August 22, 2005

So I have a story I would like to tell before I get on with the business of trying to rescue my cranky desktop computer. I forgot its birthday. Deskie turned 3 (to me anyways) this week, and I didn't buy it a cake.

I was hanging with my semi-redundant, grief counsellor today. I only call her semi-redundant because I am no longer grieving in the same way, so we are going to have redefine the terms of my therapeutic process. But that's not germane to this story so whatever.

My grief therapist is a tiny little Jewish lady who looks like the moms my true-Jew friends had when I was growing up. This is in contrast to my own mother who had weird spiky black hair and started dressing like Elvira after a while.

My counsellor wears really nice patterned things and good shoes and always has a matched purse but the colours are very, sort of loud. Oh yeah and she smokes like a chimney and has a gravelly voice and calls me sweetpea. Which is funny because I consider myself more of a sweet-truck.

Got the picture? So we're sitting on a park bench having our appointment and I am eating a giant sandwich, and there's this music coming coming from a distance. Therapist says;

"Where's that coming from?"

"A house somewhere maybe? someone's playing music really loud with the doors open? I do that sometimes, when I clean the house."

"yeah, me too, only I do it in the country where no-one can hear me."

"mm.." eating sandwich, silent assertion, ah yes the country where no-one can hear you blasting the Neil Diamond.

"Actually you know what?"

"What? "

"My son left one of his mix cds in my car the other day, and it has this song on it. It's called something like; motherfuckin PIMP. It's disgusting, the lyrics are so filthy, but I fuckin love it...it's like; 'I drive a cadilac wear a perm and I'm a g/I'm a motherfuckin P-I-M-P.' It's crap, but it's like driving music, you know?"

"yeah totally." Do I know?! Do I know?... uh...You are a four foot tall Jewish grief counsellor who lives in Point st-Luc and has a closet fetish for gangsta rap. How could I not know...

Therapist hunkers down on the park bench and puts her hands out in the 'we cool' gesture, bobs her head just a tiny bit in a hip-hop rhythm;

"...You know, driving music. Except that I can't have anyone know that I am listening to it, so if I come to a stoplight with the windows down, I always point to the car next to me as if they're the ones with the problem.

Apparently we are both fans of 50 cent.

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