Nola Kane: A Character Study

Nola sighed. Another utterly exhausting, yet heartwarmingly fun day was coming to an end. The clock read 6:02 pm and she had just, moments ago, waved goodbye to the last kid still somehow teeming with energy and her significantly less energetic mom. Nola sighed, not because she was tired, though she was. Looking outside at the darkness of the late fall evening filled her with a great appreciation for the working electricity inside as well as the vastness of the universe. She smiled a wry smile at her ability to be so deep after a long day.

As she surveyed the now-deserted room that only a short while ago was bordering-on-but-never-quite-reaching chaos, she felt something akin to satisfaction or fulfillment, but it was hard to tell as she was also quite hungry. Nola just loved these little ones who attended her daycare. When she first started years ago, her mother claimed that she had found her calling, while Nola, even though she thoroughly enjoyed her work, wasn't always quite sure.

Back in school, she had been one of those "most likely" types whom teachers fawned over and fellow students both admired and teased, usually behind her back except that one time when she had sensed their presence and turned around really quickly exclaiming "aha!" The world had been her oyster even though she never quite understood what that meant even after she took up oyster fishing and oyster shell collecting as hobbies. To this day the smell of oysters always makes her feels slightly nauseous.

Despite having so many options in her senior year which was almost debilitating, but not quite, unlike that time when she broke her foot which was actually quite debilitating, she surprised everyone by studying early childhood education and eventually opening up her own daycare. She's learned at an early age that it is much easier to surprise people if you purposely surround yourself with easy-to-surprise people.

Others wondered if she was selling herself short and she kept claiming that she wasn't for sale unless we were talking big money as even she had a price. Others also wondered about her choice of cardigans. While running a daycare appeared to be a perfect match for this fun-loving, yet sensitive, young woman in her mid-20s, in the back of her head she always felt like she should have rolled the dice and pursued her true love, and no, that wasn't referring to her love of games of chance involving dice or the stunning Gill Brooks who lived across the street, though those too.

From her early 20s she'd concealed her true love because she couldn't face the music or the laughter or even the sink without calling a plumber first. Privately she'd always wanted to solve crime or crimes, if one wasn't enough to satisfy the itch. Satisfying itches was one of those things that helped her unwind as well as cutting back on winding herself up which had a very limited upside anyways. She had spent her years in college fantasizing about becoming a childcare provider by day and the catcher of bad people at night and then the president-elect of a fantasy world made up of elves who was slowly bringing down the government from the inside while she slept. But something held her back and she was never quite sure what.

Nola shook her head from side to side, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until she grew tired of it and neck grew sore. She was disinfecting the toys that the kids had slobbered on and shared and then slobbered on some more and just wondering if she was truly as happy as she felt when a certain, key part of her, the desire to solve crimes, lay dormant and unused. Maybe she was too sensitive or maybe she was too fun-loving or maybe it was the precise combination of the two that had her trapped in this world of solely watching and washing children for a living.

Or, maybe, just maybe, her struggles were due to her fear of heights; her debilitating fear of heights. A fear that would be a source of pride, if fears ever could be, which they couldn't. She stopped in her tracks at the front door as she was about to lock up and head home and she looked up at the tall building across the street and shuddered involuntarily. Tops of buildings had always had that effect on her.

In an instant she was taken back to her childhood as she stood there in the doorway of her dimly lit daycare she had build brick by brick from the ground floor all those years ago. True, someone else had actually formed the bricks into a building, and true, there was only a ground floor, and true, she had just turned some of the lights off which explained why things seemed dimly lit, and why she was visiting her childhood as she stood there was a mystery to her. Another mystery. So many mysteries. They surrounded her and kept her up at night; well those, and her addiction to caffeine. All she wanted was to throw off the shackles of her fear of heights and solve them all. She also wanted to buy some ice cream.

She turned back to look at the daycare, knowing that in a few short hours, she'd be back here on Burdett Avenue in the morning. The little ones would arrive once again, and she'd play with them with a joy that naturally emanated from her as she was just such a fun-loving woman. And yet, there was so much more to her that she kept concealed, as if locked away in a small safe hidden underneath her pile of big wool sweaters in her closet. She started to cry and wasn't sure why. If only she wasn't so sensitive. Nola sighed. Time to go home.

A Love in Colours: Sky Blue

The breathtaking blue sky seemed to go on forever in every direction. Kites were being flown by fathers and their kids, adult birds were returning to their nests mouthing worms to feed their young ones, and thin, wispy clouds remained as a distant reminder of the rains of the previous few days. This spring afternoon featured a sky that was almost surreal, the kind that one could lay on the grass and stare up at for hours upon hours, which they did. They lay there, saying but a word, lost in the blueness of the sky, next to each other, the only people in the universe.

His heart had just skipped a beat and he finally fully understood the seriousness of the often overused cliche. She was stunningly beautiful and he was at a loss for words. He was not panicking as he was certain that after a short period of time he would either find his words again or they him. He was also silently cursing himself for misusing and abusing the word "beautiful" on countless other occasions when referring to nice looking girls whom he previously had anointed with the highest level of physical praise when he should have been reserving it solely for this rare type of woman that he previously had only seen in his imagination. His eyes darted away, he quickly pinched himself in four separate locations in quick succession and then slowly looked back just to make sure that it wasn't some sort of small, localized mirage appearing in front of his history lecture room at the university. Who was she, he wondered? A visiting lecturer from some far-away pristine land of beaches of white sand? A new student whose main purpose in life was to prove to all other students that it was indeed possible to possess both highly advanced neurological proclivity as well as perfect skin and flowing hair? A sign that he both needed new glasses and had zero interest in filling the prescription if this was the result? Regardless, he needed to meet her and ask her about her noticeable lack of any skin blemishes, to know her name and favourite drapery patterns and to take her out for an evening of fine dining, whispering by candlelight and the taming of wild horses if that happened to come up organically. Time seemed to stand still. He had been stuck there, watching her from a far, and almost missed his chance as she started to walk towards the bus loop, but thankfully as he began to fall in her direction as if felled by a large axe, he put one foot in front of the other as his parents taught him during his formative years and he ran after her.

She was not looking to meet someone, or at least she had convinced herself of this after writing lines saying this all weekend, No, she had learned the hard way what happened when she allowed herself to be distracted by all of the cute, hunky guys who made her jaw drop and almost walk into walls only narrowly missing as she had to stop walking due to the pain in her slightly dislocated jaw. With her newfound focus, she strode towards her first class of the new school year and what an interesting class it had been. Proud of herself for both not making a fool of herself too profoundly on the first day and for leaving that door open just in case she decided to strategically act the fool in the future, she left the class and saw him. He was adorably trying not to stare at her by pretending to read a book that he was holding upside down or he was actually reading the book upside down and was just showing off his skills. She instantly remembered that he had spoken up in class a few times and was clearly quite bright as well as doing something in his free time, she wasn't quite sure what, that made his muscles fill out his shirt just so. She briefly contemplated sashaying over there and either saying hi or kissing him with such force that he would either need medical attention or be interested in grabbing a coffee sometime. He was quite cute and she had a soft spot for cute guys that was sort of like the top of a cantaloupe when it was perfectly ripe - she quickly made plans to buy a cantaloupe on the way home for a refreshing mid-afternoon snack. He clearly seemed interested and she prayed that he would make his move. After waiting as long as she could and running out of ways to seem occupied while standing facing a nearly empty bulletin board, she decided to go home, as staying there any longer and he would think she was a little too interested in the empty wall. It was only the first day of class, she reminded herself, there was lots of time to get to know him.

