CLEARING THE AIR

February 6, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): It's a really good time for you to deal with that clutter in the basement -- or wherever it may be. Your attachment to things is more thoughtful, so you are more willing to get rid of what you don't need.

Laura’s Log:
Popped by the house first thing this morning to drop off a box of old makeup that had been collecting dust under the sink. Figured Mom might find a home for some of the stuff at the salon. Mom was out “sale-ing” with Gertie Rushman. That’s what they call scavenging at garage sales. Eww. Makes me shudder. Are we really related?

Found Dad in the garage. It kills me that he hides in there even when Mom’s out. I swear, I’m going to find a cot and one of those outdoor shower setups in there one of these days. Dad had the radio on—sports know-it-alls spouting off about the Canucks on a slide. “Are you going in to catch the game when it starts?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Lots to do out here. I’ve got to go through all my electric tools today. Gotta clean them all up, maybe think about giving a few to the thrift shop. See about repairing that edger that puttered out on the second use. Lots to do.”

I didn’t bother to challenge him. He’d said he was going through the electric tools when he hastily excused himself from brunch last week. I wish this were just a winter thing, a hibernation of sorts. But Dad has confined himself to the garage ever since I moved out of the house. Space from Mom. It’s a survival instinct, I suppose. But he’s withdrawn from everyone. Again, a question haunted me: Are we really related?

I took Dad by the arm and escorted him out the garage door. “What are you doing?” he asked nervously. “Where are we going?”

“For a walk, Dad. It’s sunny, it’s gorgeous and it’s time we checked out life on The Drive. Coffee at Café Calabria. On me.”

He tugged gently, wanting me to turn back. Nothing doing. We both needed the company.

KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
TIME TO GO THRU THE CLARA BOX. MY THERAPIST, BRAD, PRACTICALLY FLIPPED OUT ON ME WHEN I SAID I HAD SUCH A THING. GUESS IT’S GIRLY & IT’S DEFINITELY NOT HEALTHY. BACK IN THE CLARA DAYS, SHE THOUGHT IT WAS ROMANTIC. I WAS THAT NICE GUY WHO KEPT TICKET STUBS TO “DR. DOLITTLE 2” (OUR 1ST DATE—HOW DID WE GET PAST THAT?!) & ALL OUR SUN RUN NUMBERS. (WE STOPPED RUNNING 4 YRS AGO. BEER BELLY GREW EXPONENTIALLY EVER SINCE.)

IT TURNS OUT IT’S NOT MUCH OF A TREASURE TROVE. WHAT THE HELL AM I HANGING ONTO A PHOTO OF US GOING AS MARGE & HOMER SIMPSON FOR HALLOWEEN? (BEER BELLY TOTALLY AUTHENTIC BY THEN.) THERE’S A FREAKIN’ CHOCOLATE WRAPPER FROM A VALENTINE’S DAY WAY BACK. A WRAPPER! GAWD, I’M 3 DEGREES AWAY FROM THE BAG LADY UNDER THE GRANVILLE BRIDGE!

AM I A MASOCHIST? HOW ELSE CAN I EXPLAIN GOING THRU ALL THE OLD LOVE NOTES SHE WROTE ME. LOTS FROM THE EARLY YRS. NOTHING FROM THE LAST FEW YRS EXCEPT A QUICK NOTE ON A ROBIN VRBA REAL ESTATE PAD: “DON’T FORGET TO PICK UP THE DRY CLEANING. LOVE YA, C”. I KEPT THAT?! IN FAMINE, I GUESS YOU NIBBLE WHATEVER CRUMBS YOU FIND.

I TOOK OUT A PEN AND STARTED X-ING OUT ALL THE GUSHY COMMENTS IN THE EARLIER CARDS. WON’T SHARE THAT WITH BRAD. CROSSED THE LINE FROM UNHEALTHY TO IN NEED OF SHOCK TREATMENT THERAPY.

FINALLY TOOK THE WHOLE BOX AND PITCHED IT IN THE DUMPSTER. NO MORE TIME TO INFLICT EMOTIONAL PAIN ON SELF. CANUCKS HAVE EARLY GAME IN BOSTON. HERE’S HOPING THEY DON’T ADD TO THE PAIN.