The cash flood gates seem to be open wide this season of the Yuletide. However, behind the orgy of monetary output is a well controlled fiscal policy. My wife and I are a team. We consult on almost every purchase and certainly on the high dollar ones. This action has prevented a great deal of stress in our marriage. We are a team.
The boolean expression of this relationship would be:
A OR (A+B)= Purchase
Where:
A is my wife
B is me
If we both want something we usually purchase it. If she wants something, we usually purchase it. If only I want something, it frequently remains on the shelf. I don't mean to say that she runs roughshod over me, it's just that she has an uncanny ability to convince me that I need the same thing she wants and I don't need the thing that she doesn't want.
Just yesterday we made an excursion to Kelowna. The primary goal of this outing was to attend a Christmas get together for my compatriots. After nibbling far too much we ventured to the biggest mall in the city and immediately went different directions. I was able to purchase a couple small gifts to round out this years items and spent a great deal of time meandering through various shops.
I was to windows shoppers what King Kong is to a monkey. I was totally consumed with consuming. My avarice for all things material was so incredible that I am sure that any tree hugging lets-keep-the-world-cold nutball would have beat me to death with their protest sign if they had got but a glimpse of what was in my mind's eye. The 42” Plasma screen, the personal video recorder, the Dolby Digital Amplifier, and the ..... Wait. A hot tub shop!!!
My wanton desire for a hot tub is a decade and a half long. This quest has always been plagued by the same problem. Without the slightest effort, every hot tub salesman has been able to upsell me until I am so up there that I pass out. Yes! I need the biggest tub. Yes! I need the 2567 jets. Yes! They have to be powerful enough to de-bone chicken. Yes! I need the 1200 Watt sound system. Yes! I need the remote control. On and on it goes until I won't settle for anything less. By then I am sooooo out of my price range I have to take a taxi to get back.
It never deters me from looking. This day was no different. I stroked the side of the tub. I imagined the warmth of the water and the jets burrowing into my old tired flesh. I imagined peace and long sought serenity.
A pang of hunger jolted me from my reverie and I set off to find my chosen. With the aid of a cell phone call we were able to meet up and have a quick bite. It was then time to leave the mall, the big city, and return home.
The path to our car was not precipitous and we allowed ourselves to tarry and look at things that we had missed in our journey deep into the bowels of the complex. I was suddenly aware that my bride of all these years was no longer beside me. Surprised, I wheeled around and spotted her eying a hot tub in the very shop that I had attended not long ago. She began to ask the manager some questions on one unit and then was directed to the back where another unit and indeed the very unit that I had been stroking stood in the corner. She glanced at it dismissively and then asked the lady “What is this?” pointing to a chunk of foam to the right.
“That's a Softub” she replied. She then launched into a litany of highlights about this smurf tub. My wife's interest seemed to peak. I smiled to myself. Here comes the upsell. But wait... it didn't happen. The sales women started to down sell!! “This is the tub that I own” she stated frankly. Then she literally gushed a stream of accolades that would have filled the vessel under discussion. My one and only turned to me and said “I think we should get it .
I will have to do the upselling myself I murmured to myself. I dragged her a few short paces to the corner unit and began to stutter as many brochure facts that I could recall. Each point I made was parried, skewered, shot down and trampled on. “No, I think this is the one we should get” she calmly stated again pointing to the nerf tub. Then the sale manager moved in for the kill. She lowballed the price, hit us with poker table freebie, and threw in a battery powered fish to boot.
“We must talk” I indicated to this treacherous sales person. She left us in the back corner.
Softtub!! No man my age wants to think of things soft!! I need a tub that exudes masculinity and power! I desperately need to portray a facade that boasts of success and reckless abandon. To hell with practicality!!! If I can't have my way, I will kill this deal I plotted. Yes, it was logical. We don't need a tub right away! The bank account is getting too low! I will hold out for the top-of-the-liner that we could never get later! I was adamant. This is one tete-a-tete that I would control and dominate. The fruit of my wife's logic would become toe jam beneath the crushing heels of my determination!!
The Softub should be delivered this week.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
U Tuk Mai Foo
I love dining out. I take great pride in wallowing in gastronomic bliss every time I venture from the confines of my own kitchen to sample what the world has to give. I have an eighth sense about these things. I scan the entrée titles. Each word is allowed to dance upon my tongue. I imagine its taste and texture. I swallow and test the weight in my gullet to see if it will sate the current yearnings that abide there. Seldom, do I ever have to read the more detailed description that underlies the culinary offerings of my host.
I have rarely been disappointed. Alas, my Beloved does not share this gift and must grapple in the darkness hoping that she will actually stumble upon satisfaction.
My son won a radio pass for two to the picture show. With the lucky lad and his sister safely ensconced in the aisles of the nearest theatre, Mom and Dad were free to partake in a leisurely dining out experience. I was thrilled. We chose a Thai restaurant on the edge of town and were escorted to a cozy corner table. Everything was looking fine. The ambiance was perfect. The lighting was soft and friendly. I was relaxed. Yes, once more I was on the brink of dining victory.
The first sign of trouble was when the menus came. The food titles were incomprehensible. Frustrated at first, I pushed on. I will just have to work harder. The descriptions were in English and took a little longer to unravel but I would persevere. After temporarily choosing #50, I opted for #51 with a three chili pepper rating. The fact that I was ordering by a number was an ignored harbinger of dining doom.