The Juggler

He sat in front of his dressing room mirror overwhelmed with a tornado of strong emotions. For the past 15 years he had been a juggler with the circus and was a veteran of over 900 shows. The grandfather of the circus. Tonight was his last show.

His whole life had been spent in and around the big tents. It was the only reality he knew. He briefly relived the shock of the others when he unceremoniously announced that he was choosing to walk away. The face he saw as he looked into the mirror looked weathered and old. He was old.

It was two hours until the show - his big send off - and he took out his dinner. His wife had made him a succulently baked chicken leg with all of his favourite sides. He closed his eyes and inhaled the wonderful aroma that reminded him of his cozy home and his amazing wife who had stood beside him all these years. It had not been easy for her. He would not have blamed her for leaving. This was not what she signed up for.

He removed his knife and fork slowly and deliberately, savouring every one of his last moments and experiences as each represented years upon years of similar times. He ripped into the flesh of the once proud bird and aggressively stuffed his mouth full of the juicy meat. His tongue darted out attempting to catch every drop of the cooking liquid as if he were parched, alone in the desert. 

Again and again he returned for more only to occasionally pause to keep his imagined attackers at bay. Over the years he too had felt the pain of his flesh being metaphorically ripped from his bones by dictator-like owners, vindictive managers and back-stabbing colleagues each trying to get ahead by squashing the vulnerable around them. He had been vulnerable. He had felt pain.

Outside the wind blew and rattled the poles and the thin layer of protective canvas surrounding him. The wind was always there, blowing in and around the circus; popping in and out of crevasses, playfully rousing hair dos and reminding all that it was barely skimming into its huge arsenal of power. He loved the wind and longed for its cold touch and sometimes he wished it would lift him up off his feet and blow him away from this place.

After tossing his scraps for the dogs, he began carefully applying his make-up, the many layers that combined to create his facade, his prison. He smiled ear-to-ear for the imaginary photographers and frowned for the audience members whose gaze lingered after the spotlight had quickly found the trapeze artists or clowns or whatever the crowd yearned for. 

Many times he had prayed for the spotlight to remain and for a chance to wow the people. He had a dream where he had boundless energy and pulled off incredible stunt after stunt and was greeted with a stunning and overwhelming standing ovation. He would sign autographs, give interviews, receive bonuses and smile until his cheeks hurt. He would feel wanted and loved and his tears would be for joy for a change.

"Thirty minutes!" the voice barked out snapping him out of his reverie. The harsh return to reality slapped him in the face. The eyes in the mirror stared back at him with the hallowed look of a beaten man. He rose slowly, cracked his knuckles and took a long, knowing look around his mess of a dressing-room. His sanctuary, his safe place, the house for his tormented soul.

He wanted to paint a black and gray portrait of a man full of sorrow and neglect using his face as the canvas. He wanted to juggle with his tormentors egos high upon a stack of carefully balanced furniture pieces only to slip and drop the egos and see them crash into a million little pieces as if they were but porcelain dolls. His cackle would be heard for miles. For years he had bit his tongue and closed his eyes and turned his cheek. The light at the end of the tunnel was finally in sight.

It was ten minutes until show time and his mind drifted, as it often did, to the night of the tragedy. It was so many years ago and yet it felt like yesterday. He felt trapped inside the prison of his own making, wishing he could forgive himself. Others uncaringly comforted him, he saw shrinks, talked to police, and fell, shaking, into his wife's arms each evening. "It wasn't your fault. He wasn't being careful. You are only a juggler." As the final opening curtain approached he stood outside his dressing room; a lone man awash with moonlight, longing for his release.

A Love in Colours: Orange

The sky was brilliant and the sunset cast an iridescent orange glow upon the ocean. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, some kids were joyfully swimming, and they lay on their beach blanket enamoured with the stunning orange hue in each other's eyes as they squeezed every minute out of another amazing day. 

He awoke after a long sleep, sat up and looked around his room and was fighting the urge to fall back asleep. He had made a name for himself for fighting urges of all shapes and sizes as well as being quite adept at falling back asleep regardless of the time or location. Today was a busy day, he knew that, and he had a mental checklist a mile long with the length being mostly an approximation as well as the description of a list as the items were arranged more randomly. The one thing he was certain of was that he had to see her again and hold her hand and, if things went according to plan, to throw caution to the wind and hold her other hand. In his spare time he threw a variety of other items, often compostable ones, to the wind much to his landlord's dismay but that was okay as his landlord was dismayed most of the time and he always cleaned up after himself - it was just his way of letting off steam that didn't involve punching, kicking or other socially-acceptable means of violence because they are part of an organized sport. He longed to hold both of her hands for a period of time no less than 15 minutes and no greater than 4 hours as he was certain that things would come up where the hand holding would become quite cumbersome. Yes, his day was busy and he needed to get to work, but he also needed to be in her presence and he knew she felt the same way.

She hit the snooze button. Hard. It was just the way she was with buttons. There could be no way that it was time to wake up she thought, but there it was again, her alarm. She lay there and attempted to look at the ceiling but it was just too dark and the light switch was so far away. In a perfect world the light switch would be closer, but she knew how silly it was to dream about things that could never come true in her wildest dreams - she also chided herself for having really really lame wild dreams. His face was on her mind as was his legs. Oddly she had no memory of the rest of his body at the moment, but she was still half asleep so she guessed it made sense to only be able to picture half of his body. As she rose from her bed she had to reassure herself that he did have more than just a face and some legs, but of course he did - there is no way she'd be seen out in public with someone lacking a torso. She knew he was busy and that he couldn't just call in sick, but she hoped he was thinking of her and also her potted plant as he had sworn that he would for reasons she misheard as she was washing the dishes. Maybe he'd call or maybe he'd drop by or maybe she'd have to risk seeming desperate and pick up her own phone - one way or another she had to be with him.

Nothing But Blue Skies Ahead

The Early Years

She first met him in the sandbox digging a suspiciously big hole with a shovel that he was clearly quite attached to.

When he first met her she was wearing a cute summer dress that, for some reason, made her appear taller and, although he wouldn't be conscious of it for another 10 years, slightly more beautiful.
He dug and he dug and he dug going deeper and deeper almost as if he were trying to escape from prison or trying to excavate enough sand to build a model prison or just biding time until his imaginary friends would allow him to switch activities.
She stood there, practically bouncing, twirling her hair both nervously and with an unforeseen purpose that she planned to unveil the Sunday after next to the shock and awe of those who knew her. 

He worked with such impressive zeal, which is saying a lot as she grew up in house practically oozing with zeal often bordering on being impressive.

She wanted to talk to him, to know all about him, to ask him a million questions, but it was hard. She was only 5.
As the sun slowly set on this brilliant day, the two walked home side-by-side, equal parts tired, hungry and excited to have made a new friend.

