final episode of Sex And The City, Mr. Big goes to Paris to find Carrie; to finally tell her that he loves her. There are a few near misses: he drives by her on the street, in his limo, without seeing her; he enters a building just as she's leaving it. Finally, he bursts into the lobby of the hotel where she's staying just as the elevator doors open and she emerges... she sees him... and all she can say is...

"Hey, you."



You'd have to be crazy to believe in fairytales, right?

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass has an I-can-die-happy-now moment at, of all places, a karaoke bar. Then, much later, she discovers that Mr. Big also karaokes. In August, Sass meets her own Mr. Big at The Banknote.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do [part II]

Continued from part I

"So does Zee edit lesbian porn too?" asks Andrew, when Zee has gone to the ladies room.

"No, she sells drugs," I tell him.

"Coke? Heroin?"

"Viagra."

Zee knows a little about Jack. She knows about my Cinderella birthday present last summer. She knows he's tall and handsome — she's seen the picture of us taken at Sara's wedding. I felt bad, showing it to her now, when she's having relationship problems. It felt like I was rubbing it in. Not that my relationship, such as it is, is so perfect, but it sure is a swell photo, don't you think?

Zee has returned from the ladies room.

"So?" she asks again,"What do you think I should do?"

"Have another drink."

Zee also knows about what happened in September. She'd seen the fabulous pink dress, and had been admiring it, and all the smashing accessories I'd collected for it, all from eBay: the pink satin silver trimmed clutch, the pink rhinestone barrette, the pink rhinestone cocktail ring that exactly matched the buttons on the coat, and the shoes; oh, the shoes! When I told her that I hadn't yet been able to find earrings, she said, "Wait a minute," ran to her place, and was back in ten minutes with them. The absolutely perfect pair of pink rhinestone earrings.

Andrew sets another gin and tonic down in front of Zee, and another pint of Moosehead in front of me. He is grinning.

"Viagra, eh?"

"Forget it," I say to him. "She's heard all the jokes." Then, to Zee, "I don't understand men."

"You're looking to the wrong person for clarification on that," she says.

"I mean about the Viagra. Correct me if I'm wrong — you're the expert — but isn't Viagra a medication for men who have a problem? So why do they all want it? You'd think they'd be embarassed."

"Oh, they're not embarassed. They flash it around like a badge of honour; like teenagers carrying a condom for the first time. The worst are my customers, the doctors and the pharmacists. I doubt the samples I give them ever make it to the patients."

When I went to San Francisco for my birthday last August, Zee made me promise to take lots of pictures. She wanted to see the guy that I hadn't been able to shut up about. So I promised I would, but I broke that promise. It was the most fantastic, romantic, fairy tale weekend of my life, and I didn't want to share it with anyone other than Jack. So I didn't take any pictures.

"Darryl was always bugging me to try it," says Zee.

"The Viagra?"

"Yeah. But I wouldn't let him. His problem isn't physical, it's emotional. He needs a therapist, not a pharmacist."

When Jack didn't come for Carly and Simon's wedding, I avoided Zee for a week, but eventually I had to give the earrings back; I had to tell her what had happened. But after New York, I went to her place straight from the airport to tell her that this time, he had come.

The Star is still lying beside me, on the bar. I ask Andrew for the scissors and snip some headlines. I lay them out on the bar for him to choose from.

In the auto section there's a big red headline, part of a car dealer's ad. I can't resist: IT KEEPS GETTING HARDER. Andrew tapes it to the front of his shirt.

"Any lawyers here?" I ask Andrew. From a headline reading something about rumours dim advocates' hopes, I snip DIM ADVOCATE.

I cut a word from another car dealer ad: HUMMER. Jason, the architect, who has been sitting on my other side, watching, says, "How'd you know that one?"

"I teach twenty year olds," I answer.