The meals came and I began to indulge myself in what I do best. However, after a few bites, a malignant thought crept into my mind. Do I have the right meal? The dinner I was consuming was delicious. My dear wife’s meal looked incredibly delicious. I was becoming distracted. There was no chili heat being generated in my mouth. I inquired of my beloved. “Is yours at all hot” I asked. “Not at all” was her reply.
Each bite unraveled me more as I stared longingly at the plate across from me. The plump prawns were sitting invitingly atop glistening bell peppers and saucy bundles of broccoli and cauliflower.
I tried vainly to focus on my own meal but every few seconds the obsession with my companion’s food would slip to the forefront. Didn’t my order have broccoli? I don’t think my order had noodles!! My head was swimming in a fog, my fare was all but consumed and I had not experienced it!!
As my wife savours her last bite she innocently declares “Hmmm – my meal was a little hot.” The bitter small man in me squeals in horror. When this travesty is revealed to the waitress she half apologies and three quarters laughs. We return home and the rebukes of my repetitive protests finally quell me into brooding silence. The pain still lingers but is being eased by the knowledge that I helped my beloved choose a superior dining memory.
I have rarely been disappointed. Alas, my Beloved does not share this gift and must grapple in the darkness hoping that she will actually stumble upon satisfaction.
My son won a radio pass for two to the picture show. With the lucky lad and his sister safely ensconced in the aisles of the nearest theatre, Mom and Dad were free to partake in a leisurely dining out experience. I was thrilled. We chose a Thai restaurant on the edge of town and were escorted to a cozy corner table. Everything was looking fine. The ambiance was perfect. The lighting was soft and friendly. I was relaxed. Yes, once more I was on the brink of dining victory.
The first sign of trouble was when the menus came. The food titles were incomprehensible. Frustrated at first, I pushed on. I will just have to work harder. The descriptions were in English and took a little longer to unravel but I would persevere. After temporarily choosing #50, I opted for #51 with a three chili pepper rating. The fact that I was ordering by a number was an ignored harbinger of dining doom.
The meals came and I began to indulge myself in what I do best. However, after a few bites, a malignant thought crept into my mind. Do I have the right meal? The dinner I was consuming was delicious. My dear wife’s meal looked incredibly delicious. I was becoming distracted. There was no chili heat being generated in my mouth. I inquired of my beloved. “Is yours at all hot” I asked. “Not at all” was her reply.
Each bite unraveled me more as I stared longingly at the plate across from me. The plump prawns were sitting invitingly atop glistening bell peppers and saucy bundles of broccoli and cauliflower.
I tried vainly to focus on my own meal but every few seconds the obsession with my companion’s food would slip to the forefront. Didn’t my order have broccoli? I don’t think my order had noodles!! My head was swimming in a fog, my fare was all but consumed and I had not experienced it!!
As my wife savours her last bite she innocently declares “Hmmm – my meal was a little hot.” The bitter small man in me squeals in horror. When this travesty is revealed to the waitress she half apologies and three quarters laughs. We return home and the rebukes of my repetitive protests finally quell me into brooding silence. The pain still lingers but is being eased by the knowledge that I helped my beloved choose a superior dining memory.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
The most alarming behaviour I have ever witnessed
I may not have advertised the fact, but neither have I hid the truth that I am a small bitter man. The big picture does not concern me. The grand sentences that describe history are ignored. I focus on the dots that dot the “i”s and the crosses that cross the “t”s. What I am saying is that the following issue is the perfect vehicle to waste my time and keep me un-preoccupied with everything else that is important in my life. After all, something needs to be done!
What occurred today for me to once more stoop (I have a bad back so stooping is a big deal) and pick up the banner of justice for the down trodden and abused? Let me tell.
The problem is that I don’t always see them coming. They usually showed up on campus in pairs. Most of the time they were present for regular maintenance which helped mask the timing of the dastardly deed that obsessed them today. If only I had spotted them earlier. These co-workers are usually gregarious and may in fact pause to indulge me in a short chit chat before faithfully performing their duties. Alternatively, on days such as today, they slink around in the shadows with a devilish smug smile and maniacally lit eyes. It would have taken only a small glimpse of their facial countenance to have alerted me that: “There is going to be a surprise fire drill today!!”
November picked herself up by the rubber boots and ushered herself in as a dreary rain soaked day. The inclemency that evacuees had to endure today seemed to transform the aforementioned manic expressions of facilities staff to a Josef Mengele dementia. “Why do the fire drills have to be secret?” I demanded. Any attempt to reply to my query only produced unintelligible chortling. Damn sadists!
This has been going on for years. The fire bell sounds and one must set down what you are working on and join the flock of hallway sheep pouring from the classrooms. The administration staff has donned bright red emergency vests and like border collies drive us out of the buildings and into the adjoining fields. They double back and nip at the heels of stragglers and force them to amass with the rest of their dazed and confused companions. Although I have used ovine qualities to describe the hordes that are fleeing the fake fire, these are woolless creatures that must now pathetically huddle to try and offset the chilling drizzle. (Some years it has been near blizzard conditions with unforgiving biting cold winds.) The drill completes and we are let back into the building. I don’t know what is worse, the pain caused by my icicle outer ears or the string of epithets and curses that assaults my inner ears. Staff and students bleat their dismay at the ignominy of their lot in life. Let us look at the carnage.
Gone are the brilliant lectures teetering on the edge of the last few words that will drive the point forever home.
Gone are the student presentations, choked off in mid stream and dispersed to the air currents by the cooling fan of the projector.
Gone are the leisurely snacks in the lunchroom. The last delicious morsel rammed down a reluctant throat.