As the summer was reaching it's end, she went to the beach with her mom for the day and saw him collecting the hollowed out shells of dead crabs with just a little too much pleasure.
He immediately took interest in her sand castle building technique as it was clearly an homage to the Hellenic people of Ancient Greece with a little art nouveau tossed in for good measure.

She watched him standing knee-deep in the shallow water bravely awaiting the incoming waves of cold water as if to say "make me wet, oh mighty wave", although he could have just been yawning.

There was something about the way she ran, kicking up sand, crazy curly hair flying aimlessly in her wake that intrigued him making him subconsciously interested in both kicking sand on his own at some later date and demonstrating this to her when he felt more confident in his abilities.

As she casually observed, he overturned small rocks and scientifically studied the miniature wildlife underneath with a profoundly compelling lack of care for their well being.

Amidst the whirlwind of sounds, smells and colours, his eyes were drawn to her freckles as if they were directly speaking to him in a language that only he could understand. In moments like this he usually had two slices of cheese and took a nap.

The sun set on a spectacular summer day and they walked slowly to their respective cars lagging behind their mothers with a stunning, unforgettable sunset behind them.

The end of October came and with it arrived both fall and Halloween and she was able to not-so-gently convince him to trick-or-treat together for the first time.
While he had never been a big fan of princesses in the past, he found himself uncharacteristically quiet and well-mannered in her regal presence and kept kneeling before her when the opportunity presented itself.
She was enjoying her evening collecting candy, greatly appreciating the seriousness and attention to detail he was pouring into his role as Batman as well as the illusion of safety due to walking next to such a famous crime-fighter.
He was so taken with the twinkle of stars reflected in her eyes, the shimmer of moonlight on her hair and the audacity she so wantonly displayed with how messily she devoured her chocolates.
They ran into a small group of other boys dressed as Batmen and she was so strangely proud of his utter disdain and incredulous disbelief in their wearing the same costume as he, almost as if he was shocked that they felt their could be more than one.
He wanted to somewhat recklessly share sweets with her, to laugh uproariously with her, to protect her from those that wanted to besmirch her and, if things went according to plan, to pet her hair.
The rains came and ended the evening abruptly, and the two young kids joyfully walked quickly, almost skipping, as their tired fathers lazily brought up the rear.

On the morning after the snowstorm, she looked out of her frosted window and saw him constructing a series of snow people who appeared to be singing in a large, snow person choir.
Though deeply focussed on his work and slightly out of breath, he saw her approach with a mug of what appeared to be steaming hot cocoa, and he smiled, as he was quickly calculating all the ways to utilize her in his scheme while enjoying the warm beverage.
She started off by making a number of miniature snowmen as her way of paying homage to the miniature snowmen that she secretly saw following and protecting her year-round.
He was enjoying her company so much, and so profoundly, that he badly wanted her to stay which made his adoration transparent and his snow pie in her face all the more confusing.
Together, they worked hard all morning and she was so taken with his flushed cheeks, constantly dripping nose and furrowed brow that she decided to take them as perplexing signs of his affection for her.
The snow angels they made reminded him of her as they were both white, angelic and carved out of snow, which was further evidence of his lack of understanding of human reproduction and his immediate need for an eye exam.
Dinner times were announced, and they went their separate ways leaving only their footprints in the snow and the virtual army of snowmen in their wake.

The first flowers of the season marked the beginning of spring and she played catch with him for hours at the park. 

He was so enamoured that he would catch anything she threw his way including, but not limited to, balls, gloves and any other however-loosely-connected-to-baseball paraphernalia.

In many ways, playing catch with him, was a euphemism for her deeper, more romantic feelings for him and in many other ways, it was just catch as she had only recently turned six.

When they relaxed on the swings, he talked of his hopes for the future, his dreams of success and his fear of growing too hairy, although he had already come up with a really solid contingency plan just in case.

In moments like this she thought of her favourite movie princesses and how they were so beautiful, happy and in love either as a result, or being completely unaware of, the limits of their two-dimensional and fictional lives.

He willingly shared his cheese and tomato sandwiches with her and wanted to literally feed them to her as one example of his difficulty letting go of bread products and because of his overwhelming desire to touch her face in as uncreepingly a way as possible.

The spring of their relationship was drawing to a close just as the spring of the year was opening up, but they both knew, the best was yet to come.

The Middle Years

The first day of high school was upon them and she wondered if he was feeling as nervous, excited and as tired as she was or if he had learned how to better suppress his emotions as was his goal during the summer vacation.
He was anxious, but having her by his side calmed him enough so that his anxiety didn't lead to too much embarrassment in the first few minutes of the first day - he hoped to evenly spread it out over the entire school year.
The bell rang and they went their separate ways but not before she looked over her shoulder at his rapidly vanishing body and hoped that she would never forget seeing him in this way, mostly due to the vanishing effect.
He couldn't wait for lunch - to share with her all about their first morning of school and to make sure she was still in one piece - it was an irrational fear that he had.
The cafeteria was a busy, loud place and she strained to hear all he had to share and she couldn't be sure if he was actually talking or just mouthing the words as he knew she loved it when he did that.
Lunch was over and he held her hands under the table, partially to hide their connection from prying eyes and also because that is where their hands happened to be located at the time and he was a strong believer in not wasting any energy with excessive hand movement.
At days end, they walked home laughing and joking about school and looking forward to this new chapter in their lives.

They were standing in the blaring gymnasium - the site of their first school dance and she was hoping that he would dance with her and then, at some point, stop dancing and then resume dancing at some point later on.
He stood against the wall with the other boys from his classes but couldn't take his eyes off of her in general and her tapping feet specifically - there was always something about her feet that intrigued him.
She grabbed his hand when her favourite song started and was amazed by his moves until they became less predictable, overtly suggesting the masses rise up and revolt and more dangerous for all around.
A slow song came on, and he held her tightly and she seemed to melt in his arms which made him quite nervous and sweaty - which was his usual, Pavlovian response to all things that melted in his vicinity.
At the punch bowl, she noticed him making the rounds talking to other boys and girls and though she had flights of jealousy, she knew deep down inside that he only longed to rest his head on her shoulders and occasionally her knees as he annoying informed her every morning.
They snuck outside and shared their first kiss, and he felt like he was in the presence of an angel, both because of the glow from the moon and also because she had been quite forceful and directive in her orders.
The dance was over and everyone went home, but they took pause and looked at each other and smiled and just kept on dancing.

Her family had invited him over for a holiday meal and she was attempting to play footsie with him but he either didn't understand the game or was playing a tad bit too aggressively.
He asked her to pass the yams and he hoped that she would not only pass the yams, but that she would intuitively understand what he was saying on a deeper level, and also pass the gravy.
She was mesmerized by his rhythmic chewing which was perfectly on pace with the constant ticking of the minute hand on the grandfather clock and she appreciated this on many levels especially as it helped her fix her metronome.
Dessert was served and he insisted on giving her the first piece of pumpkin pie which he did with such gusto and verve that she stood and finally gave him the standing ovation he had so wanted for the past week.
After the last dish was cleared, she enjoyed his version of some holiday classics which were belted out in his usual somewhat-crazed-completely-over-the-top-verging-on-spastic-everyone-in-the-room-pressing-the-9-and-the-1-and-then-waiting spirit.

