Classic Snivel
July 6, 1997.
Nevertheless, I am undaunted.
And please, give a thought to distilling some small piece of your angst, misery, hate, spite, love, curiousity or irony. I would adore them, and your utterly anonymous words would make you an instant and desirable internet figure, just like me.
hey rob, i figured i'd pour my heart out at you since there really isn't anyone else and you probably receive so much e-mail that you won't get to this anyway. ANYWAY, i have a lover who i completely adore, and we've been together for an awfully long time now. things are terribly unbelievably beautiful, and i couldn't be happpier.to the vulgar part and i'm sorry that you have to deal with it since i'm mailing it to you. he would immensely enjoy oral sex (i don't know, they say most guys do, what about you?) and i simply cannot do it, not because of him or weird tastes or even fluid shooting into my mouth at twenty-eight miles per hour; the memories of "erstwhile" (that's a great word, thanks!) partners who have forced me to do unpleasant things and a guy who raped me are simply too much and i cannot go down on him despite how i would love to make him happy. and he doesn't want me to if i won't enjoy it, but you know he'd enjoy it if i could manage it. isn't it a dilemma? makes me feel all rotten inside, but now that it's out i feel so much better. weird solution to a very stupid problem. thank you, mr moody!
Just so you know, very little shocks me. People always make a big production out of the little details that they find mildly distasteful, but I welcome information. The phrase "Too much information!" to me, is a kind of sad outcry of our "poo poo wee wee" world, where sex is still "making whoopee" or "doing the nasty" or whatever it is on the worse of the sitcoms these days. And god forbid people talk about menstruation. That sort of repression irritates me. I don't like thinking that I'm getting altered or censored information. I'd rather hear it all, and then decide for myself what is maybe a little unpleasant, but I'd never cut someone off with "uhh.... too much information there!" I must admit, in the reverse situation, I get uncomfortable. I don't mind discussing my personal life (including my sex life) in detail, but I must say, some friends came to the hospital with me when I had this tremendously bad stomach flu, and they were subjected to the worst... me having to describe my sickness to the doctor, in front of them, in full technicolor, and running to the bathroom to throw up. But they were all OK with it, in spite of my embarassment. They'd been through it, they knew what it was like, and they were just concerned about me. No one ever made a Clueless face at me or anything.
Anyway, now that was my excessive detail..
I've never personally been one for receiving oral sex. It's funny, but I think I have some kind of psychological reaction to it. It feels really quite nice, but never to the point of um... completion. I always wear people out. They always have this feeling of inadequacy or apologetic exhaustion, or disappointment in themselves, or something, and that's difficult for me, because then I feel guilty, and like a freak, and that just makes it worse for both of us. I try to explain that it's just the way I react. In a lot of ways I'm really quite odd. I've always preferred to give pleasure than to receive it. Even sex is something I'm not quite ready for. All my experiences with my erstwhile lover "Phil" (my first) were wonderful, but awkward, and I felt bad about the fact that I never had an orgasm when we had sex. It was a cause for mutual guilt that I loved bringing her to orgasm, and she was always really overwhelmed by the power of oral sex, but I myself couldn't climax when she wanted to reciprocate, and it made us both feel somewhat inadequate.
It's hard to overcome the feelings that come with abuse/rape/unpleasant sexual experiences. I know people who have gone through it, and it's so difficult for them to relax, and feel safe, and feel pleasure, even when they're terribly in love with their partner, and trust them with every detail of their lives. I think the important part is that your boyfriend understands. I'm not entirely certain about the fixation for fellatio myself... maybe it's the passive aspect of it, or the unique sensations, or the strange pleasure of having someone swallow your semen (sounds weird, is weird, but it may have something to do with the fact that when someone "swallows," it turns a man's semen into something that is no longer a mess, or a nuisance, or something that causes babies and must be blocked/destroyed/whatever, but instead something that is welcomed and accepted), but I admit there are times when I crave it, even knowing that it won't lead to climax. Part of that's just that I am not presently having sex, nor do I wish to at the moment (too much risk, and it's far easier for me emotionally to just give myself to another person in different ways). I think, so long as you have a healthy sex life, and sexuality, it won't become an issue or anything.