Gone is my pen. Where did I put it?
And somewhere on campus, some poor sap had finally found the nerve to confess his affection to his doe eyed classmate. That moment in time has been shattered, their lives irreversibly changed.
For what?
A whimsical test.
Surely we can be told that a drill is coming. We can prepare for proper attire to face what ever Mother Nature throws at us. We can time our work so that things that need completion are completed. And, if this were the case, the next time the fire bell goes off without warning – we will all get out of the building as fast as we can.
What occurred today for me to once more stoop (I have a bad back so stooping is a big deal) and pick up the banner of justice for the down trodden and abused? Let me tell.
The problem is that I don’t always see them coming. They usually showed up on campus in pairs. Most of the time they were present for regular maintenance which helped mask the timing of the dastardly deed that obsessed them today. If only I had spotted them earlier. These co-workers are usually gregarious and may in fact pause to indulge me in a short chit chat before faithfully performing their duties. Alternatively, on days such as today, they slink around in the shadows with a devilish smug smile and maniacally lit eyes. It would have taken only a small glimpse of their facial countenance to have alerted me that: “There is going to be a surprise fire drill today!!”
November picked herself up by the rubber boots and ushered herself in as a dreary rain soaked day. The inclemency that evacuees had to endure today seemed to transform the aforementioned manic expressions of facilities staff to a Josef Mengele dementia. “Why do the fire drills have to be secret?” I demanded. Any attempt to reply to my query only produced unintelligible chortling. Damn sadists!
This has been going on for years. The fire bell sounds and one must set down what you are working on and join the flock of hallway sheep pouring from the classrooms. The administration staff has donned bright red emergency vests and like border collies drive us out of the buildings and into the adjoining fields. They double back and nip at the heels of stragglers and force them to amass with the rest of their dazed and confused companions. Although I have used ovine qualities to describe the hordes that are fleeing the fake fire, these are woolless creatures that must now pathetically huddle to try and offset the chilling drizzle. (Some years it has been near blizzard conditions with unforgiving biting cold winds.) The drill completes and we are let back into the building. I don’t know what is worse, the pain caused by my icicle outer ears or the string of epithets and curses that assaults my inner ears. Staff and students bleat their dismay at the ignominy of their lot in life. Let us look at the carnage.
Gone are the brilliant lectures teetering on the edge of the last few words that will drive the point forever home.
Gone are the student presentations, choked off in mid stream and dispersed to the air currents by the cooling fan of the projector.
Gone are the leisurely snacks in the lunchroom. The last delicious morsel rammed down a reluctant throat.
Gone is my pen. Where did I put it?
And somewhere on campus, some poor sap had finally found the nerve to confess his affection to his doe eyed classmate. That moment in time has been shattered, their lives irreversibly changed.
For what?
A whimsical test.
Surely we can be told that a drill is coming. We can prepare for proper attire to face what ever Mother Nature throws at us. We can time our work so that things that need completion are completed. And, if this were the case, the next time the fire bell goes off without warning – we will all get out of the building as fast as we can.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
wearever whenever -- NOT!!
I cannot dress myself. No, I am not referring to a physical disability or a lack of coordination. To add clarity, I do not choose what I wear. Each morning every vestment that I select to drape upon my body undergoes a subtle yet mandatory approval process.
I don’t look upon this as an emasculation of my free will. It is simply what happens when two people commit to one another for the long term. It is my wife that has the final say.
If my first step at fashion sensibility is a faux pas, such as wearing red suspenders with my pink (did I say pink – I meant salmon) shirt, I will get a gentle laughing rebuke and then be guided back to the stay-in-until-you-get-it right closet.
Should I fluke out and get it right, I will receive a compliment.
Then there are the more confusing times when I receive a compliment that goes like this: “That is nice but this would be better”. This phrase seems harmless on the surface. It conveys a sense that at this point I could choose to wear what I have already donned or at my option upgrade to the “better” combination. It didn’t take long for me to discover that this phrase necessitates an escorted trip back to the closet with aid in disrobing and re-garmenting.
I must reemphasize that this arrangement is just right with me. I have other things to think about. Just so you don’t think I’m totally helpless, I want to state that I get to pick out my underwear and socks. Ok. Ok. Ok. I get to pick out my underwear. What is hidden does not need to be changed.
What underwear you pick out can make or break your day. As you move through the week and approach wash day the picking gets slimmer. The chances of being forced to wear something from the bottom of the drawer that pinches, squeezes, or bunches becomes more likely and can throw a background pall on your daily routine. You will comment to yourself “I should feel great today but something is bothering me but I can’t put my finger on it.”This past week my beautiful bride purchased two packs of great manties (man panties) for me. I have weeks of comfortable gaunche that will bridge even the longest wash day gaps. I am in bliss and my days are happy. The only thing that could be more perfect, is to wear a few good holes in them to mark the true bond that can exist between a man and his skivvies.
I don’t look upon this as an emasculation of my free will. It is simply what happens when two people commit to one another for the long term. It is my wife that has the final say.
If my first step at fashion sensibility is a faux pas, such as wearing red suspenders with my pink (did I say pink – I meant salmon) shirt, I will get a gentle laughing rebuke and then be guided back to the stay-in-until-you-get-it right closet.
Should I fluke out and get it right, I will receive a compliment.
Then there are the more confusing times when I receive a compliment that goes like this: “That is nice but this would be better”. This phrase seems harmless on the surface. It conveys a sense that at this point I could choose to wear what I have already donned or at my option upgrade to the “better” combination. It didn’t take long for me to discover that this phrase necessitates an escorted trip back to the closet with aid in disrobing and re-garmenting.
