May 27-28, 2001 — Memories

My sister's birthday is tomorrow, and I've yet to buy her a gift. Not for a lack of effort, mind you -- I scurried from store to store after work today looking for something that screamed "Caitlin," but to no avail. With shopping for birthday gifts and the signing of birthday cards filling dozens of minutes of my time, though, I ended up having a decent number of flashbacks to my earlier years. This being the case, instead of the usual (and increasingly tedious) journal entry that you're expecting, it's time for something slightly different. Emphasis on slightly.

When my sister was born, everything was arranged in advance, with my father left to make sure that I was dressed, relatively clean, and in the hospital to meet my new sister on May 29, 1984. While he technically succeeded on all counts, I ended up in the maternity ward wearing my pajama pants and a pajama shirt (which he maintains looked exactly like a jogging suit) and rubber boots. I proceeded to press the emergency assistance button, causing a nurse to scurry into the room. I think I was asked to scurry out of the room not long after.

Knowing that sibling rivalry sets in early (and that I am easily bought), my parents arranged for me to receive a miniature dump truck for my car collection, ostensibly from my sister. Whether this quelled the sibling rivalry is questionable, but the two of us seem to be on very good terms these days, and if anything's responsible, it's the dump truck.

(The dump truck was a welcome addition to my collection, especially since it wasn't technically a car. This was a bonus since I could pronounce "car," calling them "tars" instead. I also refused to call myself "Greg" for a good number of years because I couldn't pronounce the R in my name. I think I was still signing some of my work as "Boy" well into kindergarden.)

A couple of years after my sister was born, we moved from an apartment just off of Alta Vista Drive (on Paul Anka Drive, if I remember correctly -- and who can forget anything relating to Paul Anka?) to the heart of Richmond, a bustling village of 2000 people. My parents theorized that we would be safer in Richmond. If only they knew...

Life in Richmond seem to entail being forced to drink river water by neighbours and getting a lot of burs in ones hair (oh, what a day that was for my sister). While our immune systems are probably slightly healthier for it, I suspect my social skills would've benefitted from having a slightly larger pool of potential friends.

My other main flashback from today (one that will steer us away from events that my sister would probably prefer I not elaborate on as part of a Web page) occurred when I was searching for a book for my sister in Chapters. Having inevitably started shopping for myself, I found myself in the Douglas Coupland section and remembered that fateful day when I managed to get an autographed copy of Polaroids from the Dead on hardcover for $7.99 from that very same Chapters location. It was a day I've secretly referred to as the best day of my life ever since.

Strangely enough for a day that I claim to secretly refer to as the best day of my life, I've forgotten most of the details -- I remember it being winter, and I remember having long hair, so I'm going to guess that it was the winter of 1998. Portishead was playing at the Civic Centre, and I'd arranged to go with Tim Hanafin, who met me at (you guessed it) that very same Chapters location. I'd decided to buy Polaroids from the Dead, and I'd found a softcover copy for $20 or so on the shelves. Upon reaching the cash, however, the cashier told me to check the discount section, saying that he thought that there might be an autographed copy or two left. And well, you know the rest of the story. Seeing Portishead was fun, too, although I worried about those sticky-fingered coat check people stealing my precious Douglas Coupland novel. Admittedly, of all his books, I like it the least, but I mean... Autographed! Hardcover! $7.99! It's a magical world.

Speaking of Tim Hanafin, he was the only one to leave a message last time I gave out my work phone number. All of you that hung up after listening to my extremely tough-sounding message are therefore much less cool than Tim. Your chance to redeem yourself is found at 613 731-8610 x1202.

I was hoping that this journal would have more random moments in time and that it would seem literate and worth reading. Unfortunately, it turned into a normal journal entry set in 1984 and then in 1998 with only the vaguest of circumstances tying the two events together. I've got to plan these out a bit better before I start writing, I think...