LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to show your family just how much you care — it’s easy! Your good social energy helps you express your innermost emotions with delicate ease, so get in there and start doing some communicating.
Laura’s Log:
Neither Mom nor Dad was home when I stopped by last night. I headed home to find no messages on my voicemail. No call from Ken. It surprised me that I was disappointed.
Got up this morning and headed to my parents’, Tupper in tow. Dad likes dogs and I thought Tupps could bring a little cheer. I found Dad in his usual spot in the garage. He was tinkering with an old clock that I remembered being in the family room when I was a kid.
“Gosh, where did you find that?!” I asked. “And why are you fiddling with it? Just chuck it.”
Dad answered gruffly, “Just ’cuz something’s old doesn’t mean you dump it.” And just like that, we weren’t talking about the clock anymore.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“No.” I waited for more, but that was it. Tupper wiggled his tail and nudged up against his leg, but Dad ignored the dog. Confirmation that everything was not all right. I suggested a walk with the dog or our regular trek to Café Calabria.
“Pass. I’ve got a clock to fix.”
“That’s it, Dad. We’re going for coffee. I’m just going to hand Tupper over to Mom.”
When I returned, no Dad. It felt like a little kid running away. His car was still in the driveway so I took to the street. As I turned down Commercial, I spotted him ducking into the produce store. Tagged him at the cheese counter. We had an audience, not something either of us likes, but I had to speak my mind before he whacked me in the knee with a can of Roma tomatoes and tried to make another mad dash. “You’re upset. I get it. Hell, I’d be pissed.”
“Watch your language. I don’t like hearing you talk like that.”
“Dad, you’ve lost your job. Right now, I can tell you feel you’ve lost more than that.”
“My honor. My dignity. After all those years…”
I put a hand on each of his shoulders and looked right into his eyes. “So find a silver lining. You’re always working even when you’re not on the clock. Slow down.”
He back up, letting my arms fall to my sides. “You slow down, you die. Albert Festeriga died three weeks after he retired. Joe Baderkowski was let go and died only a week later.”
“So do something new. Hang out with your grandkids. Play Bocce. Stain the back deck.”
And, with a crowd watching, Dad started shaking. He teared up. Then he leaned into me and all I could do was hold him. I started crying, too. Dad gave everything to his work and now they’d sent him out on their timeline with Dad feeling utterly worthless and lacking a sense of direction.
Still holding him, I managed to shuffle us closer to the less crowded freezer section. Once recovered, we headed for coffee. He didn’t want to talk about his predicament so we talked Canucks. And, for some reason, I mentioned my date with Ken.
“Don’t tell Mom,” I cautioned.
“Of course not! I wouldn’t do that to you.” A jest at Mom’s expense only brought us closer.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
ROUNDED UP ETHAN, BELLA AND RUDY TO TAKE THEM TO CAPILANO SUSPENSION BRIDGE THIS MORNING. SARA AND JERRY NEEDED SOME TIME W/TRAVIS. THEY’RE TRYING A FAMILY COUNSELOR.
“I’VE BEEN TO THAT STUPID BRIDGE LIKE 57 TIMES,” RUDY GRIPED. NEITHER BELLA NOR ETHAN HOPPED ON THE BAD MOOD TRAIN.
“WELL, WHERE DO YOU WANT TO GO WHEN WE’RE DONE?”
“HOME. HOW COME TRAVIS RULES EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS TO ME?” I GLANCED IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR. JUST THE MENTION OF TRAVIS’ NAME MADE THE OTHER TWO TENSE.
BELLA GOT TEARY. “I HAVE TOO MANY BROTHERS. HOW COME I’M THE ONLY GIRL? IT’S NOT FAIR. IF TRAVIS GOT SENT TO JAIL, IT WOULD A BIT FAIRER.”
DID SARA KNOW THIS? DID TRAVIS? THE KIDS RESENTED HIM. HATED HIM…AND NOT IN THE NORMAL SIBLING RIVALRY WAY. HOW MUCH COULD ONE COUNSELOR DO? AND HOW FAST?
AFTER THE BRIDGE, WE DIDN’T GO STRAIGHT HOME. WE HAD LUNCH AT DQ. SURE THE KIDS LOVED IT, BUT IT WAS A SELFISH DECISION. I NEEDED A TREAT.
Showing posts with label Café Calabria. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Café Calabria. Show all posts
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
BOXED UP EMOTIONS
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You don’t usually have a hard time communicating with people — but you might find it hard to reach them today! It’s still worth the effort, especially with those you are already close to.
Laura’s Log:
While Mom was off “sale-ing” at garage sales, Dad and I had our own garage issues. I showed up just after 9, ready to hit Home Depot. Dad was in the garage, sitting in his lawn chair beside the space heater, reading the Sports section of The Sun.