But just because you've had these horrible experiences, I would completely recommend some counseling of some sort. Just to get over the feelings that you've been left with.
I love pleasuring the people I care about. Physical intimacy means a great deal to me in the sense that it's a powerful expression of my emotions. I'm very cuddly and sucky. I love performing oral sex, as much as I also very much love touching someone else's body, and exploring what makes them feel exquisite. My own personal satisfaction comes through backrubs. Can't get enough of 'em.
The only parallel I have is with people who are uncomfortable receiving oral sex, because of their own pasts and self-images. It really is a tragedy that the selfishness of people can scar those they encounter forever; to the point that they lose a tremendous ability to receive pleasure, give pleasure, or enjoy their own bodies, and the bodies of others.
Rape is evil. I think I want to become a vigilante.
Dispense some justice, Rob style.
Several Hours Later...
If you read those words, then I have to thank you for your patience in deciding that I don't deserve any actual contempt for occasionally being physicially exhausted, and/or pressed by big grown up concerns, so much as just a kind of cool pity. I got less than four hours of sleep Thursday night, so while I somehow managed to run around insanely all Friday long, and stay up until four or five this fine Saturday morning, I'm hardly the magically caffeinated leprechaun of hyperactivity that I was way back in my youth -- say a year ago or so.
Well, it does have to be said for me that I had gotten quite used to this ability I have to sleep in till two or three in the afternoon each day. You know, dinner for breakfast, and lunch sometime around midnight. It was a diverting life -- but no longer.
Suddenly I find myself employed.
Yes, I realize the shocking nature of my words. I can only hope that I have not hastened any bladders or provoked any eye-twitching or strokes with my seemingly incredulous and blasphemous statements. I had a job last summer too, of course, but it was mostly for fun and a sense of having done good, and certainly didn't occupy more than a couple of days' total work. I mean, I went in quite often, but never for very long. Web page design is the least conventional of fields. Well, at least after the sex industry. I dabble in that too, of course. At least, I would, but my friends just aren't rich or lonely enough, and I have this thing about licking strangers.
With some astonishment and a natural amount of bedazzled giddiness, I was hired by Agriculture Canada yesterday afternoon. That's right, I'm working for the Federal government now. I work in the main research building of the Central Experimental Farm, which is this enormous tract of green right smack dab in the middle of the city. You can see Carleton from there. Granted, you can see Carleton University from an astonishing number of places in Ottawa, thanks to the 23 phallic stories of this singular and distinct tower that is Carleton's centrepiece.
Actually, it's a lot like a university there. The research building is composed of endless offices down gigantic corridors, each with a nameplate that bears the name of someone with a "Dr." before his or her name. I'm on the third floor. It seems primarily concerned with insects -- I was surprised that there was room enough for even the lonely drinking fountain I found after running up three flights of stairs (as with British buildings, the first floor was upstairs from the main floor) due to the countless lockers filled with alcohol-preserved samples. Apparently something in the order of 14 million preserved insects are housed there.
The section I work for is concerned with those insects that have an impact -- for positive or negative -- upon human beings and other animals. My boss specifically works with those insects that are parasitical in nature, like a lot of wasps. Wasps do sneaky things to the pupae of other insects, for example.
So, what we're doing is taking this extensive research, and building a massive website. I was pleased to note that the giant gray Government sign that graces all Federal buildings had, aside from the usual particulars, a new URL at the bottom in these great big letters. Part of this website will be a glossary of terms -- of which there are hundreds to outline. The idea is that there will be a list of alphebetized terms in a frame, and by clicking on one, you get a definition in the larger frame to its right. Click on it again, and you get a useful corresponding diagram to help make the information clearer. My job is to produce the diagrams. This will largely be done by scanning and editing images, and possibly drawing some diagrams myself in line art. Basically images are given legends and arrows pointing to antennae, and so forth, and using fancy drawing software, this will be my designated task.
