Fool Proof

I Slipped On a Banana Peel I was on my way to pick up my favourite skirt, now altered to not fall off my bum when I walk in it, from my "Aunt M" (an old friend of my parents I mistook for a creepy stalker on facebook and ended up becoming pseudo-counsellor then just friend to, not to be confused with Dorothy's Auntie Em from the Wizard of Oz), when suddenly I slipped on a banana peel. This was strange because I was sitting in the driver's seat of my parked car at the time. The only possible explanation for this ridiculous event is that God has a very classical slap-stick sense of humour, which he has felt the capricious need to unleash on me repeatedly in June. How the banana peel came to be sitting on the floor of my car is this:

After a care-free and mostly guilt-free day of girlishness spent making myself banana-walnut-peanut-butter pancakes for breakfast; going to an eye appointment; bargain-shopping for orange-smelling shampoo and conditioner with the provocative name of "Curly Sexy Hair," lace-trimmed shirts (including another pink one I just couldn't resist. Stupid glowing pink shirts. It's like being Mel Gibson's character in Conspiracy Theory), and a new pair of Merril runners (Woo-hoo!); checking my e-mails; and making supper with my mom, I headed out to pick up Dan, who had moved. Per usual, I missed a turn. Unusually, it didn't disorient me. Per usual, being correctly oriented didn't help, because my short-term memory forgot each street number as I passed it, so I had to pull over and get out of my car to read the street sign and figure out where the deuce I was. Unusually, when I checked the sign, I discovered I was on precisely the street I wanted. Per usual, I went back to my car to start driving again. Unusually, I thought to check the house numbers nearby to determine which direction on the road I ought to be going and discovered that I'd parked right outside Dan's house.

Following a detailed tour of his new dwelling, we went back to my house for dinner, picked up a video of Hogan's Heroes episodes, waved good-bye to my mother, and drove to his parents' house. For the first time ever, our date did not consist of walking around places talking. We were doing an exchange of images- we watched one DVD's worth of Dan's favourite tv show, Neon Genesis Evangelion (which turned out to be an anime science-fiction drama with well-developed Freudian psychological crises and Christian imagery), and one video cassette's worth of one of my favourite tv shows, the 1950-60s comedy sitcom of a WWII POW camp, Hogan's Heroes.

It was an educational experience. For my part, I learned that I've never heard of at least 55% of the movies Dan owns and loves, I've deliberately avoided seeing at least 25% of them, and I owe Tachae, Chasey, and Nolan (in that order) thanks for seeing to my cultural enrichment in the ~10% I have seen. Happily, Neon Genesis Evangelion is every bit as cool as its name implies and I am now an addict. I also learned that Dan's muscular arms and strong hands look equally hot when doing something manly like hooking up electrical cables or something perhaps not so manly like holding his cat and cooing, “Oh Tammy, you're so cute,” after said feline clawed her way up his pant leg. Other odd androgynous resemblances to Nolan keep popping up unexpectedly as well. For example, I could swear I used to own a pair of jeans almost identical to the ones Dan was wearing that day. I decided not to tell him. And unless by some miracle Dan was really, really enraptured by the movies, he learned that I'm a rather flatulent girl. Together, we learned that the whole guy's-arm-slipped-inconspicuously-behind-girl's-head thing when watching a movie is really uncomfortable. At the same moment my neck was forming a decided kink, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Dan's fingers were stretching and contracting repeatedly. “Have you lost all circulation in your arm yet?” I inquired. “Um, yeah,” Dan conceded, taking his arm back and rubbing it with his other hand, “I began losing feeling in my fingers pretty much as soon as I put my arm up.” Huh. I always wondered about that. So we held hands instead.

