My Old Man Hat

One Halloween while I was in High School, I wanted to dress up as a reporter. It wasn’t much of a stretch, since most of my high school years were spent pouring over the beleaguered high school newspaper. Plus, I already had the overcoat. All I needed was the fedora.

My grandfather wore fedoras. He had a whole bunch of old ones too. So I asked my grandmother if I could borrow one. She went and pleaded my case to my grandfather and he agreed to let me borrow it, as long as I took care of it.

But when he saw me, the day I dressed up, he said “That looks pretty good on you. Looks good on him doesn’t it mom?” (he called my grandmother mom, we were all sitting around the kitchen). “Well, you might as well keep it. I got my new one.” And then he left the kitchen. My grandmother’s eyes were as wide as I had ever seen them. He hardly ever gave anything away.

During the next two years of High School I frequently wore the hat, not just as dress up or as a prop. I was proud of it, partly because it was cool, and partly because my grandfather had given it to me.

I used it one time at a Grad social. I was the MC, and did a This Hour Has 22 minutes type routine with a friend of mine.

But I also performed this poem, with my hat. It was originally about how frustrated I was with the entire student body who was content to grumble and complain about the school, but not to speak out so people could hear them (i.e. in the student newspaper I edited). But it ended up being more about my grandfather somehow. More about how I felt like I imagined my grandfather feeling. And when I read it with his hat on, I felt at once proud to be like him, and scared I would end up like him.

Old Man In A Rocking Chair

I'm getting old you know
And it doesn't look that way
Because only yesterday I was young
But I know I'm old
I can feel it in my eyes
Soon I will be wearing brown pants
And complaining about my back

I'm going deaf you know
It happens to old people
They start to miss things
When I'm deaf
Will you hear for me?
Will you hear that music
That floats in the air
Waiting for MY ears?
Will you hear the screams
And listen to the whispers?
Even though you say you will
I know you won't

I'm going blind you know
It's part of being old
I can't read the writing on the wall
That has inspired me for so long
When I was young...
I can't see all the beautiful faces
Or even the ugly ones
I can't watch the fire dance
I will never see the clouds
Paint the sky....
Will you see for me?
No, you will not

I'm getting cranky you know
And no one listens
To a cranky old man
I used to know what to say
Articulate
I could explain to people
I know what they should do
I knew
And now I don't
Because I'm cranky
Will you speak for me?
No! Of course not!
You've never said a word in your life!
You just sit there
I know you see
And I know you hear
You just..

You see
I you I was cranky

I'm tired now
That's another part of being old
And I've got such a headache
I think I'll take a nap

(1994)

Marriage of the Matriarch

If it was anybody else, I would think it was an oppressive, sad relationship.

My grandmother couldn’t be on the phone too long because my grandfather would get upset. She couldn’t go anywhere by herself because he would get jealous. She had to give special treats or money to me and my cousins in a clandestine way so he wouldn’t find out and get mad about her wastefulness. He would never listen to her when she told him things about the yard, the garden, money, or anything else. He always thought he knew best, and if something went wrong, it was always somebody else’s fault, usually my grandmother’s. My grandfather told her he loved her only three times in their whole relationship.

I asked my grandmother about her marriage one time, probably in the middle of some high school romance drama I was going through. She said it didn’t matter to her that he never told her he loved her, she knew he did. She understood that it was hard for him to talk about that stuff. She also knew that when he got upset, it was less about him wanting control, and more about him feeling left out.

When he got upset, or mad, he would storm around the house, but say almost nothing. Just a few quips here and there. One of his favourite things to do when he got mad was go to bed early. And he would make a production out of it, making sure to walk past my grandmother as much as possible while he was getting ready, sometimes he even said “well, I might as well go to bed since nobody wants me around here.”

He treated other people the same way, but to a lesser extreme. My aunts, my uncles, people at church, they all suffered under his tantrums, if they noticed. Sometimes, he would get pissed off at people, and they wouldn’t notice him purposely giving them the silent treatment, and of course, that would make him more angry. He was never threatening or violent, not until the Alzheimer’s took control of him.

I’d like to blame it all on the Alzheimer’s, or his strokes, but his immature behavior extended back beyond those incidents.

My grandmother deserved better. She deserved a husband who wouldn’t get upset when she wanted to catch up with an old cousin on the phone, or wouldn’t throw a fit when she wanted to go out to visit somebody when he couldn’t go.