“Ready?” I asked, feeling chipper and naively hoping to complete the reorganization by noon so I could hit a shoe sale with Nadia after lunch.
He didn’t look up from the paper. “For what?”
And sigh. Should’ve seen it coming. Dad will agree to do something just to get people (usually, Mom) off his back. Then, he just hopes the task will go on the never ending To-Do list, taking its place far behind “take down Christmas lights” (from 2001) and “remove dead rhodo bush” (2003).
I glanced around the garage and noticed the pile of discard tools had disappeared, with the broken shovel and the busted hedge trimmer mixed back in with all the clutter. “Dad.” No answer. No movement.
“Dad!” Hoarder still unresponsive.
“DAAAAD!”
He shuffled the paper to turn to the next page. “Heard you the first time.”
Bigger sigh. “The socially appropriate thing to do is respond when someone calls you.” Oh, gawd. I heard my mother’s voice come out. When Dad goes all ostrich-in-sand, it’s hard not to harp.
And it only got worse. I had to yank the newspaper out of his hand—well, after the tear, he retained the bottom portion of the back page—and take away his coffee mug. With the promise of a stop for real coffee on Commercial, I got him he to grab the keys to his truck. Although I really needed the caffeine soothie ASAP, I insisted we hit Home Depot first. No way was Dad going to get me with a feigned headache right after Café Calabria.
Shopping for storage tubs, Dad was like a five-year-old boy having to try on suits. “How do you like these, Dad?” Shoulder shrug. “What about these?” He never looked up, fiddling with a couple loose screws in the palm of his hand. I stopped consulting Dead Dad Walking and we managed to fill the back of the truck with pegboard, two dozen storage bins, three shiny new aluminum trash cans and a new snow shovel. (Granted, he could go many months without a chance of snow, but I figured it was the only way to get him to part with that stump of a shovel back home.)
Our café stop was quicker and quieter than usual. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) concentrate on conversation and kept peeking out to see if anyone was stealing his new (unneeded?) goods from the truck. I grabbed a couple To Go cups and we were on our way.
Back at Ground Zero, Dad stood back as I started trying to sort things. Then I baited him with a question about Luongo and he launched into a tirade about lazy goaltending that got him so riled he couldn’t help but use his hands and join in the sorting. His ire toward Luongo shifted to being irked with me. “Those don’t go together!” he said as he took the used paint rollers out of the tub of paint-splattered old clothes. Five minutes later, I was the spectator.
By 12:30, I announced I was leaving after promising (threatening?) to spend all of Easter Sunday redoing the whole thing—maybe even tossing paint rolls back in with old pairs of jeans—if I showed up for brunch and found the job incomplete. He muttered something which I didn’t ask him to repeat. No need for a “French” lesson from Dear Old Dad.
Once back in my car, I let out one more rattled exhale. Bond with Dad, check! Time to reward myself with a new pair of shoes.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
JERRY BUZZED MY CONDO JUST AFTER 8. I WAS GROGGY, STILL IN BED. IN FACT, I THINK HE INTERRUPTED MY DREAM. I WAS ABOUT TO GRAB MY OWN GRABNER MOMENT, TAKING A PASS FROM WILLIE MITCHELL & LOOKING @ A WIDE OPEN NET TO COMPLETE MY HAT TRICK. THE BLARE OF THE BUZZER RUINED EVERYTHING. IT CAN BE HARSH AWAKENING TO REALITY. I WASN’T A CANUCK &, DAMMIT, WILLIE STILL WASN’T EITHER.
“I GOTTA THROW ON SOME CLOTHES. YOU WANNA COME UP?” I ASKED.
“NO. I’LL WAIT.” HE SOUNDED GRUMPY. YOU’D THINK I’D SPOILED HIS CANUCK DREAMS! COURSE I KNEW WHY HE WAS HERE.
WE WALKED OVER TO STARBUCKS W/A LITTLE HOCKEY TALK—HE WAS A FLAMES FAN, ONLY 1 OF THE MANY REASONS I DIDN’T LIKE HIM. COFFEE IN HAND, HE SPILLED IT: “I NEED TO MAKE THIS CLEAR. YOU FUCKIN’ LEAVE MY KIDS ALONE!”
WHOA. HARSHER THAN WHAT I’D EXPECTED. “UH,…I’M THE UNCLE.”
“EXACTLY! I’M THE FATHER!”
“SO ACT IT.”
FOR A SECOND, IT LOOKED LIKE HE’D TAKE A SWING @ ME. GOOD THING HE THOUGHT BETTER OF IT. I AM, AFTER ALL, FIVE INCHES TALLER & 60 LBS HEAVIER. JERRY WAS NO FIGHTER. MIGHT HAVE BITCH-SLAPPED HIS SISTER ONCE, BUT THAT’S ALL. GUESSIN’ SHE MADE HIM LEARN HIS LESSON.
