My Mom has come to town for a couple days. Da has graciously reserved a room for her in the hotel suites within his condo building. This morning I had to call Da for the suite number.

It’s nice to see that they’re still on speaking terms after all these years. After twenty nine years of being divorced from each other, things mellow out.

“Do you have Mom’s number? She called while I was in the midst of training yesterday and I could barely hear her over the hipster sales.”

“I do, let me get it.” I can hear him dig into his notes by the phone.

“Did you see her yesterday?”

“Yes. We had dinner.”

“How was it?”

“Fine.”

Dad fumbles with some papers, the “Fine” that comes across the line sounds curt. I’m sure it’s because he’s searching for a phone number in his shaggy, loose leaf analog notebook with minimal success. But I have to ask:

“Just ‘Fine’? …So, no hope of reconciliation?”

The noise he makes sounds like “Fuck you.” It’s mostly an F. No real harsh K sound.*

*in no way is this a dig towards my Mom. The curse came from my years of asking. I live in a constant hope that my life will mirror Kristy McNicols’ in Family and some sort of After School Special miracle will bring them back together. Snort.

My Da worked for Genesco Shoes back in the day. Back then, shoes were copied from other countries and made here in Canada and the US. I’m sure it’s still done today but you hear about this sort of thing going on in Milan or South East Asia. It was Da’s jobs to fly off to NYC or Singapore and look at/photograph shoes to bring ideas back to Brockvegas so the upper mucky mucks could decide which ones to copy lovingly remaster for sale in Canada.

As you can imagine when my foot was a size 8, I wanted for no shoe. Actually, I never bought shoes until Da retired from the big G which was about when I was twenty-something. I know, right? A gay kid not discovering the beauty of shoes until it was thrusted upon him well past his stylish teens.

Don’t cry. I did experience some wonderful freaky designs because Da always brought home things to try on the kids to see if they were popular. We were lovable lab rats as it were.

Around the age of Star Wars, Da shocked the hell out of me by getting me a pair of Wookie Boots (you kids may call them something else, damn you). I was in heaven:

I tired of them fast after the first slush/ice storm, when they became 1000x heavier with ice pellets matted into the fur. But I did wear them until they gave out, well past their style.

Then came the fun and flip Me Generation, the 80s. When I was in high school, I remember getting a box from my father and opening the top to find these:

Well. They weren’t black. Black would have been cool. They would have made me less of a target for bullies in the halls of high school. No, inside the box, the boots were more like the pavement after a Pride Parade blew through town, like this:

You get the idea. GaaAAaaaayyyy.

Regardless, I wore them out. I wore them so much the lining would ALWAYS come out, stuck to my feet, when I wrenched them off. I wore them so much I would slip repeatedly because the treads were long gone. I wish I could say that these were my last free pair from Da, but no. I don’t recall what they would have been, probably a pair of runners.

My point of this story is that I don’t think I ever thanked my Da for the shoes. So here goes:

Thanks, Dad. I know they were free and all. But walking into the warehouse and “signing out” 3 to 5 pairs of shoes at a time must have been a risk for your career, I’m sure. I appreciate all the footwear, either practical or fun and flip, Each shoe was well used, I assure you, to get me around town, get me to school, get me to my first date, get me into the basement to steal your home made wine, get me back home drunk and not so much to get me quietly back to my room before you noticed.

I know the job was weird at times – like wearing gold platform shoes through customs so you didn’t have to claim them (story embellished) but you did sacrifice a lot to keep us walking safely.

I thank you. Now that I purchase my shoes out of my own pocket, I can appreciate you more.

Eep Eep!

On my dresser, I have two coin banks – one for loonies and twonies, the other for the rest of the change. SharkBoy and I have a tradition of as soon as we decide on a vacation, we start putting loose change into our coin boxes. We hoard change right up to a few days before our plane leaves and go to one of those robot counting machines in the grocery store and thus we can afford the limo to and from the airport (and maybe a $10 bagel before the flight).

This morning I emptied my pants of their change into the monkey box and could see that there were coins really close to the top of the box, light glinting off them through the slot. I was instantly excited – I didn’t think I had spent that much since emptying it out last February, but who cared? The monkey coin box was nearly full!

“Look! It’s nearly full!” I say with excitement. Any bit of news about a vacation is always welcome conversation.

SharkBoy produces a smile that reminds me of the Cheshire Cat at the Red Queen’s awkward croquette tournament. “Got. You.” he says.

GAWDDAMMNIT!! Damn, he got me good!

Damn You

Leave it to me to use an amazing YouTube video that’s making the ’rounds and make it all about me.

Well. Not me, per se. Call it “Uncle Me”. My brother announced recently that the Dead Robot Universe will have two more meteors whipping around in it. I said SharkBoy and I are available for babysitting after the toilet training is complete.

Now watch this uber-geeky announcement:

I’m walking to work, passing Allen Gardens. My internal voice resonates strong:

Look at those trees! They’re all full with leaves now! Funny how I’m just noticing this now. That’s beautiful. Oh, the biggest tree in the park is only just budding now while the younger ones are full-on leafy! I bet they’re all like “Hey grandpa! Wake up after a long awful winter! Wake up!” and he’s all like “In good time you young saplings…”

I’m suddenly hit across the face by a small twig, blown off a tree.

Yeah. That last bit was a bit gay.

———–

I climb into bed while SharkBoy reads his new book. I bury my face into my pillow and lay on my stomach and let my mind wander while waiting for sleep.

I bet we look like an old couple, he and I, like this, in bed. I bet we look like some 1950s sitcom but with the beds pushed together. I really hope our relationship doesn’t go stale. I wonder if I do enough to keep things happy, things fresh?

Lazily, SharkBoy’s hand reaches across to my exposed back and he starts to scratch absent-mindedly. It’s heaven at the end of the day.

What ever worries I was just entertaining have run from me like dollar store mascara off a drag queen in a car wash.

———–

2am. I’m woken by a loud snort. My husband has rolled over onto his back and is creating a little night music with his nasal/throat cavities.

Me: Hey. HEY. SharkBoy.
SharkBoy: murh.
Me: Roll over.
SharkBoy: I need the machine gun.
Me: Wha –
SharkBoy: Maybe later you can tell me what I just said. (Rolls, falls asleep)

I stayed awake just a few minutes longer than I needed.