I must reemphasize that this arrangement is just right with me. I have other things to think about. Just so you don’t think I’m totally helpless, I want to state that I get to pick out my underwear and socks. Ok. Ok. Ok. I get to pick out my underwear. What is hidden does not need to be changed.
What underwear you pick out can make or break your day. As you move through the week and approach wash day the picking gets slimmer. The chances of being forced to wear something from the bottom of the drawer that pinches, squeezes, or bunches becomes more likely and can throw a background pall on your daily routine. You will comment to yourself “I should feel great today but something is bothering me but I can’t put my finger on it.”This past week my beautiful bride purchased two packs of great manties (man panties) for me. I have weeks of comfortable gaunche that will bridge even the longest wash day gaps. I am in bliss and my days are happy. The only thing that could be more perfect, is to wear a few good holes in them to mark the true bond that can exist between a man and his skivvies.
Friday, September 09, 2005
One flew out of the coo coo nest
In my previous blog I outlined an impressive plan to ease the matrimonial anxiety of my offspring. My eldest daughter moved away. I seem to recall this move was in the works so I am not at all certain that my grand plan of arranging a marriage for her had anything to do with her departure. Admittedly, the first three lads that her Mom and I dragged home were sorrowfully short of the standards for a mate that I had outlined. But surely we can’t be blamed for getting caught up in the excitement of the novelty and wanting to test the waters. There is always a learning curve. Hey, in fact I learned that Catholic Priests don’t always wear their vestments and that grand mall seizures are pretty scary. Anyway, with her departure I have decided to slow down a bit and ease into it a little more carefully with the remaining two siblings. I hope they can be patient.
What I really wanted to talk about was empty nest syndrome. Granted there are still two hatchlings left in this nest but the shock of the first departure rocked our little tree. As for the eldest that has ventured into the world…..?
She led a somewhat chthonic existence in the deepest bowels of our home, only occasionally gracing us with her presence at family time sharing. A most surly mood could befall her, brought on by a misinterpreted glance, movement or vocalization on our part. Yet on other occasions her demands for physical affection and attention were paramount. Nocturnal meanderings and daytime naps would best describe her daily routine. A million other things would occupy her time instead of the loving couple that have given her shelter, food and protection. In fact … Just a minute. I’ve been describing the cat! Sorry.
Yes, the thought that B isn’t there when I come home is confusing. When I think of her as a small child and how quickly the time has flown it can be saddening. She is lucky to be facing the excitement and adventure of a new life. And I too, must learn to start looking for new things in my life that will keep me and my marriage invigorated. Chin up.
What I really wanted to talk about was empty nest syndrome. Granted there are still two hatchlings left in this nest but the shock of the first departure rocked our little tree. As for the eldest that has ventured into the world…..?
She led a somewhat chthonic existence in the deepest bowels of our home, only occasionally gracing us with her presence at family time sharing. A most surly mood could befall her, brought on by a misinterpreted glance, movement or vocalization on our part. Yet on other occasions her demands for physical affection and attention were paramount. Nocturnal meanderings and daytime naps would best describe her daily routine. A million other things would occupy her time instead of the loving couple that have given her shelter, food and protection. In fact … Just a minute. I’ve been describing the cat! Sorry.
Yes, the thought that B isn’t there when I come home is confusing. When I think of her as a small child and how quickly the time has flown it can be saddening. She is lucky to be facing the excitement and adventure of a new life. And I too, must learn to start looking for new things in my life that will keep me and my marriage invigorated. Chin up.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
I'm still the shepard of my flock
In this multicultural society I often catch myself being quite defensive. I can hardly be blamed for having a perception that every cultural idiosyncrasy seems to be resolutely protected by government fiat except the culture that I grew up with. This defensiveness has perhaps led me to being dismissive of customs that could indeed improve my life.
Thank goodness that I experienced an epiphany that enabled me to see past the wall that I had built around me.
The concept that was revealed to me was in regards to arranged marriages.
Yes, it was a rite that I ridiculed or even put down in outrage. But I have been overlooking the advantages that it has for all concerned.
Here are the benefits you receive when you get to choose your child’s spouse.
1) I have somewhat procrastinated in accumulating a vast fortune so wouldn’t it be great to choose in-laws that will share all their toys? You can surround yourself with interesting people that have super social functions and great vacation spots.
2) I can avoid drugged out lay abouts, biker types, tattooed freaks and most of all ugly people. If you are going to have to hug them, they may as well be attractive.
3) I can find individuals with the proper political and philosophical bent so that future conflicts are averted. It is always best to avoid blood baths when you can.
4) Perhaps the greatest reward is the comfort I will have in knowing that I can lift the weight of the world from the shoulders of my children. This is a more complicated world. It may not be audible but I can feel my children crying for relief. The awkward dates and insecurities will be a thing of the past. The heartbreak of countless broken relationships that would litter the path of their fumbling gait through the matrimonial mall would vanish. Gone are the days when they stumble through years of uncertainty until it is too late and the ovaries of my daughters are but shriveled prunes and I have been robbed of my genetic destiny.
As I write I am literally shaking with excitement of the moment when I reveal my grand scheme to them. I glow in the anticipation of seeing the strains of life flee from their visages and be replaced with a trusting smile. Yes, your father is looking after you.
Thank goodness that I experienced an epiphany that enabled me to see past the wall that I had built around me.