He sat next to her on the couch and admired her posture, her lack of posturing, her attention to detail with moisturizing and her cute abhorrence of foods that are moist.

As the evening came to an end, they comfortably sat next to each other and tried to fight off the sleep that beckoned.

With the excitement of Valentine's Day in the air, she spied on him frantically colouring away with a look she would later recall as equal parts fear and delirium.

He intuitively felt her presence and imagined her as a lioness proudly and regally striding through the jungle commanding respect mostly because this was how they spent the last set of weekends.
Upon receiving the handmade card, she contemplated shivering just to once again see the care and attention he gives to all things that shiver.
He accepted her card with a look of "I better just smile to mask my confusion" as the card was stunning in its audacity, flair and originality as it was not only a card and more of an experience.
She wanted to leap through the halls, tossing and playing with ribbons of all the colours of the rainbow while glitter fell from the ceiling, but she didn't as it wasn't a Thursday.
He stood there smiling at her reaction as it reminded him of something that he could not quite put his finger on and for a moment, he was lost in the mist, and when it cleared it was time to go home.
They sat on the bench outside the gym sharing a box of chocolates without a care for the mess they were making on their lips.

It was the last day of school and she was enjoying his new hair style as it was verging on exploring new dimensions and befriending the aliens who live there.
They had made plans to go camping with his family and he looked forward to scaring her with ghost stories and then comforting her with marshmallows and, after an appropriate break, to resume the scaring.
She cleaned out her locker only to find a note he wrote her in completely illegible printing decorated by drawings that would have been means for excommunication or beheadment in a different era.
After their last class, he went to give her a high five mostly for her sake as she believed that everything must end with the touching of palms and, if at all possible, the sliding backwards of feet.
As the hallways emptied and they lingered, she offered to buy him ice cream mostly to see his puppy dog reaction, followed by his kitty cat rubbing against her leg and finally with his moving slowly around like a walrus - how she looked forward to that walrus.
They paused while she said goodbye to the principal and he was envious of her ability to speak coherently to adults especially when it was not for marks as well as her aptitude for not appearing overly cliched even when she tried.
School was over and they had an entire summer of freedom before them and they couldn't have been any happier at this moment.

The Present Day

She excitedly waited among the teeming crowds at the arrival gate to see his familiar nothing-is-wrong-please-stare-somewhere-else-or-maybe-don't-stare-at-all-as-I-was-taught-that-it-is-quite-rude-I'm-just-saying look on his face.

His eyes caught hers and he felt his heart skip a beat and he sighed contentedly and cursed himself as he kept putting off having that checked out by a doctor.

It had only been a few weeks, but she felt that it had been a lifetime ago that she last gazed into his brown eyes, held his hand or obsessively combed his hair for hours on end.

He told her funny stories and enjoyed watching her large and varied range of facial expressions that she clearly had been practicing and expanding while he was away.

She watched him gather his luggage and was struck by a series of new and pronounced muscles in his legs and arms that firmly cemented him as non-animated and made her frustrated as all of the woollen clothes she had spent hour knitting by candlelight would now be too tight.

He put his arm around her in the backseat of the cab as she nestled her head into his soft sweater just as he had carefully and painstakingly directed her to in his long series of often cryptic and poignant post cards.

Now that this trip back to his homeland was done, they vowed to never leave each other's side again.

They started working on their wedding invitations and she watched with awe as he decorated the cards with drawings that were equal parts touching, random and graphic.
He was thinking about the evening when he proposed and how the light lit up her face, nearly burning her and completely throwing him off, making him start again from the beginning after the doctor ruled out anything serious.
Her mind drifted to all of the hyperventilating, rapid eye-twitching and jumpy knees of his that occurred on a regular basis that she dedicated a few minutes to each day convincing herself that they were cute.
While he addressed the letters, she put the finishing touches on the cards with a care that he felt would be better suited for nursing an ailing bird back to health, which coincidentally was a theme they had only recently rejected for their wedding.
She remembered the evening of the proposal, once the ring was on her finger, and how he just couldn't stop weeping at the restaurant and how her mood went from joy to concern very quickly.
He helped her mail the letters which he was prepared to do even if she objected as she often did whenever she wanted to use postal services.
The invitations were off and the wedding was a few months away and the planning had just begun.

It was the evening before the wedding and she wondered if he was nervous and passing the time, as he often did when nervous, by attempting, and failing, to literally bounce off the walls.
As his single life was drawing to a close, he imagined her in her wedding dress riding in on a beautiful black stallion, as if she was a messenger from some far-off kingdom bringing with her a deep dish pizza to share.
The clock struck midnight and she turned in to bed, but not before remembering and contemplating his favourite, yet overly cryptic, quote "the mighty sea washes away the sand castle as only the sea can."
He flipped channels, thinking of her flipping channels, then he ate some cashews, thinking of her eating cashews and he came to the conclusion that she was much more fun in person and that she should stop copying him already.
She lay there smiling at the thought of how happy he makes her and how happy he makes himself as a direct result of making her happy and how both of them were happy about all of that.
He wanted to hold her hand, to caress her shoulders, to have some idea where her kidneys are located - just in case and he knew that she was always the one for him because she didn't run away after he wrote a 5000 word story about these and other longings he had.
Their final night apart was a sleepless one and as night turned to morning, the big day was finally upon them.

The guests were gathering in the courtyard and she imagined him brushing his hair, trying to find just the right balance between volume, control and socialist ideals.
He stood with his best man and caught sight of her and she looked amazingly beautiful and he started tearing up and only then did he unselfishly wish it wasn't allergy season so the tears could all be for her.
Then she was next to him and they held hands and she heard him repeat the vows that he insisted be mostly unintelligible so that only she would know what he meant.
He gazed upon her as it was her turn to state her commitment, which she did as if possessed by an Elizabethan poet as they had reluctantly agreed upon considering their disdain for the works of that period.
"I do" and "I do" were spoken and she laughed as he pumped his fist and then raised his arms before completing a stunning backward somersault which was even more impressive considering the tux was one size too small.
He leaned over to kiss her and she decided to not only return the kiss, but also to jump into his arms and start singing Disney classics using his right thumb as a microphone.
The crowd rose and cheered as the newlyweds turned to face them, all the while beaming.

She would always recognize him by his syntax and refusal to use commas.

He would always appreciate her love for vases of flowers and for just flowers as in some situations vases were superfluous.
She loved that he was everything she wanted aside from some things that would require too much plastic surgery and brainwashing.
He considered himself so lucky that she cared for him so deeply outside of the time when her favourite shows were on as that was her time.
She wanted to make him happy which was harder than it looked as he was constantly writing and rewriting his "What Makes Me Happy" list.
He took pride in being there for her even when he sensed that she could use a break already or at least just slightly more personal space.
The past was full of amazing memories and the future was bright for the two as they had nothing but blue skies ahead.  

Another Day in My Life

The following is part 2 of a story I am writing. To see part 1 please click here: Part 1

Part 2

I sit there on my front steps and survey the area.

