So I was sitting at the Cactus Club on Burrard, a place I absolutely love because the staff is fantastic and came to my assistance when I really needed it. Some utterly crazy man was following me around and they got rid of him for me. Contrary to friend Bruce’s recent observations this guy was NOT interesting at all. He was obsessed with me, well not with the real me as he did not know me at all. He regarded me as his savior. Where did I meet him? Trump International Hotel of course. He was staying here, maybe still is. I said to N.S.N. “What are you doing letting rooms to crazy people….other than me?” N.S.N. did the usual, shake head in disbelief and sort of smile.
So there I was sitting at the Cactus Club eating fish tacos and scrolling the internet on my iPad. I find an old article written about the owner of the Trump International Hotel, Joo Kim Tiah. I learned that it was his idea to import the Equinox, such a good idea! (Parenthetically I have never seen him there but he works day and night making money and I guess does not have time to work out). Whereas, I am retired and I go there all of the time, meeting up with Hottie, my personal trainer. So I go to the loo and there are two or three women talking about “over training” I wittily say: “You can never be too rich or too thin or overtrain.” They begged to differ saying that if you over train you can get injured. I then put on my thinking cap and said: “Well you can be too thin come to think of it – it is called anorexia and/or bulimia. And I guess you can be too rich because it becomes an obsession, the accumulation of money. It is a kind of addiction and can interfere with gym attendance.” So there! So there!
The too rich, too thin quote is from Wallace Simpson, a person who I never thought had much of a sense of humor but you never know. She was featured in a book that a woman in London gave me as a present. It was on Sirens and how to be one. At the time Ann said to me: “You do not need any instruction, you are one already.” I did not see it at the time but now I do. I am. I do not get it. I think it is because I do not care. I am independent, have hordes of friends and my adopted family, I only get messed up when I become “romantically” interested in a man. And I have been cutting the string on those guys recently. Well, sort of. Another guy made a brief appearance. “My dear sweet Lexie” he wrote. I fired back: “You spell it with a y stupid, it is Lexy which rhymes with Sexy.” I just love sassing this guy – well he and everyone actually. Mr. Cooper accurately reflected that is me. Sassy. I have not always been this way. My friend Lynne and i have been in serious conversation during the last two days and she said that I was very serous in high school and university. Well, except for plunk, plunk, plunk Sh***. Plunk, plunk, plunk Sh**. By the way, I hate being called Lexy so that guy is pretty sassy himself as he knows it. Once he called me sweet and I said to him: “Sweet? you must have me confused with some other woman in your entourage?”
But to get back to rich and thin for a few minutes. Stacy Schiff said it all. “A woman can never be too rich or too thin, but until very, very recently, she could be too powerful, for which – if she wasn’t smart enough to camouflage herself – she generally paid the price.” This is how I would differ with Stacy Schiff. Women still pay the price for being powerful. I have accidentally become rather powerful. Honest to goodness, not on purpose. I do not want it, you can have it. But boy am I paying the price.
Triple C is not to be found. I took the day off of Trump International Hotel yesterday and went to Coquitlam. I returned to find no Triple C. He said that the next time he took two days off he would take me with him. It is because I got into a lot of trouble last time he was gone for two days. Screaming matches with powerful people to be exact. He said the sweetest thing the other day:
CCC: Does she know how to write? Does Shakespeare know how to write plays?
The following story is taken from my biography of Dave Dryburgh. The title of the chapter is presently “Love That Name”. It was written in London, England about a year ago.
LOVE THAT NAME!
My relationship with the name Dryburgh is a bit schizophrenic. I despised it, hating the constant spelling necessary for any documentation, no one ever pronounced it properly and it was not particularly pretty. Therefore, I dumped the name ASAP in the only way that was viable in the 50s and 60s, I got married. My sights were on a man whose last name I could love. I found him – looking back it was probably the name I loved, not him. But McBride, was a great choice that goes so well with Alexis. May 11, 1966: Goodbye Dryburgh.
Much to the consternation of subsequent husbands I carried forth with the name McBride. I was McBride through my California years, 1967- 2014, always with pride and seldom having to spell. But then, when I began the quest to find my uncle, I became enamored with the name Dryburgh, not just enamored, actually transfixed, captivated, charmed, enraptured, and fascinated.
But I was not willing to abandon my ‘fancy name’ until…
December 4, 2014 a sunny but cold day in London. It was 2pm at the British Library and I had an individual tutorial with a professor that I had a large amount of respect for.
After a few preliminaries I spoke of my continued love of the UK and my dismay in being forced to leave at the expiration of my student visa, in February of 2017. I knew that the professor, had the inside track on Ph.D programs in the UK. I suggested that if I were a candidate for a PhD program, I could extend my visa and my happiness would be insured. “Either that” I proposed, “or you could marry me.” He laughed but immediately began referring me to programs, both existing and imaginary. I shrugged, saying: “So the wedding is off?” I did not recall his response. But the subject was tabled and we went on to discuss the biography I was penning.
A fellow student arrived for her session with the same professor. I told her of my proposal, and his decline. She said: “Well that was rude of him.” The professor attempted to defend himself asserting that he had not said: “No” and when pushed for further details said that his response was: “It did not come to mind.” Knowing that this was as good as it was going to get and because it was someone else’s turn, I left.
I awoke the next morning in my Bloomsbury flat and realized, much to my consternation that I was still married to number 3. I emailed the professor.
Subject: You are off the hook!
I woke up this morning and realized that I am still married, to number 3. Seriously, I totally forgot about that. So you are off the hook. Alexis
So that was that. But what was I still doing being married to a degenerate splenetic moron? It was a depressing moment – actually, a depressing three days. Rather than getting a divorce I had obtained a legal separation. The property had been divided, a settlement reached with regard to all claims but the status remained. That was because my greedy former husband wanted my retirement death benefits if I died first. I had been bullied and must have thought that the issue was academic – he is eleven years older than I, drank like a fish, has had bladder cancer four (or is it five?) times and never eats vegetables. But he has persisted. Only the good die young is a phrase that comes to mind. The retirement benefit is 60% of my retirement income for the rest of the widower’s lifetime.
STORY TO BE CONTINUED IN A SUBSEQUENT BLOG