But I still can’t view my grandmother as a poor, underprivileged house wife. She saw what he was, and accepted him for it. She loved him, and took on all that went with him because of that. I could see it when she talked about him, when she had to clean up the mess he made in his pants when he started to lose control of his bodily functions, how she consoled him and read to him when he lost the ability to read, and how lonely she feels now that he’s gone and she can do all the things she couldn’t before.

And I’ve always thought of it as a beautiful example of love and understanding.

Maybe I’m deluding myself, because I don't want my entire world turned upside down. But I just can’t bring myself to see my grandmother as anything but the strong, compassionate matriarch I have always imagined her to be; someone who knowingly, willingly, and lovingly made sacrifices to be with her emotionally crippled husband.

Golden

I went to a different Jr. High than everyone else in my neighborhood. This is because I wanted to take French Immersion. It's not that the local Jr. High didn't have a French Immersion Program, but rather, they didn't think I would cut it. My parents thought I could, so we visited the next Jr. High over, and convinced them to let me in.

Fortunately, a bus driver for the school lived just up the street from me, so I would meet him and his bus just as he was leaving home, and take the long bus ride to school, and then back after school.

One day, at the end of school, I really needed to piss, but if I took the time to do that, I would have missed my bus. So I decided to hold it. I squirmed the whole ride home, and when I was let off, I walked as fast as I could to my grandmother's house. I always went there after school, but it was also closer. By the time I reached her driveway, I had one hand on my crotch, pinching to keep the urine inside. Unfortunately, halfway down the driveway, even that wasn't enough. I pissed myself as I walked down the driveway to my grandmother's.

My Aunt and Uncle lived upstairs, and when my grandparents weren't home, I would go in through their door. I couldn't do that on this day, and my grandparents weren't home. So I went down to the shed, built over the basement door and paced, trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do.

I had those faded jeans that everybody wore back then, so not only was I wet, it was pretty clear that there was a yellow tinge to the wetness.

Eventually, my grandparents came home, and I almost scared them half to death, lurking in the shed as they came in with their groceries.

When my grandmother saw what had happened to me, she took me into the basement, gave me a pair of my grandfather's jogging pants and washed my jeans for me.

She asked a few questions, to make sure I was ok, healthwise, and then let it go. Didn't ever bring it up again.

Runaway

I fought a lot with my parents when I was growing up, mostly because they were very restrictive, and I was very argumentative. They would decide that I couldn't do something (like listen to the pop radio, go to a movie, go to a dance, go to a party with friends, etc.) I would come up with all sorts of brilliant arguments about why I should be able to, and they would either ignore them, chuckle, or loose patience and get angry.

When I was younger, my big wild card was threatening to go live with my grandmother. My parents never really took it seriously, but I usually ended up in my grandmother's kitchen complaining about my parents.

My grandmother was very good at being in the middle of things. She listened to my complaints, no matter how ridiculous, and pointed out where I was overlooking something, or where I needed to let up, or how my parents had their own issues going on. And she would defend me to my parents.

As recently as two years ago, my grandmother was trying to patch things up between me and my mother after we had a fight. Wilma had dyed her hair blue, and my mother freaked. It was just before my cousin's wedding, so the whole family, and probably the whole church would be introduced to my wife as the freak with the blue hair.

In fact, I clearly remember somebody preaching from the pulpit that dyed hair was a symbol of rebellion a year or so before this.

I wonder how the little old ladies with unrealistic brown or black hair felt about that...

Anyway, my grandmother talked her down, till she was at least ok with the possibility. At the wedding, my relatives poked fun at Wilma for her hair, and she poked back, all in fun. And my mother was ok by the end.

My grandmother, meanwhile, tried to explain defended my mother's reaction to me, explaining that she was just concerned about what other people would think, and that she just didn't understand why someone would want to do that to themselves. My mother is always makeup free, dye free, perfume free, earring free, and almost accessory free. But despite her aesthetic, my mother had agreed to accept Wilma's hair, just not like it. My grandmother explained that I needed to give her time to accept these sorts of things. That it took my mother a while to adjust.

I wasn't the only one. My cousins all ran to my grandmother too. They complained about the fights with their parents, or their siblings (my brother and I just fought it out, no need for intervention there...) She was at once, the concilerie and the boss of our family.

Absence

The only experience with death that has had a strong impact on me came before I started school. All four of my grandparents are still alive, all my relatives that were alive after I was born are still alive, I didn't know anyone in school who died. So when I think about it, the death of my Uncle Rupe is really the only one I remember.