"I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him, and he knows it," Zee told me on Sunday night, after she had confronted Darryl about his weekend. "His brother, his sister-in-law, his father, they've all told me, Darryl's a different person. What have you done to him? You two are perfect for each other. I would do anything for him. I would take a bullet for him. Well, maybe not today, I wouldn't. Today I want to put one in him.

Zee was saying, "I should have my head examined for putting up with him, shouldn't I? I mean, if he doesn't realize how great we are together, how much I love him... why don't I just give up? You must think I'm crazy."

"You know I don't."

Zee doesn't know that "Crazy" is my other theme song.

Zee lets out an exasperated sigh. "Men. Argh. Why are they like that?"

"Have you ever seen that poster?"

"Which one?"

"This one:"



"Don't give up on him," I tell her, finally.

To be concluded tomorrow.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do [part I]

I've just come from my friend and neighbour Zee's place. She looks just awful, and that's tough for her to do. She's a mess because she just broke up with her boyfriend again. She also broke up with him on Sunday, and had tried to on Friday night. So I'm going to walk her up to The Banknote and get her drunk.

This is what women do. What men do in these situations, I do not know.

The last time I got dumped Magda did the same for me, and a few weeks later it looked like I was about to be called upon to return the favour, but it turned out not to be necessary.

It's definitely necessary for Zee, though, even though she was the dumper, not the dumpee. Breaking up is hard to do no matter how it's done, and so alcohol is required to dull the pain and open the vents.

Zee and I are just going to change out of our work clothes, and then we're going.

Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name
And they're always glad you came
You wanna be where you can see
Our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows your name.

* * *
Andrew, my dragon-slaying bartender whom I told you about here, is engaged at the other end of the bar with a pair of scissors. I know what this means, but Zee isn't a regular here, so she doesn't suspect a thing when Andrew comes around to our side of the bar, greets me, introduces himself to Zee, and touches us lightly on our backs.

Zee left a message in my voice mailbox on Friday afternoon: "Hey, it's me. I was hoping you'd be able to take Gracie out at suppertime. I'm in Mississauga, on my way to Darryl's to end it once and for all."

Gracie is Zee's dog. A Weimaraner.

Darryl is Zee's boyfriend. A whiner.

"Is he the one you were telling me about?" asks Zee, indicating Andrew.

"Yeah. He's married, though, and just had a baby boy last fall."

"Damn."

"Yeah, I know."

I turn away from her for a moment, so she can see my back.

"Hey, you've got something stuck to your back!" Zee exclaims. "It looks like a newspaper headline."

"What does it say?"

"SASS IS IN."

"Must have come from the fashion section. Turn around, let's see what yours says."

She turns. Hers says MUST DO BETTER.

"Welcome to The Banknote."

"Every time I get too close, he pushes me away," Zee told me, later on Friday night. Darryl wasn't home when she got there. She let herself into his place, called his cell and left a message, but she couldn't find him so she came home. "This has been our problem all along. He doesn't want to take a risk. In anything. His whole life has been very structured; he was raised to believe that for every effect there's a cause. We've been together over a year and, you know, it's time to move forward, but he's afraid because he doesn't know if I'm the one. He says he needs to know, for sure, that I am. He needs a guarantee.

Andrew's gone out for a smoke break. I take the scissors to the front page of the Toronto Star



and prepare to tape TERRIFIED PATRONS FLEE to his back when he returns.

"Darryl's mother died when he was 11, and it was never talked about. To this day, he doesn't know what she died of. Cancer, that's all he knows."

"He never asked? Not even when he got older?"

"No. No one in their family ever talks about it. His father remarried the wicked witch. His brother and sister are more fucked up than he is. Everyone he knows who's married has had an affair. Either the husband or the wife. Even his older brother, married for twenty years to his highschool sweetheart."

"Sounds like he's never been happy, so now, with you, he doesn't know how to be."

Dimestore psychology, to be sure, but that's what you go to a bar for, isn't it?