In any event, I'll be making $10.26 an hour doing it. When I was brought up to human resources and informed of my salary, my boss was amused by my reaction -- which was that of surprise, modesty, and pleasure. It's just odd to think of myself as qualified for a job that -- were it not simply for the summer -- that I could happily and easily live on. Not just "survive," but actually live, and decently too. You know, maybe even a phone or food once in awhile.
I even get my own office. I mean, not that it will actually have my name on it or anything, but at least I'll have my own happy space to work in solitude. While I imagine I'll have, and need, a fair bit of supervision and help for the first couple of days, I do adore working by myself. You see, someone died, so I'm getting his office. At first I thought this was a little ghoulish, but it was pointed out to me that I'm not sleeping in his bed or anything, and I get my own computer, so -- I'll manage fine I'm sure.
I also confess that it's neat to have a "day" number that differs from my evening one. I'm toying with the idea of becoming a giant phoney and getting a pager or even a cellular phone. Not because I think I'm that important, but because the idea of keeping a powerful transmitter/receiver anywhere near my crotch will guarantee that my children will have super powers.
Think good thoughts.
Let's say you've got a 14.4 USR Sportster External Fax/Modem wired into your PC at work. In fact, if you're my friend Charlotte, you do. Therein lying the problem. For reasons that basically have to do with her wishing to avoid the addictive temptations and availability of being on-line, she left her computer (complete with its beautiful, shiny, modem that she spent $200 on last summer, installed and configured with my love and her screwdriver... tsk...) with her parents. However, she still likes the occasional sport of crusing that dandy li'l internet from time to time (and reading my daily confessional, I might vainly add), and for the lengthy vacation of a fellow employee, she gets the modem. Now, this is well and good, but for one problem. It lacks an adapter.
Another coworker has promised to find it, wherever it is (for some reason I want to say that it's in his basment, but that doesn't quite sound right), but people are stupid and he keeps on forgetting. Now, inasmuch as I have a vested interest in this, I want my friend to have her modem working. The problem: US Robotics is run by thoughtless bastards. I mean, even my *walkman* has a little raised lettering telling you that, you know, you need this particular adapter if you're going to run it DC. But essentially this modem is just good enough to have a polarity diagram (at least, from Charlotte's descriptions), and nothing else.
So, my next step was to try their website. There's actually been a number of situations where company websites have proven invaluable. Like when I installed my soundcard, only to find that the chumps at the computer store only bothered to give me the Windows 95 drivers for it, and since it was a gift, no one was really accountable. Were it not for Creative Labs' website, where I downloaded all the Win 3.1 drivers I could ever need, it would still be a bitter, bitter disappointment. And heck, when I installed my second hard drive (with help from my slightly more knowledgable cousin -- hey, just giving credit where credit's due -- since it was not an easy birth...), who else but www.maxtor.com had the endless permutations of jumper settings for the original 170 meg hard drive on my machine so that I could slave it properly? So when I spent half an hour reading US Robotics' website, I figured I might find some help. But no. Not even. When I downloaded the original manual, do you think it mentioned the power requirements of such a device at all beyond the extent of mentioning that an adapter came with it?
No.
I have one of those handy dandy adapters with a million little removable jacks and variable settings from 3 - 12 volts, which I'm perfectly willing to lend to my buddy ole pal out of the goodness of my sycophantic heart so that she can get her jollies in racy chat rooms, and all I want is to know that I won't blow up the modem by doing this, so if you know the average voltage requirements of an external fax modem, you could well be a hero. My Hero.
Speaking of Charlotte, I have a tale for you.
We spent Canada Day together (in the midst of 250 000 drunken patriots, no less), frolicking in the summer heat, seeing the sites, dodging the people, and grooving along to the delicious delights of Buffy St. Marie (who was on Sesame Street, so don't nobody diss Buffy, lest it be their ass, and my cap...) before several million dollars in exploding pyrotechnics flashed overhead. She and I waited for my bus together, as she patiently stood almost perfectly still while I paced back and forth, after I'd pleaded with my friends to stop making me feel guilty by staying, and go and get their beers. And as we chatted about this and that, sometime around 12:30 (or so), my bus came, and our ways parted.