Uncle Rupe was Aunt Pauline's husband. They weren't my real Aunt and Uncle, in fact, I'm not sure exactly how I was related to them. Some distant relatives somewhere on my Mom's side.

Uncle Rupe wasn't as cranky about me watching TV in his house as my grandfather was, partly, because he was too busy working on something in the garage, often a car or truck or something. That is about the only memory I have of him. In his work suit, covered in motor oil, pushing his thick rimmed glasses up on his nose as he made some lame joke that adult males make to little kids.

But when he was gone, it left this kind of sick empty feeling inside. I cried for weeks when I went to bed. I was scared. I didn't understand how someone could be there one day and gone the next. It just seemed wrong. And when my thoughts eventually drifted to what would happen to me when I died(yes, drifted rather than progressed, since I was still quite young, I didn't make the connection to my own mortality right away)I was even more afraid.

In addition to crying myself to sleep, I decided to be extra good. After all, at that point in my life, I still had a strong concept of hell, and since it my options were heaven or hell, I had to make sure I was going to heaven.

My parents, especially my mother, were pleased with my improvement in behavior. Apparently, I was quite the little mischievous and rebellious boy, always trying to find a way to make my work shorter or easier, or sneak something and get away with it.

My goodness ended one day and my mother freaked. I don't even remember what I did, I just remember her chasing me down the stairs. And when she caught me, she pinned me to the floor, with her knees on my shoulders, and squeezed my cheeks, crying, and asking me why I was back to being bad.

She felt very guilty about it after, for a long time after. She apologized about it every time it came up when I was in elementary school, and I probably over-used it as a wild card to save me from trouble.

Clearer Picture, More Channels, Better Reception (?)

When I was growing up, most of my relatives on my mother's side lived with in walking distance of me. So I played with my cousins a lot, and visited my grandparents a lot.

At first, my visits to my grandparents were primarily for their television. My parents did not have cable, and did not have a colour television, so as a young, preschool boy with a growing obsession for the flashy box, I had to find alternative venues to indulge.

My grandparents and my Aunt Pauline lived side by side, and both had cable and colour television. So I visited them both on a regular basis, often one right after the other.

Eventually, I stopped visiting my Aunt Pauline, and just visited my grandparents. When they got a VCR, I think I used it more than they did. I taped movies, mostly, and watched them when I came home from school. My grandmother would feed me leftovers and/or cereal while I talked about my day, and then I would retire to the TV room to watch whatever crappy movie I had taped.

This is partly because I felt like I had to catch up. My parents didn't let me go to the theatre, they didn't get a vcr until I was in University, they still don't have cable, and I didn't visit anybody's house on a regular basis when I was a kid. So, in elementary and junior high, when talking about the latest crappy movie or crappy TV show is really the only way to relate to your peers, I didn't want to be left behind.

And my grandmother understood.

My grandfather, on the other hand, frequently complained that he didn't see why they had a TV and vcr since I used it all the time. There was more than once when we would have a stand off. He would be watching something he didn't understand, or really didn't want to watch, and I would wait patiently for him to leave so I could watch what I wanted. I never asked, although, my grandmother would frequently intervene on my behalf.

When I got older, I made more of an effort to watch what they wanted to watch, and watch it with them. But it was hard because my grandfather always had to ask questions like "who's that feller?" and "what's he doing?" and when I tried to explain it to him, I inevitably had to repeat myself three times before he heard, and even then, he didn't understand. A few times of this and he would get frustrated and leave, grumbling under his breath.

Oh yeah, that (supplemental)

Soundtrack CLICK HERE

When I started this blog, I intended to add new entries only on weekdays. I am breaking that rule for this special supplemental.

It appears that some of my new readers have taken offense to some of the things I have written, and I would first of all, encourage those readers, from time to time, but always in a respectful matter, to question my logic (or tone, or content or anything at all). If you are offended by something I've written or implied, or feel that my jumps in reasoning are not logical, tell me so, and I promise right here and now, no subject will ever be taboo, except of course my intelectual capacity, or my moral viewpoint. Feel free to suggest that I may not have considered everything in one of my post, that in my haste to write my thoughts, I may have overlooked something central and important, or conversely, that I have misinterpreted something. But don't say I didn't think about it at all. I do try to think about my posts carefully, and I will respond to your objections in a respectful and careful manner as well. However, if you are inflammatory or insulting, I'll collect you're fucking head.