INSTEAD OF PHYSICAL ACTION, HE CHOSE TO GLARE @ ME. YOU KNOW HOW PARENTS TELL YOU NOT TO MAKE AN UGLY FACE? HOW THE WIND IS GONNA BLOW A CERTAIN WAY & THAT LOOK’S JUST GONNA FREEZE ON YOUR FACE? WELL, I DIDN’T FEEL THE GUST MYSELF, BUT I SWEAR IT SWEPT THRU JERRY. THAT WRINKLY GLARE JUST CONTINUED TO STARE ME DOWN. WHATEVER. I GOT UP AND ORDERED A SCONE. EVEN PITCHED IN FOR AN EXTRA 1 FOR JERRY—JUST TO SEE IF HE COULD MOVE THAT FACE ENUF TO CHEW.
MY TIMEOUT HELPED JERRY RECOVER. IN FACT, ANY BRAVADO WAS GONE. “MY SON’S ON DRUGS.” HIS EYES WELLED UP. “HE DOESN’T TALK TO ME. AT ALL. JUST LOOKS @ ME LIKE I’M THE MOST HATED PERSON ON EARTH.”
“IS THAT WHERE YOU GOT THAT LOOK YOU WERE GIVIN’ ME?” MAYBE I SHOULDN’T HAVE MADE LIGHT OF THINGS, BUT THE GUY WAS GONNA BAWL IN THE MIDDLE OF STARBUCKS. A BITCH-SLAP WLD HAVE BEEN MORE WELCOME.
HE CRACKED A SLIVER OF A SMILE. “SORRY.”
“YEAH, WHATEVER.” AND FOR THE NEXT HOUR WE TALKED ABOUT TRAVIS, ABOUT HIS WORK, EVEN ABOUT SARA THREATENING DIVORCE (NEWS TO ME, BUT NOT NECESSARILY UNWELCOME). I HAD AS FEW ANSWERS AS JERRY. I THINK THAT’S WHAT MADE HIM OPEN UP. SOMETIMES WHEN YOU PUT 2 HEADS TOGETHER, YOU DON’T GET A SOLUTION. YOU JUST GET A COLLECTIVE MIGRAINE. BUT IT’S A START.
Laura’s Log:
While Mom was off “sale-ing” at garage sales, Dad and I had our own garage issues. I showed up just after 9, ready to hit Home Depot. Dad was in the garage, sitting in his lawn chair beside the space heater, reading the Sports section of The Sun.
“Ready?” I asked, feeling chipper and naively hoping to complete the reorganization by noon so I could hit a shoe sale with Nadia after lunch.
He didn’t look up from the paper. “For what?”
And sigh. Should’ve seen it coming. Dad will agree to do something just to get people (usually, Mom) off his back. Then, he just hopes the task will go on the never ending To-Do list, taking its place far behind “take down Christmas lights” (from 2001) and “remove dead rhodo bush” (2003).
I glanced around the garage and noticed the pile of discard tools had disappeared, with the broken shovel and the busted hedge trimmer mixed back in with all the clutter. “Dad.” No answer. No movement.
“Dad!” Hoarder still unresponsive.
“DAAAAD!”
He shuffled the paper to turn to the next page. “Heard you the first time.”
Bigger sigh. “The socially appropriate thing to do is respond when someone calls you.” Oh, gawd. I heard my mother’s voice come out. When Dad goes all ostrich-in-sand, it’s hard not to harp.
And it only got worse. I had to yank the newspaper out of his hand—well, after the tear, he retained the bottom portion of the back page—and take away his coffee mug. With the promise of a stop for real coffee on Commercial, I got him he to grab the keys to his truck. Although I really needed the caffeine soothie ASAP, I insisted we hit Home Depot first. No way was Dad going to get me with a feigned headache right after Café Calabria.
Shopping for storage tubs, Dad was like a five-year-old boy having to try on suits. “How do you like these, Dad?” Shoulder shrug. “What about these?” He never looked up, fiddling with a couple loose screws in the palm of his hand. I stopped consulting Dead Dad Walking and we managed to fill the back of the truck with pegboard, two dozen storage bins, three shiny new aluminum trash cans and a new snow shovel. (Granted, he could go many months without a chance of snow, but I figured it was the only way to get him to part with that stump of a shovel back home.)
Our café stop was quicker and quieter than usual. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) concentrate on conversation and kept peeking out to see if anyone was stealing his new (unneeded?) goods from the truck. I grabbed a couple To Go cups and we were on our way.
Back at Ground Zero, Dad stood back as I started trying to sort things. Then I baited him with a question about Luongo and he launched into a tirade about lazy goaltending that got him so riled he couldn’t help but use his hands and join in the sorting. His ire toward Luongo shifted to being irked with me. “Those don’t go together!” he said as he took the used paint rollers out of the tub of paint-splattered old clothes. Five minutes later, I was the spectator.
