I used to have a fireplace in my first basement suite.

Now, when I say I had a fireplace, I mean I had a glowing heater in the shape of a fire.

It was one of the weirder things I’ve ever seen, although completely in step with the motif of the suite — a motif which I would label, “How Many Weird Architectural Quirks Can You Put In 150 Sq Ft?”

I would only turn the thing on for a few moments now and then, because it kicked out heat like a female cat in Springtime.

I’m what they call a ‘warm person.’ I can crack 100 F without a sweat. Or maybe with a sweat. Though I try and avoid that.

One weekend, I had some nice, recently-married house guests.

They were ‘cold’ people — not in the sense that they were terrible, heartless CEOs, but in the sense that their bodies were less efficient at supplying them with heat than my own.

They slept in the living room, and kept the glowing fire-shape going all night. My bedroom, directly adjacent to the living room, slowly became one of the latter levels of Dante’s Inferno, and I was left sticking my head out the tiny basement window and gasping at the -35 C air every two minutes or so.

I could have asked them to turn it off, but I figured the comfort of my guests was paramount.

And, by some divine provision, I happened to have a bottle of water in my room. So I slugged that back, hoping to drain it before the water came to a boil.

Then, of course, I had to pee.

This meant I would have to traipse across the married couple to go to the bathroom. Well, not across them, but right next to them. Opening and closing doors in this place created a noise akin to shots going off in Beirut, so I wasn’t too eager to make my move.

I just wanted to be a good host.

And I was 20 years old.

But none of that is excuse enough for the fact that I climbed out my window, and peed in the snow.

In my flannel nightgown.

In subzero temperatures.

I peed in the snow.

And then I crawled back into my bedroom, strangely relieved and refreshed, and fell asleep. They never suspected a thing.

However, the next day, my elderly upstairs neighbour thanked me for “… getting up to shoo the cats away. Those damn things always pee on our backyard snow.”

Erm.

You’re welcome.

This is when I began to develop my theory that old people never sleep.

They go to bed at ten, read for six hours, sigh deeply, turn over twice, and get up again at 5 am to make tea and toast.

Sure, they nap in the afternoons, but don’t let them fool you with the removal of glasses and the leaning back in chairs.

They are like coils, waiting to spring! Like rattlesnakes with walkers!

That’s why nursing homes are like New York City (without the Rockettes and Hello Deli.) Someone is always awake.

Children you can trust. They nap and drool and lie with their mouths hanging open like Pac Man going for the 100-pt cherry.

But old folks?

They’re the ones running the world.

that day

the leaves seemed more green

on that tree out front

we discussed what shade of green that might be

celadon? no, you said

too pale.

emerald!

that’s darker –

apple?

no

– more blue

jade?

maybe jade!

like your mother’s necklace –

the one from chinatown

on the silk cord

a rose carved out of smooth, cool stone.

is it still in the box with

her rings and your grandmother’s pearls

in the drawer at the end of the dresser?

we blinked at the sun through the branches.

so that’s what colour that is?

jade?

I don’t know, you said.

there are so damn many shades of green.

I wish I had a pet penguin. I think I could make him happy. Certainly I would never mock his waddle, and I’d wear black and white to make him feel at ease. But how at ease can you feel when you’re short, round, and fall over a lot? Oh, wait  think I already know the answer to that. I don’t trust people that don’t have any favourites in life. I can’t imagine being that magnanimous or that malcontent. I wish I had a car that was powered by Kool-Aid — one that would change the colour of the Kool-Aid you chose every time you filled it up. I think I’d fill it with Cherry Kool-Aid more often than not, but never, ever Sharkleberry Fin. So much can be accomplished by staring into space — the more I do it, the more I find that my mind clears, and thoughts come one at a time, rather than fifty at a time. The only problem is when the one thought is something like, “Sky is blue” or “toe itchy”. I’m not gonna save the world with that crap. I thought for about ten seconds that I was technologically astute, then I repeatedly typed ‘giggle’ instead of ‘Google’ into my URL line in Firefox today. Six or seven times. I kept wondering who stole Google, and if the world had suddenly slipped off its axis a little more, and then I realized it was just my mind that had slipped into space. On the other hand, I heard someone talking about the Port of Vancouver today, and I pictured a USB. I feel really badly for carbs and the horrid reputation they’ve gotten from diet doctors and the media. I mean, they are often the sweetest, nicest things in the world, and yet we’re told that they’re BAD! BAD! It’s like slapping your grandma when she offers you some pie. Sure, she’s a little slow and heavy, but she’s just trying to fill you up, for heaven’s sakes! And PROtein just sounds arrogant! Is the correct pronunciation ‘jujubes’ or ‘jujubees’? I’m confused by that more than I care to admit, but I can never bring myself to ask. It seems like something I should already know. I spilled Hawaiian Tropic Oil at the beach once, and sure enough, a duck walked over and got stuck in it. But he got a sweet tan.