Confucius has nothing on Larry.

DISCLAIMER:

I generally have nothing but disdain for people who whine about their dating lives publicly on their blogs. So I generally never do it. But this one is just too damn good to leave alone.


My friend Larry, through a simple philosophy, has given my life meaning. And here it is:

Life should be viewed as a method of collecting anecdotes.

This may seem simplistic, unfulfilling or even sacrilegious ... but it is the only way that I can continue to muddle my way through life and have it not seem entirely ludicrous.

Anyone who has known for more than 25 minutes knows that my life continually veers toward weirdness. I'm not sure why this is; on the surface, I am pretty much an average plain Jane, with several passable life skills, none exceptional. I play the piano and sing reasonably well, but not well enough to put on a concert (my flute and saxophone skills have slipped well below "bearable.") I'm a pretty good volleyball player, horseback rider, dancer, public speaker. I think I'm quite a good English teacher, but then again, you can't open your car door without hitting an English teacher. I can write, but my proof of that is about 50 unfinished writing projects in various drawers and filing cabinets and computer hard drives. So it's reasonable to think that my life would tend toward the ordinary. Not so. For example:

1) When I was five, I was the only kid in London Ontario to contract scarlet fever that year. Yes, you have heard of scarlet fever before - it's the medieval disease that eventually kills Beth in Louisa May Alcott's novel "Little Women," published in 1868. I don't think that anybody BESIDES me has had it since that book became a best-seller.

2) I was called for jury duty AND audited by the government of Canada before my twenty-fifth birthday.

3.) I have been inside a house while it was being robbed. I was with my friend Allison Campbell-Rogers (ACR) and luckily we were oblivious - we were upstairs watching "South Park" while the downstairs was being looted. I am convinced that the robbers did not come upstairs because of our hysterical laughter, and therefore can say with some certainty that "South Park" saved my life.

4.) I have been hit by a car. While standing on a sidewalk. By a drunk driver. Who was STEALING the car. In CUBA. I did avoid any major, lasting injuries, which I suppose makes me lucky. I would argue however, that I am not as lucky as, say, people who DON'T get run over by drunken, international auto thieves.

See what I'm saying? All weird, but all worthy anecdotes.

It is this philosophy that has led me to value my latest weirdo experience, or at least reach a level of acceptance that prevents me from descending into a total depression and drinking fabric softener on the weekends. So here it is.

About two months ago, I received a package in the mail. It was exciting - I love getting non-bill mail. "It must be a gift!" I thought. I grabbed the package and raced up to my condo to open it. Inside the package was a hardcover copy of "The Prisoner of Azkaban," the third book in the Harry Potter series. That was it. No note, nothing else. And, to make matters more confusing, I realized that the package was not addressed to me BUT my name and address did appear in the top left-hand corner in the "return address" space. The package itself was addressed to a man I had never heard of, at an address I had never been to.

I was totally stumped. Why would anyone send me this book? Was it mine? I checked my bookshelf; my copy of "The Prisoner of Azkaban" was missing, along with several other books in the series. (Note: I am a compulsive book lender, and I admit that I never keep track of where they are. I simply trust that they will be returned to me, and truly, most of them are, sooner or later.) Was it possible that I packaged up the book, sent it to a stranger, and it was returned to me due to insufficient postage? I can be absent-minded, but this seemed ridiculous. I did a reverse-phone number search using the address on the package, but in the end I simply felt too shy and silly to phone. I mean, what was I going to say?

"Ummm ... hi ... I don't know you ... do you know me? Because I think I sent you a children's book ... no ... I'm not sure ... well, I know it seems like I'm crazy but ... I guess it could be dementia ... I did have scarlet fever as a child, you know ..."

So, I did the only thing I could think of - I put the book on my shelf and went about my life. Then, last week, I finally got an answer to the riddle that had been quietly plaguing me for months.

My 2.1 readers will remember that, although my intention was to NEVER discuss my dating life on this blog, I had one date that was so supremely awful that I included a scathing description of it in my "Youb tube" blog. I simply can't bring myself to write about it again, so you can look it up or just trust me. All you need to know is that he showed me the grossest Youtube video ever ... which involved ... well ... POO ... and then treated me with utmost disdain when I didn't share his sense of humour. I never expected to hear from him again, so you can imagine my surprise when he called to see if I had received the book.

"I'm glad you called," I told him. "I couldn't figure out where the book had come from, or if it was even for me."

"What, you don't remember loaning it to me?"

I suppressed the urge to say that not remembering much of our encounters was probably due to some kind of post-traumatic stress. "No, sorry. I was confused because the package wasn't addressed to me, and there was no note inside."

"Oh yeah, that was my experiment. I figured it would cost $6.50 to mail, so wrote you down as the "sender" and threw it in the box without postage. See? You got it back as the "sender" because of "insufficient postage." I just didn't want you to think I was the type of guy who wouldn't return a book. Even though you hate me anyway."

Now at this point, about a billion things were going through my head. Here's a brief synopsis:

1.) That's actually pretty clever.

2.) I don't HATE him ... hate is an awfully harsh word.

3.) Well, he's got a PhD in physics ... so it's not really all THAT clever.

4.) What does it matter if I think he doesn't return books? I already know that he shows scatological videos on dates.

5.) And now I know he practices mail fraud.

6.) And that he's cheap.

7.) Maybe I do hate him.

8.) Seriously, this is stupider than getting hit by that car.

After I hung up the phone, I started laughing, and I couldn't stop. The book episode was perfect closure for this ridiculous four-date "relationship." And, as anecdotes go, it's one of the best I've got. My friends who go on "real" dates that involve things like dinner and pleasant conversation will never build up a story bank like mine. And really, isn't that what being a writer is all about? Finding stories?

Larry, you're right. Your philosophy gives value to the stupidest things, and makes me see humour everywhere. So I thank you. Because otherwise my life would be too depressing for words, and I would certainly be drinking Woolite on weekends.

A

P.S. And ladies, if you ever come across a tall, handsome physicist-turned high-school teacher, don't let him near your computer and don't loan him any books. Unless, of course, you are looking to collect some anecdotes of your own.