It is true, I live on a really attractive block and I can only hope that I have become more beautiful as a result of all of the time I have spent here. I'm pretty sure I am more attractive now then before I lived here and not only because of my once-secret downstairs lab of mostly-male beauty products. I say once-secret because I recently took some photos and submitted them to the local newspaper who is running an expose on downstairs labs of local residents. I also refer to the products as mostly-male as I am not ashamed to admit that I do use a few products intended solely for women as well as one that is supposed to be for canines which is making my chest hair so light and fluffy that even my dog growls softly whenever I enter the room. It is an attractive block - splendidly tall trees that reach up to the sky as if leading a yoga class only with a fair amount more greenery and they create a very fresh and natural aroma compared to the last block I lived on that only smelled of toothpaste. There are no potholes on the street or cracks in the sidewalk the result of a neighbourhood group that was struck to crack down on late night acapello singing and an unforeseen byproduct was eliminating the potholes and cracks as it was determined that they could be connected to all of the singing. There was a newly painted fire hydrant that seems to scream out "let me spray you!" and "my name is George, by the way, in case you were wondering" and it was the talk of the street usually on Saturday mornings and the occasional Wednesday if baseball was rained out. And to top it all off, there was quite a set of front yards that are stunning in and of themselves and all-the-while piquing your interest in what could possibly be happening in the backyard. I mean, could it be even nicer most passersby would wonder, and the answer was yes, the seldom seen backyards made those front yards seem so pedestrian and more of a way to cover the earth then a yard. They couldn't hold a candle to those backyards, but I could, and I did every once and a while for no apparent reason or pleasure. My holding-a-candle-to-backyards thing started out small and stayed small - it just never caught on, not sure what I did wrong.

This is almost definitely the longest period of time I have sat and appreciated the neighbourhood, or anything for that matter, aside from the day my brother was born. Now that was a cute baby, I remember thinking at the time, and one that I could use for monetary gain or access to clubs and teams previously off-limits to my kind. I come from a long line of people who strongly felt that there should be limits to time spent sitting and appreciating anything, especially neighbourhoods, and also roasted chicken, freshly manicured nails or humourously trimmed hedges. Sitting for long periods of time was okay as long as you were okay with people talking, as was appreciating objects or people or political movements no matter how asinine, just not pairing the two together. I often wished my family was more normal in these areas, or if they were going to be weird, to be a whole lot weirder. My family fell into a gray area of weirdness that usually resulted in lots of sighs, murmuring and raised eyebrows. What I would have given to have qualified for some nervous laughter or an occasional exaggerated eye roll or maybe having a concern citizen ask if I was okay in a quiet and gently voice that would have actually made me feel less okay. I found myself mentally applauding the idea of grouping so many individual houses together to form this neighbourhood. It was also a good idea, I continue to think, of grouping so many pieces of wood together to make the houses too. And, whomever came up with the idea of stairs, bravo! Of all of the way that houses could have been configured, this seemed to be the best, but I was always slightly put-off by how rectangular and perpendicular everything seemed. Some days I wished I had been consulted and that we could have experimented with some nouveau shapes, something I can always do when decorating cakes or shaving my beard. I have learned the hard way never to do the two at the same time unless I want a sugary, frosting-covered goatee and a hairy, mostly inedible cake, which I almost never do. What did we do before neighbourhoods or houses or beards were mainstream and generally accepted by the public I wonder. Did they have to grow beards and build houses and secretly develop communities in private? Thankfully, we can openly do these now and I plan to pay homage to this by either growing a fantasticly resepefctful beard or just painting my house so that it looks more three dimensional.

After sitting for a while on my steps and enjoying both the vertical and horizontal sections equally, I decide to enter my house. The first thing that catches my eye is my umbrella and I find myself instantly taken back in time to my youth and a particular day when I was splashing in puddles, dancing to and fro and spinning and singing all-the-while twirling and tossing my beloved umbrella in the air. In this memory, I am young and free and with each leap, I seem to bend and almost break the laws of gravity, sailing higher and higher. I move dramatically to the sounds of a large string orchestra and splash and get wet as only a young boy like me could, or possibly a young girl or a different boy or one of those kids with certain haircuts that make you honestly not sure - I'll never know as my strict therapist trained me to have playful fantasies only involving myself usually playing with an umbrella in the rain - as a treat I was once allowed to eat some pizza in a daydream too. And as quickly as this daydream began, it ends as the phone is ringing. I contemplate my options which seem to be limited to either answering it or not. I curse my lack of creativity in regards to how to handle this interruption and to prove a point, I decide to talk into a unsuspecting banana instead which causes me to high five myself for such a display of spontaneity and to roll on the ground laughing at the idea that a banana could actually be a phone! "Who comes up with these things?" I say amidst the laughs and then I remember that I do and that results in a celebratory banana. "Mmmm, tasty!" I call out to myself and I wonder if that will become my new catchphrase. Only time will tell My voice mail light starts blinking from the missed call and my mind allots the next 5 minutes to who was calling and for what reason. Maybe a sales rep from the struggling local newspaper was calling asking me to increase or enhance my subscription. I can imagine the conversation so well that I am tempted to act it out then and there in my front hallway, but I decide that this prime comedic moment would be better saved for when my hand puppets have finally been fixed by my ex-girlfriend, who was both directly and indirectly responsible for their being damaged in the first place. Directly in that she cut them viciously using scissors and indirectly because I angered her so much by opting to spend our anniversary weekend staying in my room playing with the hand puppets. Buying her a pair of sharp scissors as a make-up gift and presenting the gift wearing the hand puppets was almost definitely the final straw from her perspective. Me, I don't believe in ranking straws and personally, I chose to believe in a future where there are limitless straws. If not the newspaper, maybe it is a recorded message from our local actor-turned-street performer-turned-hammock tester-turned-dolphin trainer-turned dog walker-turned-voluntary doorman-turned politician urging me to vote in the upcoming civic election and once voting, to vote for him. Would I vote for him if I chose to vote? I did like his hands I had to admit - strong, yet smooth and graceful. Hands that were the envy of most men and the object of affection for most women. The rest of the population just didn't care much for hands in general. If I could be assured that his hands would play a significant part in his duties as mayor outside of opening doors and holding papers, I could be convinced, because if not, what else does he have to offer the average person like me? He does have a nice face too and if I had to spend time looking at his face for a long period of time, say a week, it would not be a totally horrible experience, nor would it be at all a huge waste of time as I have nothing booked next week as it is.