"Everyone he's ever loved has abandoned him, starting with his mother, so he's afraid that everyone he loves will eventually abandon him. And so it's easier for him to push me away; to make me angry; to give me a damn good reason to break up with him, so he can say to himself, well, there you go, I behaved like an asshole so she dumped me, and I deserve it. That's easier for him to deal with."

What he did, by way of giving her a damn good reason to break up with him, was spend the weekend with another girl. That's why Zee couldn't find him on Friday night.

Mridul, the Air Canada pilot, has come in and taken his usual seat in front of the taps. He's not wearing his uniform tonight. Andrew pours him a Guinness and tapes a headline to the glass: FLIGHT OF FANCY.

Lulu is sitting directly across from us, along the other side of the bar. I peel my headline off my back and tape it to my glass, then hold it up for her to see. She laughs. Hers says MIRED IN SCANDAL. Lulu is a securities trader by day, and a bartender at the after-hours joint up on Dundas by night.

"I like this place," says Zee. She moves her headline to her glass. She's drinking gin and tonic, in an Old Fashioned glass. Her headline, snipped from the front page of the business section, is in 80-point type, making it difficult for her to handle the glass.

She bends her head down to the glass and takes a sip through the straw.

"What would you do if you were me?" she asks.

To be continued tomorrow.

I Could Have Danced All Night

Exactly two weeks ago I was sitting in the Library Lounge at the Roslyn Claremont Hotel on Long Island (it's a very long island), killing time. It was only 12:30; my flight home wasn't for four hours, and all the other wedding guests, including Jack, including the bride and groom, had just left.

The groom's parents had hosted a lovely brunch that morning, and I'd had a bagel with lox and cream cheese (and capers!), but it was one of those days when there's no such thing as too much coffee, so I was waiting for the bellman to bring me some more. He arrived with a salver and my own silver pot.

Salvor: Servant of royalty or nobles whose duty was to sample the food and drink prepared for their masters, who feared assassination. The word derives from Latin salvus, meaning safe, the root word of salvation. Eventually spelled salver, the word came to mean the silver tray on which the tested victuals were placed. Later, the nobles switched from silver cups to crystal, because it was believed that fine crystal would break, and thereby protect its owner, were poison to be put into it. — Jeffrey Kacirk

The Roslyn Claremont is a beautiful hotel, but it's secluded, and not well equipped for anything other than weddings. For that, however, it is spectacular. As Sara's wedding guests checked out and piled into vans that would take them into the city for a day of shopping, a new fleet of cars was arriving in the parking lot, unloading people in fancy dress for the next wedding.

But let me tell you about Sara's.

It was a beautiful, emotional, romantic, but not so serious as to be tedious, ceremony, and a learning experience for me. The ceremony began at 7:00 last night. In Jewish tradition, I was told, if you get married on a Saturday it must be after sundown.

There was a program. Six pages printed in blue metallic ink on card stock, with a cover, tied with a ribbon. No expense was spared for this wedding.

Sara's father walked her down the aisle. He stopped right beside me, lifted her veil, kissed her, and sent her on her way. And that's when I feared for my mascara. I've known Sara's father for twenty years — he lives in Toronto, and calls me sometimes, just to see how I am. I remember when her mother died, when we were in university. Now both of us are motherless. I wonder if my father will live long enough to do that for me.

There was a lovely white chuppah.

In traditional Jewish thought, a marriage involved a ceremony that takes place under a canopy. In modern Jewish weddings, this canopy, called a chuppah, is the large prayer shawl (tallit) owned by the groom.

It was large enough for the bride and groom, the rabbi, and the wedding party to stand under. Though I doubt it was made from Steven's prayer shawl.

The Rabbi explained the ketubah.

In traditional Jewish thought, a marriage is certified by a wedding contract known as a ketubah. This legally binding document is agreed upon by both parties, and serves as a visible reminder to all that this bride belongs to this groom.