It was 12:30 by the time we finished the last Hogan's Heroes episode. “Wow. I could totally stay here forever,” Dan helpfully expressed my unspoken thoughts yet again. Fortunately, my more disciplined self rallied to the fore and reminded us that I needed to go home while I was still awake to drive, which in turn reminded Dan that he had to get up in 7 hours for work. So after snitching a banana from his family's fruit basket to pacify my growling stomach, I drove him home. Then we parked in front of his house. Which is when Jen's voice came to haunt me, patiently instructing me to just stare at Dan's lips when I want to initiate kissing. Sigh. I can't do it Jen. I'm sorry. Fictional romances have killed my ability to make serious moves with a straight face. And anyways, Dan is looking everywhere but at me...And he's fidgeting... He abruptly started and halted speaking three times. I sat in my seat and silently laughed at him because I'm really empathetic and I wanted to tell him that he throws me off, too. The only time I need a navigator to get to or from his house is when he's in the car with me. Then Dan apparently collected himself, because he turned to look at me and uttered a coherent sentence: “Faye, I'm going to kiss you.” I blinked. “Oh.” Does he mean now or just eventually? Brain, come back now. “Really?” “Yeah,” he said, still looking at me. “Okay," I stared blankly at the windshield, "Then just let me put the parking brake on first.” I don't know how to kiss. Think fast. Movies. Books. Head should be angled so you don't bump noses, keep lips soft (and partially open??). Then I was out of time because we were both leaning in. It was gross. We tried three times. None could be described as “toe-curling” or “breath-taking.” At least the latter two weren't as gooey as the first. Thank you Jen and Sindy for warning me in advance. As we pulled apart, I lifted an eye-brow and offered a half-smile, “Needs work?” “Maybe more practice?” he shrugged with a similar look of self-deprecating amusement on his face. So we said good-night and I drove away with the Cake lyrics “ Stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, it makes my baby seem so far. ..” happily playing across my mind. And that is when my stomach started doing cliched flip-flops, because grossest first kiss in the world notwithstanding, Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Crap. Where the deuce am I going to get lessons for kissing if Dan has no experience either? Cheer up. You've always crusaded against the double standard of perfect chastity for females and sexual experience for males that dominates your culture. At least you won't have to worry about Dan comparing you to someone else. But I hate doing things I'm not already good at!!! Suck it up:). Seriously, God. I cannot even believe you just used that pun. You enjoyed it. And seriously, Faye. I protected you from premature relationships that would have jaded you. Why complain because I did the same thing for your match? Sorry. You're right. There is something very humbling and honouring about being the first and only chosen. But I really do want to know: how do you improve at something when you have no idea what the end result is supposed to look like? I was so distracted by that challenging question that I totally forgot to remove the banana peel from the floor beneath me where I dropped it after eating its contents because there's no garbage bag in the car. And that is how I ended up slipping on it in my car the next day.

On "Parking"

"Stick Shifts and Safety Belts" from Cake's (1996) Fashion Nugget

Stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, It makes my baby seem so far. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

But when we're driving in my Malibu, It's easy to get right next to you. I say, "Baby, scoot over, please." And then she's right there next to me. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

Well a lot of good cars are Japanese. But when we're driving far, I need my baby, I need my baby next to me.

Well, stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, It makes my baby seem so far. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

Now, just to confuse you all, I'm going to go back in time before the banana peel incident, to the day a bird pooped on me. I didn't realize it had happened; if I had, I probably would have showered and then selected a different coat and bag for my sushi date with Dan that evening. As it was, I was flicking some mystery white substance that had dried on my bag and coat collar off with my fingers when we parked on a residential street across the Bow River from Prince's Island Park. Oh, crap. Literally, I realized. "Hey, I just figured out what this weird white stuff on my coat and bag is!" I told Dan conversationally as we exited his car. And as we pleasantly debated the best mathematical equation for determining the probability of being pooped on by a bird in one's life time, Dan sweetly took my hand for the walk across the river and through down-town to the Sushi place he'd decided on. It was especially sweet because it was the same hand he'd seen flicking bird poop off of my bag and coat a minute earlier. Well, now I know that he has no germ phobias...

Gradually our conversation topics conformed to societal norms, such as casual plans for the coming week. "Oh yeah, and before I forget," I added congenially, then body-checked Dan into a convenient patch of grass. After he caught his balance and returned to my side, looking slightly bewildered, I finished, "that's for making me read Aldous Huxley." He started laughing, "Um, was there something in particular that you didn't like?" So after a brief rant on Aldous Huxley's frequent use of obscure religious, literary, and historical art references and terminology, I admitted the real reason I body checked him was just to flirt, because mild physical violence is how I and my siblings express affection. "Man, I can't wait to tell my friends that you body checked me over Aldous Huxley!" Dan exclaimed enthusiastically.

After an interesting hour of eating seafoods I had never tried before (let alone tried raw) with my head tipped sideways because I don't really know how to use chopsticks all that proficiently, interspersed with an embarrassing number of visits to the washroom because I have a bladder the size of a pea (no pun unintended), Dan and I headed out for our customary walk. This time we picked the river pathway. As it turns out, the river path turns out from the Stampede grounds following the Elbow River, and that is the path we chose to follow.