Or maybe it is my credit card company letting me know about my incredible credit almost going as far as comparing my credit with a perfectly feathered peacock or freshly sponged compact car or a whole series of other comparisons that make little to no sense and definitely do not help me better comprehend my credit. I had some idea about my credit standing seeing as scary looking men in black suits very rarely come by my house any more unlike the old days when I subscribed to a service that had a guy in a black suit come by once a week just to chat and ask me about my day. I usually store all thoughts about banking and money in the deep recesses of my brain or, during holiday season, at least in a room nearby that is available hopefully with a kitchenette as I like to give my thoughts the option of making their own dinners to save money. The man from the credit card is trying to either sell me on a new feature that I would be almost idiotic not to agree too or possibly not idiotic enough - as an aside, for years I have been honing my idiot skills which included an exceptional package of books and exercises that I mailed away for while watching some really late night TV after eating an excessively large dinner of sauce - some tomato, a little plum and a whole lot of alfredo. I know I'd be almost tricked into buying this new feature, because he'd have a svelte voice almost as if his vocal cords were actually made out of suede that had been generously slathered in butter and I am often quite susceptible to talking men, to suede and to things slathered in butter - put all three together and how could I resist? In fact, my father routinely got me to eat my broccoli by talking with a deep, sexy voice, dressing head-to-foot in suede and slathering himself with butter. I mistakenly tried covering myself in butter once on a third date only to have my date attempt to leave abruptly only to slip on some grease and have to be rushed by me to the hospital for bumping her chin with the unexpected upside being that the creamed corn they fed her was quite bland and needed some butter and I was only happy to make myself useful. With my newly featured card I could buy things, earn points to buy more things more easily then I ever have before, which would earn me even more points and more things until I was either broke or had no more room for things or points. I sat there trying to consider a world where I had too many points, but was unable to. Must revisit that mental construct again after I've had a good nap.

Quite possibly I've won a trip! "Guess what?" the overly excited recorded voice would mutely scream, "You've been randomly selected to win an all-inclusive vacation to the Bahamas." They would go on and on about how lucky I am and that all I have to do is answer a skill-testing question and attend a meeting about an awesome timeshare that I may also be interested in buying all-the-while I'd be considering breaking my phone with a fury that I've been saving for just the right moment and I would resist as I just know that the true moment I've been waiting for is when my boss at my job fires me and I want to react with as much faux-anger as humanly possible in an effort to save my job as I know my boss has a thing for faux-emotions- he even went as far as make a series of funny pins that said as much.You know, I've always wondered are those skill testing questions actually skill-testing for anyone? I wish they would devise some questions that are incredibly skill testing and have the skills be as varied and random as possible - like the skill to yodel underwater, or the skill to build relationships with marsupials or the skills to actually pay the bills. I would love to have that skill! Or, if someone cannot answer the simple skill-testing question, I would only hope that they aren't my surgeon or my future wife or my wife from a previous incarnation who was also a surgeon who harvested my internal organs after a night of festive partying only as a way of exacting revenge as she just lived for exacting revenge and for harvesting - her father owned an apple orchard and was always going on and on about how his only dream in life was to have his only daughter give up her dream of being the best, darn apple farmer (and only female, as apple farming in that neck of the wood was a career only open to men and sometimes to really talented and non-temperamental gorillas, a completely sexist tradition that she ate many an apple while ranting over) this side of Oklahoma (really confusing for all as they lived on a small island in the middle of the Indian Ocean almost directly opposite Oklahoma making it hard to know which way to go), go to school, study surgery with a minor in illegal transplants and then steal organs from the rich to give to the poor sort of like a modern day Robin Hood, which was quite confusing to all as Robin Hood hadn't even been born yet. And saying I did actually win a trip to the Bahamas, who could I trust to watch my goldfish whom I would be confident wouldn't touch my collection of antique gold coins or my collection of frozen fish.

Or potentially it would be a charity asking for a month-by-month donation. These ones are hard to say no to and they know it. They know that you are hesitant to refuse as that may make you seem like more of a social deviant than you already are (your past habit of throwing recyclables at the neighborhood boys didn't help, especially considering they were choir boys - past tense "were" as many of them did quit - and they were only going to help you with your recycling well before curbside service began) and they always sound so sweet, so just and so full of themselves just knowing that your money that you were going to spend on a yearly subscription of after-dinner mints is almost theirs. You were so taken with charities that you had once planned to launch your own but on the way to the government office you ran into an old friend you hadn't seen in years. The two of you immediately picked up where you had left off with a handshake and saying goodbye. You felt like you should stop and talk and hang out, but it was already too late as you had immediately jumped into a taxi on your way downtown. You had a long history of taking taxis downtown. A long, completely uninteresting history completely devoid of even the smallest odd or funny event. You always wished that something more reportable would occur on these cab rides just so you could add in a funny caption in your scrapbook that you were working on and so you could tell your mother who was complexly and totally unsupportive in almost all areas involving transportation aside from fleeing, flying and floating and, under the right circumstances, pogo-sticking. So the charity person would go on and on and you'd listen, mentally counting the money and completely revising your detailed and extravagant 9-course menu you'd been planning for your old college friends. They never came over, but that didn't stop you from constantly and enthusiastically planning menus you think they may enjoy including a few you know they would be highly allergic too, those good-for-nothing friends who couldn't even pick up the phone or drop in with cream puffs. Man, I enjoy a good cream puff especially when I need to work out my frustration with my old college buddies. Even a mediocre cream puff would do.

I notice that the street lights have come on and that somehow it was nighttime. I guess I had been sitting there for quite a while without noticing. The fresh air can do that to me sometimes, so can misreading the labels on the expired medicine I accidentally inhale mistaking it for a jar of peanuts that I also love to inhale as a tribute to elephants both real and imaginary. My next door neighbour is just returning home and he stops and is about to speak before he breaks into a extensive and exhaustive song and dance routine as his way of rehearsing in front of an audience before his big audition tomorrow. When he is done, I leap in the air and shower him with hugs, flower petals (mostly from his overhanging lilacs that he just won't trim no matter how many times I cryptically ask him - I am really bad at sending cryptic messages as they are often far too hard to decypher and I just don't have the energy to try again) and inspirational quotes from famous Asian people like Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan and Ho Chi Minh. It is my hope that he finds these quotes as inspirational as I would if I was him, as I don't personally find they do much for me at all. I hope that he does well in his audition as it would be strange for me to spend all of my free time writing and choreographing mean-spirited cheer-leading routines against him and driving to the houses of the director and producer of the show and spray-painting their cars with hate-filled messages illegibly from him and renting an off-road vehicle, driving through the mud and then parking in their spots at the theatre knowing of their dislike of off-road vehicles, mud, and nonsensical and anonymous pranks that could be mistaken as a gift of a used car. Plus, I like him and I want him to work and it would be far too much time and effort to execute the plots against him. If he works, maybe he will buy me a rose bush. I've always wanted a previously, out-of-work actor, who has recently found work, to both give me a perennial flowering plant. It is a bit weird and so random that I am not at all shocked it has never happened, until now. Go, neighbour-who-probably-has-a-name-but-I-either-never-knew-or-was-told-and-purposely-forgot-or-was-told-and-was-humming-too-loudly-to-impress-my-cat-so-it-sounded-like-meow-as-the-cat-was-highly-appreciative-of-the-humming-but-it-almost-definitely-is-not, go.

Across the street, I see a girl proudly skipping on her front lawn without a care in the world. I am torn between going to my basement and practicing my own skipping and then coming out and showing her to be the fraud that she is, or going over there, with the best of intentions, and reeling off a number of topics that would be guaranteed to give her a care or two to think about. I decided against both of these choices as they seemed petty and mean and quite unbecoming for the man I hope to one day, years from now, become. Plus she seems like such a nice girl - in fact, I would buy her a skipping rope if she didn't already have one. She seems to be lost in her skipping - maybe her mind is elsewhere and she is preoccupied by naming her socks or brushing her hair or stuffing her socks with her own fallen hair and making them into sock puppets and then creating a vibrant and dramatic series of sock variety shows that she would perform for her parents who are usually so consumed with her excessive skipping, brushing her hair and lack of human friends. Maybe she is skipping for a reason or a cause like generating electricity for her parent's illegal black market dealing of electrical current or having to log a certain number of hours of skipping to gain visiting hours with her pet bunny Alexis or she is skipping to remember her best friend, Gail, whose family moved away mostly because they were imaginary but also because her father was just given a new position within his company and transferred. The position sounded made up to the girl's father, mostly because it was, but also because why would a clothing company need a massage therapist in the first place except of course if the work was overly strenuous on the shoulders and upper back. I sat there and watched her and wished I was a young girl like her, but I had learned the hard way to keep those thoughts to myself.