Now, to address some of the concerns which have been filtered through the vines, I must first explain my intention in writing a blog. Practically, this was a concession I made because I read someone else's blog, and I thought it was only fair to allow that person the same access to me. But my blog is a confessional blog, in the tradition of confessional writing that extends all the way back to Augustine's confessions, and is continued in the poetry of Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath, the feminist confessional writings like those of Alice Walker, and the "new man" confessional work like that of Nick Hornsby.


A major feature of this form of writing is that it contains very personal, intimate, sometimes shocking information about the author, often implicating himself or herself in something he or she is angry about. Often times the subject matter is taboo, so that in early confessional poetry, sexual desire, promiscuity, and anti-governmental feelings were often present, while in "new man" confessional work, women are often described as objects of desire.

If you read these latter works too superficially, you may see them as condoning that view of women, when actually, it is not. It is simply acknowledging that it does happens, and not only that, but that the author himself (since I am speaking of the "new man" stuff here, written exclusively by males) is guilty of this. And not guilty in a celebratory way, but in a self deprecating way. A way in which the author feels pathetic, stupid, and wrong for viewing women in that way, and sometimes struggles against it.

It is in this spirit that I said that I imagined fucking Trixie's brains out, or imagined her in just a pair of high heels hoes sucking my cock into oblivion. Not because I think women, including Trixie, as holes to cum in, but because I lusted after her and it affected the way I related to her. I did not act on this lust, and felt guilty, because I felt that I, in some way, contributed to her fucked-up-ness of needing sexual interaction to escape the emptiness of her life. I tried to be her friend, not another booty call. Even though I continued to lust, and continued to be jealous of her booty calls, I did not act, and felt moderately guilty about having those feelings to begin with.

I say moderately, because I think sexual desire is a legitimate feeling, and it is not always accompanied by an emotional attatchment. You can argue about whether that kind of sex is healthy or not, but the fact is, people lust. I lust. And I'm not going to hide that here. I also sometimes feel guilty about lusting, and I won't hide that either.

This is my confessional blog, and if I confess something that offends you, there's a good chance it might offend me too. But it exists none the less, so I am going to write it for you to read.

Happy Birthday Wilma

Today is WIlma's birthday. I haven't bought her a gift. I haven't prepared a special dinner. I haven't sent her a card. I haven't even send her an e-mail. And I'm not going to.

I hated Wilma's birthdays. She always expected so much, and I always fell short. Not that she wanted all kinds of expensive presents. She wanted the day to feel special. SHE wanted to feel special. And no matter what I did, it was never quite enough.

The best I did was the night I proposed. I took her out for dinner, and gave her the initial gift, which was a two tickets to a dance performance (I generally hate modern dance as much or more than I hate musicals, but I was willing to go anyway) and a copy of Emily Dickinson's poetry (it's her birthday today too).

Then we went for a walk down by the waterfront, till we found a place to sit down. It happened to be beside the submarine used in the film K-19, which was shot here a few years ago (Wilma and I always said we would watch that movie on our anniversary sometime, but we never did). The snow was gently falling, and I took out the ring we had picked out together and asked her to marry me. Then, to celebrate, I had my own rendition of communion: port and Belgian wafers.

Afterwards, we went back to my place and exchanged oral sex... except, that just when she started, she realized she had a cold sore. At first, I was disappointed that she wasn't going to finish the blow job, but as the blood returned to my brain, I realized that larger issues involved. We srcambled to find a doctor's number, got a prescription that cost $100 (didn't have a medical plan back then, and she didn't want to put it on her parents plan) and thank God, nothing developed.

But even after all that, she picked at how it wasn't as good as I could have done, or that didn't make her feel special enough. Years later.

My reaction to this was two fold. Inside, I felt like shit, like I was an inadequate husband. Outside, I got angry and yelled about how she was a spoiled brat who expected too much of everyone, including herself, and that if she was just more realistic, she would be happier. Of course, this didn't help the situation any, and can be chalked up to another thing on my list of things I did wrong.

I tried to make things special, I swear I tried, but eventually, it became a resentful, despairing kind of try. Which of course she picked up on and added to the failure of any of my attempts.

So Happy Fucking Birthday Wilma. I hope you're happier on your own.

Fallout

I had a party, a house warming party for my new, lonely apartment that I moved into after Wilma left (left me). I invited people from work. I considered them supportive friends, or at least, like distant family members.