The concept that was revealed to me was in regards to arranged marriages.
Yes, it was a rite that I ridiculed or even put down in outrage. But I have been overlooking the advantages that it has for all concerned.
Here are the benefits you receive when you get to choose your child’s spouse.
1) I have somewhat procrastinated in accumulating a vast fortune so wouldn’t it be great to choose in-laws that will share all their toys? You can surround yourself with interesting people that have super social functions and great vacation spots.
2) I can avoid drugged out lay abouts, biker types, tattooed freaks and most of all ugly people. If you are going to have to hug them, they may as well be attractive.
3) I can find individuals with the proper political and philosophical bent so that future conflicts are averted. It is always best to avoid blood baths when you can.
4) Perhaps the greatest reward is the comfort I will have in knowing that I can lift the weight of the world from the shoulders of my children. This is a more complicated world. It may not be audible but I can feel my children crying for relief. The awkward dates and insecurities will be a thing of the past. The heartbreak of countless broken relationships that would litter the path of their fumbling gait through the matrimonial mall would vanish. Gone are the days when they stumble through years of uncertainty until it is too late and the ovaries of my daughters are but shriveled prunes and I have been robbed of my genetic destiny.
As I write I am literally shaking with excitement of the moment when I reveal my grand scheme to them. I glow in the anticipation of seeing the strains of life flee from their visages and be replaced with a trusting smile. Yes, your father is looking after you.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Guilt by asocialization
I have a guilt complex. I’m not talking about the “we stole their land” guilt complex, nor the “any meager success I have eked out in this harsh world has been on the back of the downtrodden” guilt complex, that is so popular with liberals these days. No, my guilt complex is a towering edifice erecting by my own insecurities and over self awareness. In fact to be accurate, I should call my affliction, a pseudo-guilt complex.
For example:
I may wile away some time window shopping. As I am preparing to leave the store, the fact that I have not purchased anything, makes it clearly obvious that I am a shoplifter. As I reach the street, I am prepared at any moment to be accosted by store security and whisked away for interrogation. I know that they will not find anything; but I well imagine that I reek of guilt and the frustration of not finding anything during a preliminary frisking will goad them into a full body cavity search. The folding umbrella that they saw me inspecting has to be hidden somewhere!
I can be with friends when someone has detected some valuable either missing or vandalized. My reaction is to flush red. I stutter. My eyes dart around often giving off the tell tale signs of the damned looking for a way out. It doesn’t matter that I have an air tight – no – a helium tight alibi, the certainty that I was involved is advertised across my forehead. I marvel at the continued associations I have with these friends when I exhibit such alarmingly suspicious behaviour.
At work, I had been upgrading several computers in a room that contained five of the beasts. The machines were being used by the public, but serendipity had graced me and I was able to complete my work on four. The fifth had been monopolized by a woman working on some sort of project. From my chair across the room I asked her how much longer she would need the machine. She did not answer. I got up and stood beside her. I bent down and a little more forcefully, asked the same question. She did not answer again. She must be deaf I reasoned. I asked a little louder. Although, she would not answer, each time she would stop typing, and give a big sigh as she dropped her head and shoulders. I fled the room as my guilt lashed mercilessly at my haunches. I’m a perverted freaking creeper. I enlisted the aide of a female co-worker and she was able to determine that the woman “will not talk to that man”. I panicked. Surely my wanton depravity was being openly displayed. I sought council with the college psychologist. Although the story of my innocence elicited a kind and tender smile and soothing words of reassurance, that dark black welling up inside me thought I noticed her etch a small red flag beside my name in her binder. The incidence plagued me for days and was only slightly alleviated when I saw the women pushing a heaping Safeway cart around town.
This involuntary vicarious sin is a burden for me. The prospects of me passing through the pearly gates when my stay on earth is measured seem dim. I can only pray that there is a pseudo-hell that is more accommodating than the real one.
For example:
I may wile away some time window shopping. As I am preparing to leave the store, the fact that I have not purchased anything, makes it clearly obvious that I am a shoplifter. As I reach the street, I am prepared at any moment to be accosted by store security and whisked away for interrogation. I know that they will not find anything; but I well imagine that I reek of guilt and the frustration of not finding anything during a preliminary frisking will goad them into a full body cavity search. The folding umbrella that they saw me inspecting has to be hidden somewhere!
I can be with friends when someone has detected some valuable either missing or vandalized. My reaction is to flush red. I stutter. My eyes dart around often giving off the tell tale signs of the damned looking for a way out. It doesn’t matter that I have an air tight – no – a helium tight alibi, the certainty that I was involved is advertised across my forehead. I marvel at the continued associations I have with these friends when I exhibit such alarmingly suspicious behaviour.
At work, I had been upgrading several computers in a room that contained five of the beasts. The machines were being used by the public, but serendipity had graced me and I was able to complete my work on four. The fifth had been monopolized by a woman working on some sort of project. From my chair across the room I asked her how much longer she would need the machine. She did not answer. I got up and stood beside her. I bent down and a little more forcefully, asked the same question. She did not answer again. She must be deaf I reasoned. I asked a little louder. Although, she would not answer, each time she would stop typing, and give a big sigh as she dropped her head and shoulders. I fled the room as my guilt lashed mercilessly at my haunches. I’m a perverted freaking creeper. I enlisted the aide of a female co-worker and she was able to determine that the woman “will not talk to that man”. I panicked. Surely my wanton depravity was being openly displayed. I sought council with the college psychologist. Although the story of my innocence elicited a kind and tender smile and soothing words of reassurance, that dark black welling up inside me thought I noticed her etch a small red flag beside my name in her binder. The incidence plagued me for days and was only slightly alleviated when I saw the women pushing a heaping Safeway cart around town.