I made it home by 2am, and it was around 3 in the morning or so when I was sitting downstairs in front of Law and Order, thinking about how much I'd love me some dinner, that she called. Called, and called in disgust. So while I sat and worried, she told me her story.
To provide background (that you can read about in the Snivel for Thursday, June 26), Charlotte is renting a room in a lovely house, in a gorgeous and insanely upscale neighborhood, in Ottawa's fashionable Glebe. She's renting the room from a rather pleasant woman who lives there with her eleven-year-old son, but is otherwise alone, since her older children have all moved onwards to their non-living-at-home stages in life. They had gone away for the extended Canada Day weekend, leaving Charlotte to her own brief devices, which made her happy. I might have just been sleepy, but she'd called me that morning, apparently having just organized her room to precisely her liking (having just liberated most of her posessions from storage at her parents' place) while naked, which is really only something you do while the other humans are gone.
And so, after I'd been whisked (whisked rather slowly, actually) away in a bus packed to the armpits with people (nothing like someone's butt stuffed against your shoulder for an hour to make you appreciate Canada Day), Charlotte made her way home. And when she got there, she was pretty surprised by the open door (we'd locked it ourselves -- me yanking it firmly into the "closed" position, she wielding the keys, after she'd come back to change into her spanky dress). But anyway, she thought, that was just one of those things that makes you exclaim "Hello, what's this?!" as you otherwise carry about things the way you normally would. She was tired, she had to work in the morning, and by jove there was one comfy bed waiting for her upstairs.
She noticed as she mounted the lofty heights of the staircase that
there was a light on in her room, and a fan going where there had
been no fan before. But her room had previously been defiled by the
maid (to her indignancy) in her absence, so it was just entirely
possible it had happened again.
Yesss... that's right.. I'm
foreshadowing.
When she walked into her room, what awaited her were two naked people, sleeping in her bed. She had no idea who they were. She'd never seen them before in her life.
Now, if you're me, and you stumble across something like that,
your first conclusion is going to be that you're stuck in an alternate
timeline or dimension like in Back to the Future, or Sliders, and that
while you're in your house (or what you used to know as your house),
you're actually -- by the twists of time and space -- in a building
presently occupied by other people. And again, if you're me, you'd scream
"Jumping Gigawatts!" and run away.
If you're me.
Charlotte
behaves somewhat differently.
She was out of there, though. She headed downstairs to find her boots. One of the naked people in her bed heard her, though, and woke up, hurriedly dressed, and came downstairs to figure things out. The girl tried to explain things to Charlotte -- explain that they'd come by the house, and found the door unlocked, and since they hadn't expected anyone to come home, they'd just crashed there. Further explainations revealed that the girl was the daughter of the woman who owned the house, long since moved out on her own. Charlotte's room used to belong to the girl's older brother (I'm not certain why she didn't try to sleep in her own old room), and for some reason it hadn't occurred to them, with all the non-older brother possessions in the room (and girl clothes and accessories here and there), that perhaps this room might actually belong to someone with a more serious interest in sleeping in it. Someone who would presumably not be at the cottage, and be on their way home at some point, since after all they were paying lots of money for the privilege.
Charlotte had been told about this daughter when she moved in. The girl was a coke addict, as was her boyfriend, and the terms of their relationship with her mother is unclear, but probably shakey. And at that point, they were probably drunk, probably stoned, and had probably been having sex in her bed.
Charlotte could be nothing but utterly disgusted.
She
finished lacing up her boots, and headed down the street. The girl ran
after her when she was halfway down the road, profusely apologized again
and again for what had happened, and begged her not to tell the girl's
mother that they'd been there. Charlotte vaguely promised not to say
anything at the time, but has since had some second thoughts. After all,
why should she have to put up with such invasions? Who on earth wants to
come home and have unwanted and mysterious people passed out on their bed?
She kept on walking. She didn't want to spend the night in the same house. She didn't want to ever see them again. When she got to her sister's apartment, she called me. And told me the whole sordid tale.