Three people showed up. Trixie did not. I called her to find out what was going on, since I had talked to her multiple times about the party, and how important it was to me, but she just said she had company.

So a few days later at work, we were avoiding each other. I just didn't know how to talk to her. I was hurt and disappointed. She came over and asked me if I was mad at her. I said no, but I was disappointed. She got snippy and made some sarcastic remark. Later, I went over and told her I didn't want her to withdraw because of something stupid I did to make her uncomfortable, and she told me to stop acting like a girl.

So, over the next few weeks, we politely said hello, and avoided each other. She didn't call, didn't invite me out, didn't come over for lunch, didn't even ask me how things were going.

I tried several times to patch things up. None were really successful, and some were bigger failures than others (see below). I would ask her how her weekend was. I would tell her a funny story. I would ask her a question about work stuff that I already knew the answer to. But she was short, and sometimes snippy.

All the while, the little Buddha she gave me was sitting on top of my computer at work, a constant reminder that someone I thought was a close friend was now shedding me like excess weight.

So one day, when I had tried one more time to make a bridge, I took the little Buddha off of my computer and stuck it in my drawer. I decided that I always knew she was the kind of person who would rather withdraw than face up to things, and that in my... damaged state, I couldn't be the strong one who stood up and took that. I need to hang out with someone who had a little more compassion, a little more empathy, a little more understanding, a little more patience.

And then someone like that came along.

Things I Did Wrong

1. When I was in Montreal, I bought Trixie some souvenirs: a t-shirt and some Playboy trading cards. I know, I'm a moron. But there is a context. She was forever making lewd comments about other women, saying what she would like to do with them. AND she told me a story about her and Lucky watching porn on his computer together. It was supposed to be funny. A joke. But I still shutter when I think of the look on her face as she opened the pack of cards while sitting on my couch.

2. One time at work, when I was the supervisor, a friend of Trixie's (Twigy) wanted her schedule changed so they could have lunch together. They asked me in the staff room, in front of some other staff. Trixie said please, batted her eyes, and pouted. I said we'll see, but I was pissed. If I am supposed to be a supervisor, I have to have some respect from the people I supervise. They can't think that I will bend over backwards for Trixie anytime she bats her eyes.

(Although, there was this one time, when she played chicken with me and won: She said that if I let her go home early on a Saturday, she would take me in the back room and give me a blow job right then and there. I didn't do it, but I couldn't even bring myself to say no).

So I reprimanded her. Away from everybody else. She thought, at first, I was being protective of her, concerned about what other people would think about us, and as a result, her. She said she didn't care about that. And when I clarified, stating that it was more what they thought of me as a supervisor, she got pissed. That was the day of my party.

3. I called her one day, from work, and asked her to go out of her way so I could spend an afternoon with Snoopy, a friend of hers I also had a crush on. This was after she didn't show up to my party, after she had been snapping at me or ignoring me for days. I really wasn't THAT concerned about spending an afternoon with Snoopy, I just couldn't think of another plausible excuse to call Trixie. She called me a pervert several times, and hung up on me.

Before Sunset

Trixie was very good to me when Wilma left (left me). She listened while I talked about it. Called to make sure I was ok. Came over to hang out a few times. Invited me to hang out with her band of cougars. Came with me to see movies and hear concerts that she would not have otherwise.

One time, when we were both high and drunk, she even got me dancing. Apparently we dance for three straight hours. But, still being me while high and drunk, we didn't actually touch each other, except for once, when I put my hand on her hip. It was enough to make me take a deep breath, right there on the dance floor, and every time I think about it.

I slept in her bed twice, but not with her. Her under the covers and me on top. Even then, we didn't snuggle or cuddle or anything. When we got up, we went for breakfast and talked more.

I think the biggest thing was that she talked to me about her life. About how she was tired of keeping secrets from her ex-boyfriend; about her one experience with knifiness; about how she was tired of late-night booty calls; about how her and her mother had a terrible relationship; about how worried she was about her brother; about how she really liked this guy, Lucky (the leprechaun).

And I got to give her advice, or just listen, depending. And she listened to my advice, and told me that I was a good friend for listening.

Meanwhile, as Wilma's departure spread through the ranks at work, a rumour about Trixie and I having an affair gained momentum. Neither of us addressed it directly, however, several people approached me about how I should consider a relationship with Trixie, and that it might be a good idea. Trixie reported the same. But we dismissed it as meddling.

