Nice Guys Finish Last

So... last Saturday was my little girl's first birthday. That morning, I hung up on my five-year-old niece. I didn't know it was her. Really. Everyone in Calgary thought it would be cute if Miette called her American cousin to wish Nevie many happy returns. Only we were on the way out the door, and I thought I was talking to a Munchkin when I picked up the phone. Or an old lady who was sucking on a helium tank. One who was asking for someone named "Denise."

"No Denise here," I said. Click.

Oh, well. Who knew?

Once we figured out what happened, Tia said I had better apologize to my brother-in-law right away. For me, right away is in the same ballpark as next Sunday. And just so you know, my brother-in-law's name is Blaise. Blaise is the only guy I know who has a space station in his basement. He's also an artist and filmmaker. Buy his stuff. He begs you. It's crazy, and financed in part by the Canadian government, so you know it has to be good.

Anyway, here is my apology:

Dear Blaise:

I eat old corncob pipes for breakfast. In a cereal bowl. With no milk.

Everywhere I go, I carry a grapefruit spoon. I keep the serrated edges very sharp. The leaves on citrus trees quiver when I pass by. They sound like castanets played by dead men.

I take out the garbage every Wednesday night. Sometimes it's so late there's not even a moon. You can't see anything out there. But somehow that cat you gave us always gets back in the house.

I hang up on at least one little girl a week. Especially if they call long distance. Like from another country. Long distance costs a lot of money. Especially in Canadian dollars. What's the point of Canadian money, anyway? I mean, why do you guys bother?

Peace and love,
Norm

P.S. Who's Denise, anyway?