Across from the Stampede grounds and on the other side of the Elbow is a very tall and steep hill, with some very large houses built on the top that are probably owned by some very rich people. There's also a fenced look-out point, and some wishful thinking enabled me to see a faint path through the grass and shrubs on the hill up towards it. As I was coming to expect, Dan was game to explore. We began to hike. At one point, our faint path branched to the right and left, and I lead the way to the left. Since that lead us to the occupied (and cleverly hidden) campsite of three homeless persons, we turned around and took the right path, which involved tromping through large patches of juniperous horizontalis. When we were about 3/4 of the way up, Dan suggested we sit down. I was dubious, since the ground was damp everywhere, but Dan found us a nice dry spot on a juniper shrub and even held my hand so I wouldn't slide down the near-vertical slope of the hill while we watched the sun set on the Stampede grounds and down-town Calgary.

"So I read your narrative," Dan stated after a comfortable silence. Poor Dan. We had exchanged life narratives the date previous at my request. For those of you who are not psychology geeks, a life narrative is a collection of stories a person gives about key events in their life, which can be analyzed for major themes that define the person's personality. In dating, I suppose it's something of a cheat sheet for discovering in short order who someone is, where they are coming from, and how they see the world. I don't know why, but it never really occurred to me until after I began reading Dan's narrative that exchanging life narratives meant that Dan would also be seeing my narrative. Mine is easily twice as long as his, in both analysis and actual narrative length. I wrote mine while I was depressed and in the midst of several courses that required pervasive self-reflection. Dan wrote his when he was rushed for time and trying desperately just to get his course work done so he could pass. He's also a guy and therefore doesn't routinely write novels or spout lengthy sonnets about his feelings the way I very routinely do. Thus, while Dan's narrative actually provoked more questions than it really answered, I suspected mine had probably provided more information and emotion than Dan was prepared to swim in. Frick.

"It was very..." and then there was a very long pause while Dan searched for a tactful but adequate description of his reaction. "Long?" I helpfully suggested. "Emotional," Dan decided. Um, no kidding. And then I felt this compelling need to start making complex excuses for both narrative characteristics. Have I mentioned my recent discovery that I babble when I'm nervous? Dan listened attentively anyway. So attentively, in fact, that he repeatedly ignored incoming calls on his cell phone, which was pretty funny because his phone was in his jeans pocket and he kept trying to turn it off inside his pocket with his opposite hand while it vibrated away beneath our romantically interlocked hands. What the heck is this? Of the two of us, Dan's the one who's never shown his narrative to another soul. I've shown mine to at least four other people since I wrote it but I'm the one running off on homeless persons' trails to avoid facing his opinion. Get a spine, Faye. I braced myself for whatever critical, analytical, philosophical, or pharmacological thoughts Dan had about my life story. "Okay, so what did you actually think about it?"

Dan looked intently at my face. I looked away towards the city lights. (I don't have that much spine.) "You're beautiful." Oh. Didn't see that coming. Think fast. Disagreeing with people's assessments of my appearance always just drags out my being in the spotlight. Be positive and graceful. "Um, thanks!" I said brightly, still not looking at him. But Dan wasn't going to let the conversation slide that easily: "I didn't just say that for tonight, either. I've thought that for a long time." What do you say to that? So we sat and looked out on the city lights in comfortable silence until I started shivering and had to suggest we continue our scramble up the hill and over the fence. After passing a likely very rich man who likely lives in one of the big expensive houses and was pretending we were not climbing over the fence he was looking out from, we headed back towards Dan's car.

It was too cold for exposed fingers so we had to give up holding hands for the shelter of our pockets. I felt kind of vexed with the separation and wished I wasn't so damn self-conscious because it seemed like the ideal opportunity to try out linking arms. Lucky for me, Dan is trained in Psychology so he can read other peoples' thoughts: "Here," he said, linking our arms so our hands could remain happily in our pockets. Wow. This is really personal. And safe-feeling. And comforting. Why is it comforting? Comfort is something you seek out when you're hurt or scared. I'm not either of those things...am I? In retrospect, linking arms is probably comforting for the same reason that it makes turning corners challenging: it pulls you snugly into another person's side (which, unless they are either dead or suffering from severe hypothermia, is probably warm and at least slightly softer than a 2X4 of wood). In Child Development class we learned that infants and young children who sleep with and are carried around by their parents tend to be more easily soothed when upset. Apparently, there's just something about being a human that craves warmth and contact. We were still in that synchronized position when we reached the Lions Gate Bridge, where a city bus dropped off a rider who began walking towards us: "Hey, do you guys know where there's a stair case down to Memorial?" Dan and I were pretty sure there was one in the direction we were heading, so we invited him to walk with us...down a dark, secluded, tree-lined pathway. As we entered the first shadow, our new acquaintance suddenly spun to face us and rapidly fired out: "Just so you know, my liver's not worth shit! I drink waaaay too much so in case you were thinking of throwing me down the hill or something- I know organ harvesting is profitable and stuff and you can never tell..." Yes, yes you do drink too much. And possibly you need to cut down on your television watching as well... But all we actually said was that there was a staircase to Memorial directly in line with the pedestrian bridge across the Bow to Prince's Island Park. He seemed equally relieved by both sight of the stairway and the fact that Dan and I left him for another path.