Then a young boy walked by delivering newspapers. He smiled and waved and tossed me a paper with an admirable amount of coordination which either came naturally to him or was a result of hours of training with another master of the trade. Regardless I felt quite uncoordinated relative to him and also uncomfortably conscious of the raw emotional scars I still had as a result of a particularly uncoordinated youth as well as the actual scars from being to rawly emotional around my nanny who believed that a proper young boy should never display any emotions and should be aiming for robotic perfection. I felt like I knew him, or that I sort of knew him. It is so hard to know anyone anymore I thought, especially a young boy like this. I mean, I don't even know his first name. I tried out a few potential names to see if any of them rang a bell and if they did, to spend a fair amount of time figuring out how and why me saying a name rang the bell and who installed that bell there in the first place? Was it Sebastian, the young paper boy with a heart of gold who was delivering papers to save up money for his first baseball glove which would be a confusing choice as he much preferred baking to baseball? No, probably not Sebastian. But maybe he was Glen, the renegade paperboy who regularly stuck his nose up at the whole paper delivery system and its proud traditions and instead preferred to do things his own way ignoring the wrath of the others and who one day would either revolutionize the industry or bring it down from the inside - either way really, he didn't care. Definitely not Glen, but he could be Wayne, the narcoleptic, addicted-to-his own concoction of sugar, caffeine, and red food colouring he liked to call "yummy", cross-eyed, double-jointed and often mistaken for a cactus owner's son, the boy who could do no wrong, and the heir to the thrown (yes, his father actual bought and sat on a thrown). Hmmm...probably not. The unnamed boy had stopped and a look of worry crossed his face almost as a reflection of mine. I tried to fake a smile so I could release him and allow him to finish his route. Unfortunately, I am not very good at fake smiles and the look I gave him fills him with a mix of horror and confusion and also some pity. It is times like this when a little pity goes a long way and I am now motivated to practice my fake smiles more often. He has such a bounce in his step - he should probably get that checked out - and he is years or at least months away from being jaded or hardened by the harsh, cutthroat realities of the paper distribution business. He still delivers each paper like it is the right thing to do and sees himself as part of a team, or an army (he also privately sees himself as part of a gaggle, but hasn't worked up the courage to talk to his colleagues about this as they will wonder if he sees them as human, paper-delivering geese or a group of mostly male, prepubescent, completely underdressed nuns). I can tell by how he clutches each paper that he has a deep respect for the paper and probably, as I did when I was a young paper boy like him, has a hard time letting go. He wants to prolong the moment before he has to let go - to say his goodbye, to wish the paper well, to say he is sorry for the whole playing with matches thing and, if time permits, to dance a little jig - newspapers, according to lore, love little jigs especially when danced by young human boys. But, let go he must, unless he wants to turn from a paperboy whose sky is the limit to an old weirdo who has a massive newspaper collection in his basement and, when no one is watching, he hugs the big stack of old papers and, if it has been a good month, offers it a glass of merlot and a freshly baked brownie...not that I know anyone like that personally.

Seeing these two brings me back to my youth and, after being momentarily lost in my youth (I took a few wrong turns and then had no idea how to get out), I remember some of the kids i grew up with. There was little Johnny who was always swinging his imaginary baseball bat at imaginary balls. Johnny wanted to become someone that that could swing an actual bat at a real ball, but whenever we suggested baseball player. he instantly turned pale and drifted away to what seemed like a very dark place inside his mind and only a well-cooked pork chop and slap with said pork chop would snap him out of it. Then there was sunny Sally always munching celery and laughing a little too loudly at everything I said. At first I used to enjoy having a sidekick providing my own personal laughtrack who was clearly well off in the dietary fibre category, but after a while I started questioning many things like how funny I actually was, how she had access to a seemingly never-ending source of celery and why it always took a few too many "Sally"s to get her attention. And I'll never forget Ralph and his younger brother Geoff as the two of them were so motivated to follow in the footsteps of their father, the most famous garden manicurist in the neighbourhood. Ralph was the strong and silent type and George was always deferring to his older brother, which meant that the two of them didn't speak a whole lot. The only way they got any message across was through a series of incredibly well-illustrated drawings delivered with an impeccable, yet mostly silent, presentation. To let the gang know about their garden manicurist plans took 45 separate and detailed drawings presented over 10 consecutive Thursday afternoons. The presentations started with a lot of pomp and circumstance, but got a little boring in the middle - so it is good they decided to serve snacks. And, of course, I will never forget Rachel, the love of my pre-teen life  - her plain, straight brownish hair that was aching to curl and be noticed; her small collection of cute freckles that captured my heart and only gave it back for, what was considered a good deal at the time, $40-worth of gum; and her walk - she vowed never to take the same set of steps more than once which, while sounding avant-garde and like a good idea at the time, rendered her motionless for days and weeks on end as there are only so many different combinations of steps one person (and a young girl preoccupied with her straight hair and freckles at that) could reasonably devise. Rachel was so sweet and letting her get away is one of my main regrets in life, but her family moved and I just didn't have enough money to stop them. Her dad opened the bidding at $50, and by the time I called in a few favours, broke open my piggy bank and sold my precious, one-of-a-kind oyster pearl that looked like JFK, the auction had closed and they were halfway to Toledo or Tofino or Toronto or wherever they were going. I was quite unhappy that they left without even saying goodbye as I had planned and rehearsed a very emotional, long and drawn out, running down the street while weeping and sobbing, tearful and gag-inducing goodbye to Rachel before heading inside to make some popcorn and watch some cartoons. For a while there every time I saw anyone who reminded me of her, I broke down in tears. Luckily this didn't last long and eventually I broke out in laughter as a way of coping when I was reminded of her which was only slightly better - who knew people would be offended by a little boy, they didn't know, doubled-over laughing and pointing at them. I was only grieving and grief takes many forms including stuffing your own socks with foam, drawing faces on them and reenacting the Industrial Revolution - a very dry and mostly eventless period to reenact but I just couldn't bare getting blood or even ketchup on my socks. It is amazing how long ago all of this was and how much nut butter I've consumed since then both with honey and without. I wonder what they are all up to now and whether they are all happy, attractive and okay and what they would think of my plan to only keep objects in my house that start with vowels as my long-overdue way of objecting to consonants.