In other words, added the Rabbi (who I assumed is a standup comedienne on her off days), the bride was considered chattel. There were chuckles from the audience, and the look on Sara's face, a mixture of amusement, sarcasm, and bare tolerance, was priceless.

Then there was the baruch atah, the blessing. And finally, Steven stepped on, and crushed, the glass. The Rabbi said, this couple is now joined together until the pieces of the glass come back together.

And that's a Jewish wedding. It's only the second one I've ever attended. The first was Adam and Lisa's. I felt the same emotions then as I did today. There's just something about their ceremony that's very different from the typical Lutheran or other Protestant wedding in my world.

Jack put his finger on it: "They really mean it, don't they?"

* * *
The reception, too, was different from the ones I'm used to. Instead of a hastily consumed meal of rubber chicken, followed by interminable speeches, followed, finally, by dancing, this reception began with dancing, then there was food, then more dancing, then a speech, then more food, then more dancing... you get the idea. There was, quite literally, never a dull moment.

I danced with Jack. Boy, did I ever. Have I mentioned he's a really great dancer? We even did the Lindy Hop to Glenn Miller. For once in my life I had the handsomest boy at the party. No fewer than eight of Sara's friends and relatives told me so, privately. And Sara, my gimlet-eyed friend, told me she likes Jack.

Throughout the evening, as Jack was introduced to Sara's friends — we were sitting at a table with the Toronto crowd — he would mention that he lived in San Francisco. They would ask, How are you enjoying your trip? When did you get into the city? How long are you staying? One even asked me, How do you like living in San Francisco?

They seemed confused when either Jack, or I, would inform them that he had come only for the wedding, had arrived yesterday, and was returning tomorrow. He flew across the country. Through O'Hare. Twice.

For me.

Because I asked him to.

It won't be difficult for me to keep that promise.

For twenty four hours the Very Bad Things were held at bay. For the most part. And I felt like Cinderella again, for only the second time in my life. But there were eggshells to be considered. I was conscious of them with every step of my rhinestone-buckled shoes.

* * *
The day after the wedding my hair was still in its Phoebe bun, with little stick-outy bits, but no rhinestones or chopsticks. It was a bit flattened, from having slept on it, but since it cost me $100 U.S. I decided I would never wash my hair again. At the very least, I would go to the Rivoli with it. Sara's hairdresser, who was summoned from the city, did it for me.



She also does hair for Law & Order, and has done Chris Noth, the celebrity man of my dreams. I met him once. Well, not met so much as bumped into on the street — literally — in New York a few years ago. He has great hair, and he's really, really tall.

But he doesn't pick me up and swing me around like the real man of my dreams does.

I asked Janice to take a picture of me and Jack, just in case I didn't see him again for six years. I'm very pleased with how it turned out. I'm sorry I can't show you the look on his face, but I'm glad I have photographic evidence of it. That's something.



* * *
That morning, two weeks ago, I walked Jack to his car. Though Sara's wedding day had been glorious and sunny, today it was dismal and rainy. He loaded his bag into the trunk, clicked it shut, and turned to me.

"Do you believe that stuff the Rabbi said?" he asked.

"Most of it, yes. About the chattel, not so much," I replied. "Which part in particular are you referring to?"

"When she said, in order to understand life, we must go through it with another person."

"Do we have time for one cigarette?" I asked.

Jack pulled out his Zippo.

We walked back to the shelter of the hotel awning and watched the rain in silence for the duration of a smoke. Then we returned to his car.

"To answer your question," I told him, "I don't think we must. But I think it helps."
* * *
Sass could have danced all night, if the band hadn't stopped playing. The morning came too soon, and she turned back into a pumpkin. Will she ever dance with Jack again? Who knows, Gentle Reader. Right now Sass doesn't know if she'll ever even see Jack again.