As we got closer to Dan's car, we began passing couples making out along the pathway or in their parked cars (including a few limos) with increasing frequency. Definitely grad season, commented the analytical-sociological side of my brain. Oh crap. We're totally parked in a major "parking" spot. Was Dan hoping to "park"? I'm never going to be able to keep a straight face!!! mimzied the more neurotic side of my brain. Just ask, suggested the practical part of my brain. "So, um, did you intend to park in a popular make-out point, or was it just kind of a fluke?" I inquired casually. Dan ran his unoccupied hand through his hair and looked around, "Ah, I was thinking it looked kind of busy around here. But, no, I just thought it'd have a nice view at night. I guess I should have known..." Then we arrived at Dan's car. As I buckled myself in, Dan turned the engine. The engine didn't turn. His face freezing, Dan slowly turned to look at me: "Oh. no. The. car. won't. start."

Violence is Cute

"Wait, wait, wait," interrupted Lisa, to whom I was relating the body-checking portion of my "On Parking" anecdote while we ate lunch in a Vietnamese restaurant near her work, "That actually works? Guys like being beaten on?" "Um, yes. It works as a flirtation tool around guys, and a fast bonding technique with little boys," I informed her, then reflected, "Amy taught me that."

I beat on Dan a lot. He seems to enjoy it. Which I suppose is kind of weird and kinky, since that's what sadomasochism couples get turned on by. Nevertheless, it has become an important aspect of our relationship. No, not sadomasochism, respect. I once asked Dan for three memories that represent who his mother is to him. One was a general memory: Dan said that his mother taught him to have respect for women. I considered asking him to describe what 'respect' meant to him. Considered, and then firmly rejected the question. It's pointless, really. Dan demonstrates his definition of respect, for himself and for others. For example, just moments before I asked the mom-question, I spontaneously decided it'd be a good time to body-check Dan towards the not-so-sparkling waters of the Chestermere canal. However, Dan was anticipating it this time and dodged, so I ended up spinning in a circle and falling over. Once down, I decided not to get up, preferring instead to gather my shreds of dignity around me by sitting up straight and staring out at the water. Dan sat down beside me and also looked towards the water, "There's a word for this, but I can't think of what it is." Humiliation? "Irony?" I suggested. "That's probably it," Dan agreed congenially. "You want to know the really ironic part?" "What's that?" "I injured my thumb doing that." Dan started laughing; "How is that even possible?" "I don't know," I shrugged, giving in to a grin, "It's not even the thumb on the side of my body I checked you with." "Which thumb was it?" "This one," I told him, holding it up as a still greater flood of irony hit me, because I knew what was coming before it came. "Poor thumb," empathized Dan, taking it in his hand to examine, then gently massage. Sigh. Poor ego.

Several weeks later, Dan and I were sitting alone in my friend Jen's kitchen at the end of a night of couples' dinner and games (Get your minds out of the gutter- we were playing Taboo. Oh wait, that sounds just as bad...dang nam it). At length, I decided to grow a backbone again and informed Dan that Jen was going to take an inordinate amount of time kissing her boyfriend good-night so we would also have time to "practice." "Practice what?" Dan asked, confused at first. But he's a pretty clever lad, so a minute or two later we were on our feet going at 'er. I felt a bit like an irritating five year old on a road trip with her parents: Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Well, good try, Dan. "Good try?!" Crap! Did I say that out loud?!! "Um, I meant, 'That was good.' Good job, Dan!" Dan didn't look entirely convinced. Dang Freudian slips. Poor Dan's ego.

And the moral of these stories is that Dan shows his respect for my feminine pride by courteously not paying attention to my violent clumsiness and I show my respect for Dan's masculinity by testing it repeatedly with the expectation that I won't break it, despite my clumsiness. God, this relationship is fool proof. Big, glowing, neon signs...