And now that I recall, there was one night when she asked me flat out if I was falling in love with her. Huh. I had forgotten about that. I said no, and she said good, ok.

Huh.

Oh Speed

Soundtrack CLICK HERE

Meanwhile, I found out Speed and Trixie slept together. Each of them told me, on separate occasions, thanks to my probing questions.

I suppose I should clarify. Speed's name has nothing to do with his performance. By all accounts, he took his time and performed admirably. In fact, I have never known Speed to go faster than necessary or be even slightly reckless. He has lost at least one race, that I am aware of, because he did not act quickly enough. So the name is perhaps a little ironic. Plus, it goes with the soundtrack.

Speed is also a little younger than Trixie. A little less experienced. Could use some schooling perhaps.

So when I determined that Trixie would be interested in another go, I tried to encourage him to pursue that opportunity. By this time though, Speed knew I had a bit of a crush on Trixie, and also knew that Trixie was sleeping with another friend of his, so he wasn't as interested. I didn't let up for a long time, mostly because I wanted to live vicariously through him.

One time, while I was drunk, I called him a fucker because he could have what I wanted and didn't take it.

In the end, Speed finally sat Trixie down and explained that he just couldn't do anything with her again. Trixie still played those chicken games ("So Speed, you wanna come over and have some fun later") and Speed would try and keep up, but eventually, he would squirm and back down. And she knew he would, she just did it to watch him squirm.

I guess I'm a bit of a sucker for a tease.

Ode to Trixie

“I don’t know. I just can’t handle it. I just stop, turn my feelings off; that’s it.”

(As she raises her hand in the air, as if her feelings were outside of her, coming into her, and she wanted them to stop. And turning her head so she doesn’t have to see them anymore, so she could pretend they weren’t even there, so she could pretend they were some lame ass drunk college boy she was rejecting, and he would stumble away, and call her a bitch or a lesbian or something, but quiet, under his breath, so only his friends could hear, so no one would turn and look to see what was going on. Her feelings would never cause a scene.)

May 02, 2004

Me and My Questions

I had a huge crush on Trixie for a long time. The kind of crush you can't keep to yourself, but not the kind you have to act on.

Not that I didn't frequently imagine fucking her brains out, or her in just a pair of high heels, squatting in front of me, sucking my cock into oblivion...

What?

I think it started when I forgot my lunch one day at work. She offered me the food she had, and in return, I made her a home cooked meal and brought it into her as a thank you.

Trixie has always been flirty and suggestive at work, but that put me on her radar. She flirted with me more after that, and eventually we went out for a drink. She has a way of playing chicken with people, making suggestions, lewd suggestions or otherwise and not backing down until the other person does. So when she mentioned us going out for drinks when Wilma was out of town, I didn't back down, and we ended up in a bar.

I swear I didn't want anything to happen. I was just getting out. And asking questions about her. Partly under the guise of building a character on her, and partly because I sort of get off on finding stuff out about other people. So she told me how she cheated on her last boyfriend of eleven years, how when she left him, she slept with lots of guys who would call her up in the middle of the night for a fuck, and she would agree, and how she did it all because she was lonely.

And at the end of the evening, I told her she drove me crazy. She was a little surprised, and we went down to the waterfront to talk about it. She said she had never fucked a married man before. I explained that's not really what I was going for. I didn't even know why I was saying it. It just had to come out.

Wilma and I had been having problems for a while, but I made sure that Trixie understood that this wasn't my way of making a move on her. I had an example, friends of ours (Wilma and I) who accepted the fact that marriage does not prevent crushes, and that crushes should be acknowledged rather than ignored. And that, when you tell someone you have a crush on them, generally, they feel better about themselves.

None of this was a secret from Wilma. I told her all about it when she got back, and she didn't have a problem about that. There were other things on her mind then...

I also wrote something for Trixie that night when I came home. I'll post it next time.

My First Buddha

Trixie gave me my first Buddha, so it's really more about her than a path to enlightenment. It's small, about half the size of my thumb, made of plastic and painted maroon. It's a chubby, smiling Buddha, with an open mouth and I used to wedge my fingernail in between his lips as a nervous habit.

The Buddha was a souvenir from a trip to Montreal that Trixie went on, by herself. A big deal for Trixie since it was the furthest she'd been from home, and the first time she'd been on a plane, and the first time she'd gone on a trip by herself, etc. She thought the little Buddhas were weird and exclusive to Montreal, and was somewhat disappointed when she found out they were available in abundance in our enlightened city of Halifax.