Going To The Chapel

My old friend from university, Sara, is getting married in New York next month, and I couldn't be happier for her. I asked Jack to escort me but he refused, which is just as well, since last time he accepted and then stood me up.

She's not, in point of fact, going to the chapel, but rather to a beautiful hotel on Long Island. I told Sara, "I don't care if I have to show up alone, dance alone, sleep alone, and sit in a corner by myself all night, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Though I haven't met the husband-to-be Sara assures me I will love him. "He's a huge Monty Python fan," she says, by way of making her point, keenly aware of the roads that lead to my heart. Last summer, when I took my first PhD course, "Ways of Knowing," and learned who Immanuel Kant, Heidegger, David Hume, and Wittgenstein, really were, I couldn't stop giggling.

I sure hope she's right about me loving him. Over the years I've met some of Sara's men, and they stirred many emotions in me, yet love was never one of them.

There was Errol, who I met in New York not long after Sara first moved there. He drove a Saab convertible, wore a diamond pinky ring, and reminded me of Snidely Whiplash. He was getting divorced, Sara told me. He was getting divorced... he was getting divorced... he was getting divorced. Finally, he got divorced. And then he married someone else.

There was Adam, the man for whom Sara spent two years living in Los Angeles, because he'd moved there after they had been dating for five years. The only problem was, she hadn't mentioned to him that she was planning to follow him. She managed to have her company transfer her to the west coast — it wasn't difficult; Sara works in the entertainment industry and at that time was an agent for one of the biggest talent firms in the country — then called him, casually, to say she was in town and would he like to go out for dinner. Before he could return her call, two weeks later, she was at the gym when her personal trainer, who was also his personal trainer, asked Sara whether she had heard that Adam was engaged.

All Sara's ever wanted is to marry a nice, Jewish, doctor. I don't think that's too much to ask for. But she's not had much luck that way, and it's about time she found one to be happy with. I hope with all my heart that Stephen King is the right man for her.

Oh, did I mention that that's his name?

I'll report on The Groom and, of course, The Dress, after the event. For now, I can report on The Shower, from which I've just come; The Maid of Honour; and The Ring.

Six of us took Sara to brunch today at the King Eddie. It was very grown up. Everything seemed to come with goat cheese, even the biscuits. Damned good coffee. We gave Sara her gift, a gift from all of us which Francine and I had done the shopping for yesterday. It was a long silk nightgown, in the most gorgeous pale gold colour, with delicate criss-crossed spaghetti straps and not one speck of lace on it anywhere. It cost more than my car.

I was terribly worried that Sara wouldn't like it. She can be rather... particular. Or that it wouldn't fit. It is, after all, lingerie. But she insisted that she loved it, and I don't think she's that good a liar. I was thrilled that she really liked it. See, I rather pride myself on being a good present-giver. I would have hated for this one to have missed the target.

At brunch I met Sara's Maid of Honour, her even-older-friend-than-me friend from high school. I felt like something of an alien, surrounded by JAPs whose recurring topic of conversation was their relative levels of JAPdom. That's their term, by the way, not mine.

The winner of the JAP-off, as declared by me, at any rate, was the Maid. Do you remember Janice, Chandler's ex-girlfriend, on Friends? I wasn't quick-thinking enough to make up a lie about moving to Yemen, so instead I found myself agreeing to be Janice's roommate at the hotel in March.

Ah, yes, The Ring.

I've always been of the opinion, though rarely expressed, that diamonds are, well, common. Every married and engaged woman has one, and I've never much cared to have something that everyone else has. I would prefer a ruby, or a sapphire. They have colour, and character, and look stunning accented with diamonds.
Not that any man's ever offered me one of any of the above, mind.

After seeing Sara's ring, however, I'm starting to feel a stir of affection for her friend Tiffany.

* * *
Next, Postmodern Sass begins the story of Jack and Diane. If you like, Gentle Reader, you may skip ahead to this story and find out what Sass bought her friend Sara for a wedding gift.