My aforementioned appetite had vanished. I was almost as disgusted as she was. And I felt terrible for not being there. She had offered to let me crash at her place that night, and while events would not have turned out any differently, at least I would have been there to be a bit of reassurance. Charlotte was livid. And that in my sugary book smacks of someone who really needs a lot of comforting hugs. Which probably would have earned me a bitten-off ear. I've only heard her that upset a couple of times, and even then I'm not sure if it was to that degree. Sometimes she sounded so achingly sad, and sometimes she just sounded outraged. She'd worked so hard all morning to turn her room into more than just a place where she slept, and suddenly it wasn't even her space anymore. She felt invaded, and sickened, and angered. She didn't even have a change of clothes. Everything was in her room, where the naked people were probably already fast asleep. Her lovely dress, extra shiny boots, and murderous hatred were all she had to call her own.
She told her landlady today. She can't stand the idea of it happening again. It never should have happened at all. I hope she can feel at home in that room again. It's possible that, with time and powerfully washed sheets, she'll be able to reclaim her personal space and privacy there. But if not, she'll have to move out. She would have sooner or later anyway, but right now she was supposed to be happy there. It was supposed to be her safe, wonderful, home. Not somebody else's.
There was at least a bright point in her night before this happened. A mysterious older man, who drove her home in his BMW because she looked extra beautiful that night, gave her his cellular number and wants to buy her dinner. I'm sure I probably disapprove somehow, but I still hope she has fun.
Two Canada Days ago, I was facing the breakup with my erstwhile lover, Lucretia (a pseudonym provided, as always, to protect the identities of my friends from the people who are either close enough to me that they know without any hints exactly who I'm talking about, or are such remote strangers that they'd never know who I was talking about even if I did use real names). We spent the day forlorn, and feuding, and ended it on pretty brisk terms after the fireworks (during which I fussed and fidgeted, wishing I could get over my hurt feelings and just allow her to cuddle up next to me). And broke up a week later.
Last Canada Day was exceedingly complicated. Initially I'd made plans to spend the day with my friend Charlotte. But it was a sticky time, I must say. A friend of hers was visiting, and they were closer than perhaps I felt comfortable with. I'm sure I've gone about how much I need to feel like this big important best friend to everybody, and of course boyfriends and girlfriends blow that illusion for me... but it was more than that. I had some poorly concealed feelings for her then, and felt an awful like a redundancy when they were together. Charlotte knew how I felt, and while her reaction was surprising and confusing, it wasn't the typical one. She didn't rant or rave or fume at my sulky crush -- she just didn't call me to make plans. I don't know. At the time I felt hurt and abandoned, but we talked about it a couple of days later, and she explained how she both felt awkward with my feelings, but also how she wanted to spare them. Allowing me to do my own thing, away from this affection that pained me, was the easiest thing for everybody, even if it was bluntly delivered.
The epilogue of this is that over the summer we grew even closer as friends than before, now that the knowledge of where each other stood was certain.
But what also happened last year was that I spent the day with Lilith. She and I had been pretty far apart over the spring, because of how busy we both were, but now that the summer had arrived -- well, both of us had all this time to spend together, and use to meander, talk, and grow closer as friends. So, we met that afternoon, and I got over my hurt feelings quickly enough, bitterly deciding that I could have fun without friend Charlotte, and with Lilith instead.
Oh, the enigmatic intricacies of my heart. How it can be divided so evenly is a baffling mystery that never fails to complicate my life.
Lilith and I were hanging out with one of her friends. The
three of us joined hands, and walked around downtown for the day,
ostensibly just for the comfort of not getting separated and lost.
However, as the afternoon wore onwards into the evening, Lilith and I,
whenever separated, would just comfortably settle into one another's grasp
again, while her friend drifted back and forth.