This involuntary vicarious sin is a burden for me. The prospects of me passing through the pearly gates when my stay on earth is measured seem dim. I can only pray that there is a pseudo-hell that is more accommodating than the real one.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
A Digression
Dear cuz,
I want to write about something dear and near to my heart – my lungs. Being able to finally talk about my lungs is like a breath of fresh air. I’m not referring to the air that has never been breathed before because I’m not sure it exists. I am talking about clean, clear mountain-like air. I’m talking about the type of air you get cycling in the Alps. I guess that sounds like Tour-de-France air, doesn’t it. I guess where in the bicycle pack you are determines how fresh the air really is. I think that type of cycle racing would leave me very claustrophobic. To avoid such a calamity I would want to either be way in the lead or far behind. I think being far behind would be easier. I think I have always chosen the easy way because it isn’t as hard. But in my defense, I am a parent and parenting is one of the hardest things in the world. Well, I suppose that diamonds are harder. I bought a ring for my wife with diamonds in it and it was hard to pay for. I don’t mean it was hard when I actually bought it because I just used a plastic card. However, at some time the chickens come home to roost and you have to cough up. Hmmmm. How come you never hear the phrase “roosters come home to roost”? I think chickens should chick if they do anything. Unfortunately, I don’t know what chicking is and neither does my spell checker. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been used somewhere in the world at some time. I don’t mean, like Mountain Standard Time or anything like that. I’m thinking more in the past, way back before I was born but I don’t remember then. I do remember this afternoon. Not that it was special. I just haven’t forgotten it yet. I bet I will in a couple of days. I think back to last July 20th or any other July 20th and I can’t remember what I did on that day. Wait a minute; I think in 1969 I was watching the first lunar landing. Ah hah. I just proved myself wrong. Does that mean I win or lose? I think I will call it a tie. That reminds me, I don’t get ties anymore for birthdays or Christmas. That is good. I never liked them. I get to dress far more informally than I used to. Wouldn’t it be great to have a job you could wear pajamas to, and nobody would think it was odd? I guess that rules out police work. Whoa – and firemen to. I think most pajamas have cotton and could be inflammable. I’ve learned where there is flams there is smok. Anyway, smoke is bad for the lungs but I digress……
luv
Twilager
I want to write about something dear and near to my heart – my lungs. Being able to finally talk about my lungs is like a breath of fresh air. I’m not referring to the air that has never been breathed before because I’m not sure it exists. I am talking about clean, clear mountain-like air. I’m talking about the type of air you get cycling in the Alps. I guess that sounds like Tour-de-France air, doesn’t it. I guess where in the bicycle pack you are determines how fresh the air really is. I think that type of cycle racing would leave me very claustrophobic. To avoid such a calamity I would want to either be way in the lead or far behind. I think being far behind would be easier. I think I have always chosen the easy way because it isn’t as hard. But in my defense, I am a parent and parenting is one of the hardest things in the world. Well, I suppose that diamonds are harder. I bought a ring for my wife with diamonds in it and it was hard to pay for. I don’t mean it was hard when I actually bought it because I just used a plastic card. However, at some time the chickens come home to roost and you have to cough up. Hmmmm. How come you never hear the phrase “roosters come home to roost”? I think chickens should chick if they do anything. Unfortunately, I don’t know what chicking is and neither does my spell checker. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been used somewhere in the world at some time. I don’t mean, like Mountain Standard Time or anything like that. I’m thinking more in the past, way back before I was born but I don’t remember then. I do remember this afternoon. Not that it was special. I just haven’t forgotten it yet. I bet I will in a couple of days. I think back to last July 20th or any other July 20th and I can’t remember what I did on that day. Wait a minute; I think in 1969 I was watching the first lunar landing. Ah hah. I just proved myself wrong. Does that mean I win or lose? I think I will call it a tie. That reminds me, I don’t get ties anymore for birthdays or Christmas. That is good. I never liked them. I get to dress far more informally than I used to. Wouldn’t it be great to have a job you could wear pajamas to, and nobody would think it was odd? I guess that rules out police work. Whoa – and firemen to. I think most pajamas have cotton and could be inflammable. I’ve learned where there is flams there is smok. Anyway, smoke is bad for the lungs but I digress……
luv
Twilager
Thursday, July 14, 2005
A Childhood Tale
I will confess that the following sad episode would not be construed as a childhood tale by many, as at the time, I had already reached the legal age of nineteen. However, in my defense, I was somewhat of a late bloomer and unabashedly naïve. Also, looking back in time from my forty-something countenance – nineteen seems quite childlike….. OK … OK… I’m fifty. Dammit. I’m fifty. Are you happy!!
My first major foray from the safety nest of my family home took me to the big city and the University of British Columbia. I took up living in residence at Place Vanier and soon fell into the routine of an undisciplined mediocre student.
My zoology class was one of my high lights. It wasn’t that I was enthralled with the anatomy of dogfish or the brilliance of the lecturer. What drew my attention in this class of one hundred and fifty students was the most stunning creature that I had ever laid eyes on. I will call her Patty … because ahh … that was her name. Anyway, I was always aware of her presence when ever she was near. However, unlike a stalker, I didn’t go out of my way to increase the frequency of these visual contacts but I did revel in any chance meeting that the fates threw my way. After a couple of months of this admittedly gutless behaviour, providence shone upon me. Zoology class had been cancelled and partaking in a rare breakfast (Far better to get up and go straight to class), I found myself standing beside Patty in the food line. I chose my words well.
