(Friday) 2013/08/09

Hi Dad

I can tell already that this new media of typing my entries to you, rather than putting pen to paper, is going to take some getting used to.  It occurred to me, though, that since I am such an asshole when it comes to staying in touch with my living relatives and loved ones, this could prove a useful means of keeping them in the loop and (if you'll pardon the pun) killing two birds with one stone.  Killing?  Get it?  Maybe that was a bit weak, but whatever.

With B. still away at cadet camp, I decided this morning to write him a nice long letter as a way to cope with all the boredom and silence that has been left in his wake.  I'm listening to the audio book, Life of Pi, and put that on as background while I sat down to write.  I guess the spirit of the tale got into me somehow because after realizing what mundane, boring lives we lead, I decided he deserved a letter with a little zest to it.  

I began with a warning that he could expect some major changes when he got home and spun a tale of robbery, murder and gay feline love that culminated in the arrest and imprisonment of our two pets, Sanchez (an ostentatiously fluffy orange housecat) and Maggie (our rag-tag rescue mutt whose ancestry is as puzzling as she is to look at).  

After the news broke, I described a visit from the police who questioned us and then searched our computer in attempt to piece together the days leading up to their arrest.  The computer showed a lengthy history between our Sanchez and Glee's troubled feline, Lord Tubbington, revealing months of posts - love letters and x-rated photographs mostly,  that Sanchez would compose in secret, late at night and long after we were all asleep.  This led to a point in the story where Sanchez packed a bag, stole the keys to the van and bullied Mags into driving him to a town in Ohio.  He rescued Lord Tubbington from rehab and began a 3 day crime spree that would end in their capture and imprisonment.  

I gave them a happy ending, though, with Mags returning home in exchange for her testimony against Sanchez and the signing a huge book deal with Penguin.  Sanchez became the leader of a prison gang of angry Persians, spending his days missing Lord Tubbington, scowling,  and communicating only by flashing complicated gang signs.  With all his new-found power, he was able to send a messenger home to deliver a locker key and directions to the Halifax ferry terminal.  The locker contained only one object:  an enormous and ornate scratching post,  which was promptly disassembled by our messenger (a gorgeous rag-doll cat named Rosie who we later adopted) to get at all the stashed cash that was hidden inside.  

The letter closes with a choice:  spend the money on an RV and spend the next year exploring Canada coast-to-coast (Troy's idea), or invest in some snazzy costumes, weird instruments and spend our lives touring the globe doing covers of TV show intros and commercial jingles (my idea).  Then I ended with "we'll decide when you get home, but I think we both know whose plan sounds like the most fun".    

I think the story will make him laugh, and with all the tight nutritional regulations the military has about care packages, sending anything tasty was out of the question.  One thing is for sure, though, I cannot wait until that kid of ours gets home next week.

In other (much less interesting) news, I had to go and get some tests done yesterday at the hospital, the first in a series that will hopefully help me get to the bottom of this endless fatigue I'm having.  Nothing remarkable to report there, but the exchange I had with the check in clerk was pretty amusing.

She was all business, and you could tell by her button-up attire and efficient key strokes that she was at the head of this clerical pecking order.  As she looked me up on her data base, she began the routine of confirming my identity:  Birthdate?  Family doctor?  Home address and phone number?  

Then the questions got more personal:  Do you have a work number? (no).  Do you have a cell phone (no).  Who is your emergency contact?  (Troy)  And does he have a cell phone? (nope).

Long pause.  Her eyes flicked from the screen, and as she considered me for the first time, her face lost it's professional impartiality. I could see the next questions forming behind her eyes.  "And was that you I saw arriving on horseback? Should we inform you of your results by Morse code?  Smoke signals?"

Blessedly, I had but a short time to squirm under her puzzled and more-than-a-bit-judgmental gaze.  It was interrupted by the blat of someone's cell phone, at full volume and programmed to mimic the siren that accompanies huge disaster:  nuclear fallout, air raids, that kind of thing.  Her head whipped around her work space, tracking the sound and it's source in a well-trained second.  It was coming from behind the desk and clearly belonged to one of her staff.  By the time it shut off, people were starting to smile and joke about it's unsettling ring.  She returned her attention to the screen with a smile.  "That belongs to Todd.  He's over at the end computer and he is red as a beet.  He's so shy".  It was clearly her approval for Todd that was going to save his ass on that one.  

So, what is the moral of this story?  I'll tell you.  Cell phones are a pain in the ass.  Facebook is a pain in the ass.  Tweets and posts and pokes and likes are all distractions that tie you to these contraptions and cost you a kings ransom in talk time and data plans.  The old fashioned letter has lost it's place, and I think that is a shame.  

I loved all the letters I used to get and have a box of those I've kept over the years that I like to pull out and read from time to time.  Especially when I can show them to those who sent them to me in the first place.  But even more importantly, I love writing them.  Sitting down with someone else in mind, and taking time to write to them is a gesture of kindness rarely mimicked in today's world.  And that makes me sad.  So, I will come here, and keep writing to you, Dad.  And in doing so, I will also be writing to all of those I have stayed so distant from for all of these years.    

I love you, I miss you and I will write again soon.   (Heart) Sarah.

PS - I reserve the right to retract all opinions and rantings about cell phones when I finally get one, and the reader agrees to admire it without judgement when I pull it out all the time and flash it around in an attempt to show the world that I am no longer left out of the technology loop.