We sat on top of this parking garage in the market (Charlotte
and I had dinner across the street from it today -- I pointed it out
miserably), and as we got ourselves comfortable, Lilith's friend teased
her with a hint of a backrub. Her hands just danced across Lilith's bare
back (she was wearing a one-piece swimsuit or somesuch underneath a pair
of shorts), and Lilith at once purred and melted, in the manner that we
all do when presented with the gentle touch of someone else's hands on
that most needy skin between our shoulders. But then she stopped, to
Lilith's sound disappointment. I was tempted to take over, but I wasn't
sure how comfortable I'd be offering myself as a replacement -- I didn't
know how Lilith felt about me at that point. But we'd had such an
incredible day, of endless talking and laughing, and sweet touches, that I
wanted to do something nice. So, as the fireworks began, I danced my
fingers gingerly across the nape of her neck, wondering if I should go on.
And I did. She slumped slightly, graciously offering me her back, ignoring
the fireworks altogether, as I ran my hands down her exquisitely soft
skin, and up her neck, and stroked her face. She looked so amazingly happy
that it just broke my heart. I mean to say that I was positively
overwhelmed. We'd gone out briefly the previous fall, in a tentative and
uncertain mutual crush, and I must admit that I'd missed giving her these
gentle touches.
I didn't want the fireworks to end. It was so nice being close to
her again. It was so nice believing that she wanted me. But they of
course ended, and we got up, with various constraints compelling us
to end our evening and get home. But she took my hand again, the whole
way back, and sometimes she would just squeeze it firmly, and
affectionately, and when we parted ways affectionately, I didn't even
notice the crowded, noisy, endless busride home, or the smell of
beer, cigarettes, and vomit. I was entirely too happy.
I think a week
after that, we goofily admitted our feelings to each other, and settled
into one of the most wonderful, if shy and gentle, relationships of my life.
And so, here it is, a year later, in almost the exact opposite
situation. I know I'm not at all certain of my feelings for anybody
anymore, in direct contrast to my full and knowledgable heart from last year.
Lilith and I had made basic, tentative, plans to get together. She
promised to call me once she got her schedule, and from there
we'd be able to determine with more certainty what was to be going on.
But I guess while the friendship still flourishes, the passion is gone.
And that's no one's fault. You can read about it in the Classic Snivel,
because it's a bit too difficult to elaborate upon again.
As it
turns out, I suppose Lilith found herself bewilderingly busy, because she
didn't call. I tried getting ahold of her today, but to no avail. But I
mean, that was understandable. She had a whole lot to do, and regardless
of her desire to spend some time with me, on a day that was
important to both of us, it just wasn't meant to be. I'm not so much
upset as disappointed. We agree we should see one another, and it never
happens. We make plans, and they fall apart. It's no one's fault,
exactly, just the unfortunate consequences of having separate lives.
Charlotte declared her intentions to spend some quality patriotic time with me today if it were possible, though. I felt kind of weird about it last night. I kept fumbling my feelings. I mentioned earlier that Lilith and I might need some time together if it worked out that we could meet, and so she had made plans to hang out with her sister in case Plan A backfired. But I think I gave her the impression that I would just feel guilty if we didn't get together, which is a highly insulting impression compared to the statement that I'd feel bad, and guilty, if we didn't get together, because of how much I wanted to see her. The last three or so Canada Days have involved some amount of time together, so it's really a tradition now.
In the meantime, the earwigs attacked. Bleah. I have a lot of crazy shirts, so the result is that half of my shirts need to be handwashed to prevent such unwanted realities as fading, fraying, shrinking, and destruction. So last night I washed a bunch of shirts, and to expediate their drying, hung them up on the back deck to bake in the morning July sun. I brought them in this morning, making breakfast and various plans, when a friend called to make further rendezvous plans with me for today. And that's when the earwigs appeared. Ten of them had been hiding under one of the shirts, and once they were on the kitchen table, they made a break for it. I nailed three or four when my friend called, and I asked her to just hang on for a wee second while I ran the shirts outside. As we plotted over the afternoon, I vanquished the remaining earwigs, and before I would even bring the shirts inside, let alone put one on, I spent five minutes outside vigorously shaking each of them. How utterly nauseating. Earwigs are my least favourite of insects.