“Nice to have breakfast for once” I chimed directly at her.
“What do you mean?” She replied. She looked directly at me. She was bold, intelligent and goddess-like. There seemed to be an aura beginning to encircle us, the magic was there!! Her tone was very pleasant and I knew in an instant that she too has been waiting for this moment.
“It was nice to be able to sleep in a bit since our Zoology class was cancelled” I giddily replied.
“Oh, are you in my class?” She ventured.
I don’t remember too much after that. I managed to get back to my room and lay down for a while. A question followed by a gorgeous smile had unknowing shot me down from the heavens but I knew in time that I would heal and life would go on.
In fact, just a short time later, Sweeney Todd was playing in the basement of the Commons. I put on my best plaid lumberjack shirt that I was accustomed to wearing at the time and went early to watch the band set up. I observed with interest as the band did sound checks and set up their equipment. Also intriguing were the three very cute girls that had accompanied the band and were standing to my side in a little clutch, chatting to themselves. Being a young man teeming with hormones, any member of the fairer sex commands attention. As you may have guessed from previous testimony, this attention consisted of standing afar and throwing the occasional glance in their direction. Alarmingly, one the girls pitched forward as if she was violently ill her friends preventing a fall by grasping her arms and holding her up. To my relief, I soon detected that she was laughing and that she was not ill at all. Her companions held on to her even tighter as the power of her laughter was drawn directly out of her legs rendering them as those of a rag doll. They began to plead with her to let them know what was so funny. She could not speak but only laughed harder, fighting for breath, tears running down her face.
The Zoology class debacle that had taken place just a few days before had left me vulnerable, and soon a wicked thought entered my mind. She was laughing at me. My casual posture stiffened noticeably as an uncomfortable self awareness crept over me. Meantime, the supporting girls began to pull their friend toward a seat that surrounded the pillars that held up the ceiling. They were becoming somewhat annoyed at her lack of generosity in not divulging the source of her tumultuous glee.
I have mentioned that I was somewhat naïve, however, I was not stupid. I was aware that my self confidence had taken a recent blow and that I was capable of conjuring up all sorts of paranoid thoughts. I gently slipped behind the same pillar to collect my thoughts. After a few minutes I was able to reassure myself that I was being foolish and as I began to relax I went back to watching the band perform their pre-performance rituals.
Because of my proximity to the girls however, I was still able to hear their unanswered pleas.
“What’s so funny? Please tell us?” They chorused.
Finally, she was able to choke out a response. “Did you see that guy? His slippers match his shirt!” And she once more fell into state of uncontrollable laughter.
I may have failed to mention, that I was also in possession of a pair of plaid slippers, which I wore frequently, even on excursions outside of my building.
The first reaction I had was some sort of temporary blindness. My breath was sucked out of my body and I am sure that my lungs got jammed in my throat. Somehow I managed to stagger back to Okanagan house, even though it was necessary to grapple on all fours up the remaining three flights of stairs to my room. I laid there for most of the night. I have never really regained my confidence after that and content myself with a simple life trying desperately to stay under the radar.
My first major foray from the safety nest of my family home took me to the big city and the University of British Columbia. I took up living in residence at Place Vanier and soon fell into the routine of an undisciplined mediocre student.
My zoology class was one of my high lights. It wasn’t that I was enthralled with the anatomy of dogfish or the brilliance of the lecturer. What drew my attention in this class of one hundred and fifty students was the most stunning creature that I had ever laid eyes on. I will call her Patty … because ahh … that was her name. Anyway, I was always aware of her presence when ever she was near. However, unlike a stalker, I didn’t go out of my way to increase the frequency of these visual contacts but I did revel in any chance meeting that the fates threw my way. After a couple of months of this admittedly gutless behaviour, providence shone upon me. Zoology class had been cancelled and partaking in a rare breakfast (Far better to get up and go straight to class), I found myself standing beside Patty in the food line. I chose my words well.
“Nice to have breakfast for once” I chimed directly at her.
“What do you mean?” She replied. She looked directly at me. She was bold, intelligent and goddess-like. There seemed to be an aura beginning to encircle us, the magic was there!! Her tone was very pleasant and I knew in an instant that she too has been waiting for this moment.
“It was nice to be able to sleep in a bit since our Zoology class was cancelled” I giddily replied.
“Oh, are you in my class?” She ventured.
I don’t remember too much after that. I managed to get back to my room and lay down for a while. A question followed by a gorgeous smile had unknowing shot me down from the heavens but I knew in time that I would heal and life would go on.
In fact, just a short time later, Sweeney Todd was playing in the basement of the Commons. I put on my best plaid lumberjack shirt that I was accustomed to wearing at the time and went early to watch the band set up. I observed with interest as the band did sound checks and set up their equipment. Also intriguing were the three very cute girls that had accompanied the band and were standing to my side in a little clutch, chatting to themselves. Being a young man teeming with hormones, any member of the fairer sex commands attention. As you may have guessed from previous testimony, this attention consisted of standing afar and throwing the occasional glance in their direction. Alarmingly, one the girls pitched forward as if she was violently ill her friends preventing a fall by grasping her arms and holding her up. To my relief, I soon detected that she was laughing and that she was not ill at all. Her companions held on to her even tighter as the power of her laughter was drawn directly out of her legs rendering them as those of a rag doll. They began to plead with her to let them know what was so funny. She could not speak but only laughed harder, fighting for breath, tears running down her face.