By 12:30, I announced I was leaving after promising (threatening?) to spend all of Easter Sunday redoing the whole thing—maybe even tossing paint rolls back in with old pairs of jeans—if I showed up for brunch and found the job incomplete. He muttered something which I didn’t ask him to repeat. No need for a “French” lesson from Dear Old Dad.
Once back in my car, I let out one more rattled exhale. Bond with Dad, check! Time to reward myself with a new pair of shoes.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
JERRY BUZZED MY CONDO JUST AFTER 8. I WAS GROGGY, STILL IN BED. IN FACT, I THINK HE INTERRUPTED MY DREAM. I WAS ABOUT TO GRAB MY OWN GRABNER MOMENT, TAKING A PASS FROM WILLIE MITCHELL & LOOKING @ A WIDE OPEN NET TO COMPLETE MY HAT TRICK. THE BLARE OF THE BUZZER RUINED EVERYTHING. IT CAN BE HARSH AWAKENING TO REALITY. I WASN’T A CANUCK &, DAMMIT, WILLIE STILL WASN’T EITHER.
“I GOTTA THROW ON SOME CLOTHES. YOU WANNA COME UP?” I ASKED.
“NO. I’LL WAIT.” HE SOUNDED GRUMPY. YOU’D THINK I’D SPOILED HIS CANUCK DREAMS! COURSE I KNEW WHY HE WAS HERE.
WE WALKED OVER TO STARBUCKS W/A LITTLE HOCKEY TALK—HE WAS A FLAMES FAN, ONLY 1 OF THE MANY REASONS I DIDN’T LIKE HIM. COFFEE IN HAND, HE SPILLED IT: “I NEED TO MAKE THIS CLEAR. YOU FUCKIN’ LEAVE MY KIDS ALONE!”
WHOA. HARSHER THAN WHAT I’D EXPECTED. “UH,…I’M THE UNCLE.”
“EXACTLY! I’M THE FATHER!”
“SO ACT IT.”
FOR A SECOND, IT LOOKED LIKE HE’D TAKE A SWING @ ME. GOOD THING HE THOUGHT BETTER OF IT. I AM, AFTER ALL, FIVE INCHES TALLER & 60 LBS HEAVIER. JERRY WAS NO FIGHTER. MIGHT HAVE BITCH-SLAPPED HIS SISTER ONCE, BUT THAT’S ALL. GUESSIN’ SHE MADE HIM LEARN HIS LESSON.
INSTEAD OF PHYSICAL ACTION, HE CHOSE TO GLARE @ ME. YOU KNOW HOW PARENTS TELL YOU NOT TO MAKE AN UGLY FACE? HOW THE WIND IS GONNA BLOW A CERTAIN WAY & THAT LOOK’S JUST GONNA FREEZE ON YOUR FACE? WELL, I DIDN’T FEEL THE GUST MYSELF, BUT I SWEAR IT SWEPT THRU JERRY. THAT WRINKLY GLARE JUST CONTINUED TO STARE ME DOWN. WHATEVER. I GOT UP AND ORDERED A SCONE. EVEN PITCHED IN FOR AN EXTRA 1 FOR JERRY—JUST TO SEE IF HE COULD MOVE THAT FACE ENUF TO CHEW.
MY TIMEOUT HELPED JERRY RECOVER. IN FACT, ANY BRAVADO WAS GONE. “MY SON’S ON DRUGS.” HIS EYES WELLED UP. “HE DOESN’T TALK TO ME. AT ALL. JUST LOOKS @ ME LIKE I’M THE MOST HATED PERSON ON EARTH.”
“IS THAT WHERE YOU GOT THAT LOOK YOU WERE GIVIN’ ME?” MAYBE I SHOULDN’T HAVE MADE LIGHT OF THINGS, BUT THE GUY WAS GONNA BAWL IN THE MIDDLE OF STARBUCKS. A BITCH-SLAP WLD HAVE BEEN MORE WELCOME.
HE CRACKED A SLIVER OF A SMILE. “SORRY.”
“YEAH, WHATEVER.” AND FOR THE NEXT HOUR WE TALKED ABOUT TRAVIS, ABOUT HIS WORK, EVEN ABOUT SARA THREATENING DIVORCE (NEWS TO ME, BUT NOT NECESSARILY UNWELCOME). I HAD AS FEW ANSWERS AS JERRY. I THINK THAT’S WHAT MADE HIM OPEN UP. SOMETIMES WHEN YOU PUT 2 HEADS TOGETHER, YOU DON’T GET A SOLUTION. YOU JUST GET A COLLECTIVE MIGRAINE. BUT IT’S A START.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
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.
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.
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