As it was, I ended up arranging to encounter Charlotte and company at the statue of Terry Fox in the Byward Market (across from the Rideau Centre -- Ottawa's version of a big and swanky mall). I met some new people today (in the form of boyfriends), and as well a girl I hadn't seen in about three years. We sat on the steps, chatting and reminiscing, for about half an hour in the heat before Charlotte, impatient, suggested we six go and wander about. Charlotte and I share this singular eccentric appreciation of socialization through migration. Sitting down and having coffee or a meal are wonderful things in themselves, with the right company, but neither of us are actually very sedentary (though she's more active than I am in terms of running around and doing sports-like things with one's time), and we get along quite well just seeing the sights, exploring territory that has been charted countless times in our past adventures. So we headed towards Sparks Street, further downtown, and collided with destiny in the form of a patio cafe, where we congregated and ordered four beers (four our assembled friends), a cola (for your humble caffeine dog), and a lemonade (for Charlotte, who was embittered to discover that yet another establishment had been gotten to by the iced tea people, and they only had iced tea to offer her insatiable lemonade cravings). And I guess for an hour or so, we talked and reminisced further about the days past in high school. Which is really interesting in a way, but even I, who constantly obsesses over the events of the past, do concede that I have limits about nostalgia. I would have politely, and happily, sat with my friends (whom I both miss and care very much about) as they talked about old teachers and friends, but I must say that when my poor friend expressed her antsy drive to go downtown and buy a beautifully bright and shiny necklace she'd been eyeing, I gracefully excused us, with the arranged pledge to meet again at 7:30.
Charlotte bought a stained glass necklace -- this bright and shiny blue circle of glass in a black frame that we had both drooled over a couple of weeks ago with the devotion of deranged magpies -- and then actually bought me dinner. This is where we sat across from the building I sat with Lilith last year. To make up for her generosity, I promised to buy her ice cream later on, but at the moment, we had to flee to her home, because she had a dress to put on.
Charlotte bought the most astonishingly elegant dress last week from a second-hand shop. It's straight, long, and black, with a shiny rhinestone-encrusted orange stripe down its sides that looks entirely more beautiful and slinky that you probably imagine. Because I was the one who encouraged her to buy it (I maintain that she picked it out, she loved it, and she paid for it... I merely said, "Wow, that's smashing. I agree with you. Buy it. Buy it, buy it, buy it."), she promised not to even wear it out once until I was there to see the results. So we caught a bus (passing by the lamented hill where Lilith and I sat last summer when I told her that I loved her) all the way down Bank Street into the high priced and tasteful neighborhoods of the Glebe. I stretched out on her excessively comfortable bed and listened the the Harriet the Spy CD she had playing, while she dashed into and out of the bathroom to change and -- horrors -- accessorise.
And I mean, I felt bad that she was putting on makeup, and searching for a black items to coordinate with it, but she wanted to do it, for herself, and actually I could only tell her that she looked extra beautiful for her troubles. It's difficult saying something like that for a friend. For one thing, it sounds awkward, cheesey, and ill-spoken no matter how you word it; and then there's the fact that a strong compliment can often make people feel uncomfortable. It was true though. I actually felt out of place, in my purple hair, cutoff shorts, and trendy suede skater sneakers. She could have been inagurated in that dress. I would have become female for the opportunity to wear it with the natural ease she did.
The only unhappy part of the day was during the fireworks. We were on this big blanket in Majors Hill Park, watching the pyrotechnic wonders and the startled terror of the beloved dogs some people had been foolish enough to bring with them. I was forced to think about last year, when Lilith and I were so very close during that precise moment, and while I thought my forlorn, ground-staring stiffness had gone unnoticed during the show, Charlotte called me on it later. It really was difficult, though, as I'm sure can be understood. I could only think how exceptionally unpleasant, and extreme, the changes between last year and this year were. I was glad that we were together as friends, unlike last year, but it seemed to be also at such a price. This one day in exchange for the entire relationship Lilith and I shared.
Charlotte and I brought our cameras today, as any image-obsessive types would. She is actually an incredibly talented photographer in her own right; me, I just point my little plastic box and press the shutter button. There's this one photo on my camera that she requested be taken (because mine has a flash) this evening, by one of her friends. It's just of the two of us (I actually originally thought she was asking me to take a photo of her with her friend, before I was corrected), sitting down together on the blanket, with her squeezing beside me so that the picture would fit in the frame, pressed drastically close enough against me that I even felt the need to blush. I hope it turns out. It was spontaneous, and simple, but also cheered me up, and will become one of the slowly growing archive of photos I actually have of my friends.