The Zoology class debacle that had taken place just a few days before had left me vulnerable, and soon a wicked thought entered my mind. She was laughing at me. My casual posture stiffened noticeably as an uncomfortable self awareness crept over me. Meantime, the supporting girls began to pull their friend toward a seat that surrounded the pillars that held up the ceiling. They were becoming somewhat annoyed at her lack of generosity in not divulging the source of her tumultuous glee.
I have mentioned that I was somewhat naïve, however, I was not stupid. I was aware that my self confidence had taken a recent blow and that I was capable of conjuring up all sorts of paranoid thoughts. I gently slipped behind the same pillar to collect my thoughts. After a few minutes I was able to reassure myself that I was being foolish and as I began to relax I went back to watching the band perform their pre-performance rituals.
Because of my proximity to the girls however, I was still able to hear their unanswered pleas.
“What’s so funny? Please tell us?” They chorused.
Finally, she was able to choke out a response. “Did you see that guy? His slippers match his shirt!” And she once more fell into state of uncontrollable laughter.
I may have failed to mention, that I was also in possession of a pair of plaid slippers, which I wore frequently, even on excursions outside of my building.
The first reaction I had was some sort of temporary blindness. My breath was sucked out of my body and I am sure that my lungs got jammed in my throat. Somehow I managed to stagger back to Okanagan house, even though it was necessary to grapple on all fours up the remaining three flights of stairs to my room. I laid there for most of the night. I have never really regained my confidence after that and content myself with a simple life trying desperately to stay under the radar.
Monday, July 11, 2005
The precipice
I want to preface my story with the statement that I had not partook in any mind altering libations, pills, nor smoke and that my self administered trepan had long ago healed. In fact, I should have been in the best state of mental acuity having just completed two weeks of vacation. As I lay in bed, the only discomfort I felt was a little dehydration which was quickly washed away with a flagon of sweet water.
During the night, I was awakened by a nagging bladder that no amount of dream sponsered urination could silence. From this deep sleep, I staggered to my bedroom wall. Now I don't know if I felt I was still in the RV of my previously mentioned vacation, or that a dream had created an entirely different scene, but the door to the bathroom was not where it should have been. As the nagging from my bladder grew louder, I could not reasonably hear my own thoughts and only clawed harder at the wall trying to find my way out of the room in search of the facilities. Finally, I came to a sliding patio door. In the fog of my nocturnal stupor my mind could not quite compristand this new information. I should have woken up at this point save for the now screaming insistance of my waterworks.
I desperately flung the vertical blinds out of the way and found the locking lever. I pulled emphatically at the handle but the door did not budge. Something familiar about this door was entering my mind and I remembered the foot lock. I was able to release the lock with a push of my big toe and pulling at the same time the door slid open. I gazed through tiny slits grudgingly afforded by my sleepy eyelids. There were no stairs and what appeared to be about a four foot drop to the ground. Confusion swept over me but in the following instant I realized where I was, and nonchalantly stumbled to the bathroom and relieved myself. I then crawled back to bed and once more fell asleep.
As I awoke a recollection of the early morning excursion began to play back in my mind. As I realized that it was not a dream a pang of panic swept over me as I realized that I had been desperately trying to get out my patio door during the night. The problem presented by this action is that I have long ago removed a rotting deck from outside this door and as many projects around my home, a replacement has not been created. The outcome of my first space walk would have been a ten foot fall on to the rocks below. I shuddered at the fate that thankfully eluded me and in self defense laughed to dispel the dread.
These types of late night episodes have occured before and specifically forbid me from sleeping with a knife under my pillow or a loaded shotgun propped up near me. But these are other stories....
During the night, I was awakened by a nagging bladder that no amount of dream sponsered urination could silence. From this deep sleep, I staggered to my bedroom wall. Now I don't know if I felt I was still in the RV of my previously mentioned vacation, or that a dream had created an entirely different scene, but the door to the bathroom was not where it should have been. As the nagging from my bladder grew louder, I could not reasonably hear my own thoughts and only clawed harder at the wall trying to find my way out of the room in search of the facilities. Finally, I came to a sliding patio door. In the fog of my nocturnal stupor my mind could not quite compristand this new information. I should have woken up at this point save for the now screaming insistance of my waterworks.
I desperately flung the vertical blinds out of the way and found the locking lever. I pulled emphatically at the handle but the door did not budge. Something familiar about this door was entering my mind and I remembered the foot lock. I was able to release the lock with a push of my big toe and pulling at the same time the door slid open. I gazed through tiny slits grudgingly afforded by my sleepy eyelids. There were no stairs and what appeared to be about a four foot drop to the ground. Confusion swept over me but in the following instant I realized where I was, and nonchalantly stumbled to the bathroom and relieved myself. I then crawled back to bed and once more fell asleep.
As I awoke a recollection of the early morning excursion began to play back in my mind. As I realized that it was not a dream a pang of panic swept over me as I realized that I had been desperately trying to get out my patio door during the night. The problem presented by this action is that I have long ago removed a rotting deck from outside this door and as many projects around my home, a replacement has not been created. The outcome of my first space walk would have been a ten foot fall on to the rocks below. I shuddered at the fate that thankfully eluded me and in self defense laughed to dispel the dread.
These types of late night episodes have occured before and specifically forbid me from sleeping with a knife under my pillow or a loaded shotgun propped up near me. But these are other stories....
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