Finally, I decide to get up and go inside and make some dinner. As I walk up my stairs and into my house, I am deliberating between an intricate 5-course meal featuring products from local farms and artisan cheese shops that tell the story of my life up until this moment or a few boiled eggs and a glass of orange juice, which oddly would also tell the story of my life quite well. I enter my kitchen and I decide that I just don't have the energy to cook anything to laborious or time-consuming and yet I don't just want some eggs, so I take out some veggies and begin chopping them up while also putting on some water for some pasta. I really enjoy chopping veggies and find it both cathartic and poetic. However, last night I made the naive mistake of lining up the bell pepper, zucchini, mushrooms and broccoli on my kitchen counter, spending quality time with them which included showing them around the house (them seemed to love my use of feng shui), giving them a nice warm bath in the sink (which included a massage and rubbing them down with extra virgin olive oil at the end) and ending off with a viewing of Star Wars (who knew they hadn't gotten around to seeing this classic film, but then again, they were relatively young and probably hadn't had the chance to get out that much growing up on a farm way out of town). The zucchini seemed to be suggesting that we were turning in too early and that perhaps a night on the town, maybe taking in a show or hitting up the clubs would be a good idea, and I almost agreed until I thought of how it would look - me walking around with an armful of veggies and I decided against it, mostly because I wasn't taking the chance of setting any new trends after what happened last time - long story short - everyone was sprinkling their clothes with red and blue paint ala Jackson Pollock for a while. I also had no way of knowing what that loose-cannon of a broccoli would do and say once we were out and I wasn't interested in either spending the night in jail, bringing the party back to my place or getting engaged. So, we stayed home and after playing a few card games, we turned in - me in my bed and them back in the fridge. There was lots of complaining, so I hand-crafted sets of pillows and comforters for all of the veggies and read them the complete works of Richard Scarry before closing the fridge door while singing a few jazzed up versions of standard lullabies accompanied by the amazing harmonies of the mushrooms who hit all of the notes with pizzazz. After spending a really great evening with them I felt like I knew them - I knew their names, their personalities and, if they were forced to choose, the animal they'd most want to be sculpted into if I chose to make some animated animal-vegetable-art. Surprisingly, they hated the game 20 Questions as they believed that having to select an animal, vegetable or mineral was cruel and unnecessary mostly because they vastly misunderstood the rules as they were only inanimate vegetables hanging out with a guy who's imagination had been declared by at least three different professionals as creative, troublesome and the reason we often should be seen and not heard. Giving the veggies names was a big mistake - it is so much harder to eat something that has a name - maybe that is why they kept on suggesting it. Oddly, I had no trouble cutting up the named veggies or stir frying them, but the eating, it just didn't seem right. I felt overwhelmed with a flood of memories of similar experiences - I have always had a hard time eating food that I had creatively assumed or assigned personality traits too. An average carrot? Yes! But a happy-go-lucky carrot who just wants to make the world laugh? What sort of devil am I to eat that carrot? A regular zucchini? No problem! But a zucchini who is manic depressive? Not as easy. Yes, eating him may ease his pain in the short term, but I'm pretty sure that that is not one of the methods that medical professionals at Johns Hopkins are currently recommending for his long term coping. What a dilemma! I almost felt like patting myself on the back and going to my favourite podiatrist and once there, have him look at my arches. Finally, my hunger for food took over and not a moment too soon as I it was starting to get a little boring just hanging out and all. I'm hungry all day long for something - sometimes the truth, sometimes some fresh air and other times a good talking too, but nothing makes me more satisfied then some good food, and if that food is also accompanied by some truth-telling, a few breaths of fresh air and a deep conversation with a therapist then I feel totally full in every sense. I cook the veggies, saying a tearful goodbye to each one - knowing that I'll never see the little mushrooms grow up and the red pepper will never ride a horse or experience her first kiss, the miniature corn on the cobs will never get over their feelings of being inadequate compared to their full-sized cousins (I once made a joke about my full-sized cousins which would have landed me in hot water both literally and figuratively except that I was fortunately recovering from a bout of laryngitis so no one heard me except for my sister who just couldn't stop laughing and eating kale chips) and the vastly misunderstood red chard who was planning on proving to all that he was not, contrary to popular belief, a communist although he did have a soft spot for one particularly attractive communist female bunch of chard who was worth the risk.

So, dinner was cooked and eaten and I lay on the couch enjoying some TV dramas. Nothing like lying on a couch and watching TV to help me settle down before going to bed. I had tried numerous other methods including throwing darts at pictures of my enemies, throwing pictures at drawings of my enemies playing darts and calling my enemies up and treating them to an exquisite meal of scallops and risotto served with an amazing vintage pinot gris where, by the end of the evening, I would have not only grown to love them all but to go as far as sharing stock investing secrets, planning to go on vacation to Mexico next year and finishing off the evening with a game of darts that feels just a tad bit strange to me. I knew I had a busy day tomorrow and that I shouldn't stay up too late, but I was really digging the whole couch thing and just wished there was some way to bring the couch along with me on all of my journeys. As I lay there, I was hit with a detailed dream I had once where I imagined a world where there were couches everywhere and all the people were full of bliss and joy due, in some part, to all of the options for places to relax. The people treated the couches well, at least they thought, until one day the couches decided enough was enough and they all got up, shook off the dust and the crumbs (they kept the loose change stuck in their cushions - could you blame them?) and all simultaneously walked off. The people all returned from their work, their tennis games and their other daily pre-couch sitting rituals and routines to find no couches anywhere, only the empty spots where their beloved couches once sat. Everyone would always remember this day - the day the couches left and the day when people tried to not take things they sat and occasionally lay on for granted, which they did until it was time to go to bed, because as great as the couches were, and they were pretty awesome, you just can't beat a bed. I smiled at the memory of this great dream and wanted to turn it into a play that could run at the local community theatre. But, that would have to wait for another day as I needed to get some sleep. I turned the TV and all the lights out, enjoyed the onset of the darkness that felt sort of like an envelope that I, the letter, was being placed inside. Having said that, I felt like a letter in many situations in life and that may explain why I felt so comfortable surrounded by my half-written, never-sent, lavender-scented-as-that-aroma-of-paper-just-happen-to-be-on-sale-the-day-I-spent-way-too-much-time-at-the-office-supply-store-for-reasons-I-still-had-not-determined letters in my office. I also held envelopes of all kinds in high regard and planned to leave at least part of my inheritance to envelope makers worldwide to both aid them in their arduous work and to provide them with a small nest-egg (I had thought it was really odd that my grandfather had left me a huge collection of fermented eggs in his will). I headed up the stairs, brushed my teeth, washed my face and went to bed. Washing my face always made me laugh - it was a private joke that lost a lot in the translation from its original Russian. My last thought, as I closed my eyes, was about a man, just like me, standing in Russia also washing his face and wondering if, for that one, short moment, he felt a connection to me that ran deeper than our freshly-washed, acne-free, multi-freckled-faces. I wanted to see him, to hold hands and dance in a circle to Japanese folk music, to share veggie bacon recipes that are appropriate at both holiday time and when eating a meal after being chased by a group of wild raccoons who ended up just being a few joggers out for a late night run and to put my finger on his nose. I have always wanted to touch a Russian man's, for failing that a goat's, nose. I would also gladly touch a Russian woman's nose, but in some remote areas of Russia that is considered a marriage proposal and the last time I married someone based on how their nose felt I ended up having to burn all of my shirts and I couldn't look at a pickle without shrieking.