I think the final regret about tonight is that it ended.
And may I say to my friend Burrhus, who briefly entered our circle this evening, rather malfunctioning on account of the chemicals, that I don't know exactly how you got safely home tonight, but I'm certainly hoping you did.
Now, perhaps it is melodramatic, but I must wonder if you fully appreciate the impact of what I have just said. Watering the lawn. It isn't enough that I merely live here, on this street, in this strange beige city, with its population of 40 000 people and their minivans who more or less all live in the same house, but here I am now, also acting like my neighbours. Taking an interest in the appearances of things -- is the grass too short? Water it. Too long? Cut it. If there are weeds -- get Chemlawn to spray it. I always figured that you could make an enormous amount of money if you could just form one of those lawn-spraying companies, but instead of herbicides and pesticides, you just sprayed the lawn with a really good -- and I mean fantastic -- green dye.
But all the same, I had the sprinkler on in the back, and out front I was watering the flowers, and soaking the brown patches with water, checking on the places where the sod is still freshly laden, and adding just the right amount of water to the patch where we yanked the diseased tree out and planted the grass seed. Partly I must confess that I just love hoses. I've never had a problem with watering things. I have this eerie fascination with water (usually in bodies... lakes, rivers, ponds, creeks, streams...), and the fact that you get this neat gun nozzle to shoot water at things is pretty impressive to me. Perhaps it is linked to my fascination with frogs. Where there is water -- there are frogs. And the universe must then be well.
But I guess in all my fun, it took me a moment to realize that across the street, there was my neighbor, complete with graying hair and pot belly, doing precisely the same thing. He was meandering about the lawn, soaking this, or soaking that, with obvious care and vigilance. I felt like Luke Skywalker, in Return of the Jedi, when he looks at his damaged mechanical hand (replacing the original severed in Empire), to Darth Vader's severed artificial hand (complete with wires and smoke), and back again. And it's then it dawns on him what he is in danger of becoming, and that's when in shame he turns away from his anger, and faces the Emperor.
I mean, there I was, seeing my own destiny laid out before me. I could almost here Ian MacDiarmod cackling. I was even looking at our flower garden in the front, and feeling ashamed that it wasn't as lush and well-maintained as some of those belonging to other houses on the street. And I just felt stupid for it. I mean, what do I care about what the people down the street think of our lawn? Or the petunias? Or the hibiscus that, damn it, just isn't flowering this year.
It got kind of surreal, too. Because my neighbour had been out
for a real long time now. Even his wife and kids had gone inside. But I
guess he was aware of me -- the purple-headed freak of the entire
neighbourhood -- and for some reason, his honour was at stake. He and I
both knew that he wasn't going inside before I finished up. Before I
stopped watering my lawn. So I kept spraying. And he kept spraying.
Occasionally I would stop, just to see how soaked the ground was. And
he'd notice.
Finally, I finished. The lawn was properly wet, and I
was satisfied. So was he. He went inside. And I think, partly out of
genuine concern, and partly for spite, I walked across the driveway and
watered the other, browner part of the lawn, that actually was
parched and needed watering most of all -- but no one ever does, because
that's the part of the lawn that joins up with your NEIGHBOUR'S driveway.
A thin little strip of grass between your two drives that no one waters
because, heavens forfend, no one ever wants to risk getting water on their
neighbour's lawn. Better to water the driveway than that.
I also took notice of what is obviously this enormous phallic potential for garden hoses too. I think that has to be part of the phenomena. You can spray for yards. The difference would be that I prefer watering the lawn with my left hand, but maybe that's just a sign of some latent ambidextrous oddity.
I don't know. I think I'm moving downtown. No grass, no bus, no minivans.
Oh -- Happy Canada Day. After all, I'm sure you'll be hearing about mine.
Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.
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