Christmas Checklist

Some people like to do it at night. Others enjoy it in the morning. Yet others do a little the night before and finish off when they wake up the next day. I am talking about the tradition of opening Christmas presents, of course, and the time of day when your family has their gift-opening, is just one tradition in an endless series of traditional choices every family makes to create their version of “the perfect Christmas”. One of the most enjoyable aspects of Christmas is the time-honoured traditions we, as a family have developed over the decades and we, as a culture, developed over centuries. I find it fascinating how that each family forges their own set of traditions which are as unique as the individuals that spawned them, as they create their idea of the Ideal Yule.

Here, then, is a collection of my own Christmas checklist; traditions that must be observed for me to feel I have had the complete Yuletide experience.

Forwarding Christmas jokes via email is a relatively new tradition, given the age of the medium, but one already entrenched in our culture. They start about the same time as the Christmas sales and are almost as plentiful. My favourite so far: Did you hear about the dyslexic devil worshipper? He sold his soul to Santa.

Watching Christmas movies is a centuries old tradition that dates back to times before electricity when they had to watch their portable DVD's by torchlight. However, in my books, you can keep your “Jingle All The Way” and “The Santa Clause”. I'm an old-school kind of guy (What a surprise).”It's A Wonderful Life”, “Miracle on 34 St.”, and of course, the most classic of them all, “Charlie Brown's Christmas” are my style. I even like Rudolph and Frosty although I find “Little Drummer Boy” a bit disturbing. It's not often, after all, you see a cartoon where the protagonist's parents die at the beginning of the show unless the protagonist becomes a super hero.

On Christmas Eve, driving around the town looking at all the gorgeous Christmas lights is one of my favourite customs. Who cares that the carbon footprint of this activity is the size of the tar sands (sorry we call them the “oil sands” now), Cupcake and I have been making the annual pilgrimage around the town since the boys were just wee lads. Luckily, Calmar is so small you can actually drive down every street and still be back home in time for “A Christmas Carol” with Alastair Sim.

Letting the kids open just one gift on Christmas Eve is another of our traditions that began when the kids were still young enough to intimidate. Ah, the good old days. In our household, Cupcake invariably selects the Christmas Eve gift and her annual choice is always, without fail, pyjamas. Kind of takes the fun out of it but, hey, Cupcake needs her little traditions, too.

Opening stockings on our bed is a tradition in our house I've never agreed with. When I was an anklebiter, the whole point of the stocking was to keep us kids busy for an extra half an hour or so for my folks to get a little bit more sleep. Our kids always demanded that we open our stockings together, however, and our big, comfy bed appeared to be the best place. So much for extra sleep.

There's another tradition I've come to expect, happens annually, as sure as Boxing Day sales follow Christmas. That tradition is having Cupcake fret over whether this dish or that didn't turn out the way she'd hoped. It cracks me up. This is a centuries-old phenomenon, considering Dickens took great pains to include the fact that Mrs. Cratchit was concerned about the amount of flour in the pudding. It is amusing to see Cupcake in a flap over over-done glazed carrots or dry stuffing, despite the fact the whole tableful will be attacked with such gusto, afterward, it would appear a plague of locusts had joined in the meal.

Baking Christmas treats is another wonderful Christmas tradition. The goal is to create desserts and snacks with the most amount of calories per square millimetere. Take the traditional Christmas fruit cake. A 1.5 ounce piece, which, given the substantial weight of the cake, is about the size of an Icy Square, contains 139 calories. Given that the portions doled out by elderly female relatives, a major source of the delicacy, are many times the 1.5 ounce serving means every slice is worth about the average person's 2000 calorie/day limit.

Last but certainly not least is our tradition of making home-made Irish cream, with the following recipe:
1 bottle cheap rye whiskey
4 tablespoons of chocolate syrup
4 tsp instant coffee dissolved in
1 cup of water
1 egg well whipped
2 cans Eagle Brand condensed milk
1 500 ml container of whipping cream

Okay, I've got my checklist ready. Bring on the holidays! Merry Christmas Everyone!

Tree for the show

“Honey....” Cupcake's voice dripped more sweetness than a Lindor chocolate dipped in maple syrup. Years of experience has taught me that when she uses that particular voice, the next thing out of her mouth will be as unpleasant as a shot of Buckley's Mixture with a Brussels sprout juice chaser.

“It's time for you know what!” she said with guarded excitement.

“Oh boy!” I enthused, tongue firmly in cheek. “I'll get the scented massage oil!”

“Not for that, you know what, the other one,” her frustration-drenched response prefaced her patented eye-roll. “It's time to bring the Christmas tree down from the attic so we can decorate it! Are you sure you still fit through the trap door? Are you saying I'm bigger around than our tree?” I tried to sound as hurt as possible.

“All I'm saying is that when you press the tree limbs against the trunk, the tree gets smaller. However, when you press YOUR limbs against the trunk of YOUR body.....”

“I get it, already..” I interupted her drivel. “Let me say how much I appreciate you monitoring my girth.”

“It's my job,” she snickered. “And not a pleasant one, either!”

After a quick trip into the attic, quick, that is, apart from the time spent stuck in the entryway into the ceiling (apparently the hole had gotten smaller since the previous year) I retrieved our festive fake foliage.

As I wrestled with the gigantic decoration, I could smell the artificial pine scent on the artificial tree. Cupcake sprays it on to make it smell more natural, oblivious to the irony of it.

“We should have got some eggnog to drink while we decorate,” I said, trying to get into the spirit of it. “I had some at Jeff's that was just awesome!”

“Eggnog? Gross.” her face contorted in remembered digust. “It's like a super-sweet barium smoothie. There's a reason you don't see it all year round. The stuff Jeff served up was probably half rum.”

“It did appear thinner than most eggnog,” I admited. “I just thought it was eggnog lite. Okay, then how about a Christmas movie while we decorate? That sounds great!” she responded joyously. “How about 'Die Hard'? It starts out with a great rendition of “Let It Snow”.

“I was thinking of something along the lines of  'Miracle on 34th Street'. 'Die Hard' as a Christmas movie? You're just hung up on Bruce Willis,” I observed.

“Heh heh... let's just forget the movie,” Cupcake defensively changed the subject. “We'll just put on the Christmas Tree channel. Can we put on the Fireplace Channel instead?” I enquired innocently. “I find it less repetitive than the carols on the tree channel. I'm sure that celebrity Christmas albums outnumber available Christmas songs by at least a thousand to one. In fact, the only Christmas album I can listen to all the way through anymore is Boney M's. Their rendition of 'When a Child is Born' always chokes me up.”

“Honey,” Cupcake snorted in amusement, “Even Lego commercials choke you up. You are such a sap you could be a donor if a tree needed a transfusion.”

As Cupcake opened the box of ornaments our banter trailed off. Looking at the collection of memories in that box was like a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past. I found Junior's special “Baby's First Christmas” hand painted bauble and smiled at the recollection of the first time it had graced our tree.

Out came more decorations. There was the paper angel Matt had made in Kindergarten. Its halo has been taped back into place a mite crookedly and it's once-white dress now looks bedraggled like the angel had rolled a homeless woman to get it. Matt was so proud of it at the time. Now he says it just looks tacky and doesn't understand why we don't just toss it. Yeah. Right. He doesn't understand that each one of those decorations, particularly the ones the boys made as they grew up, are vital to our whole Christmas experience. They are sacred pieces of the elaborate mosaic we call “Christmas Spirit” and evoke as many memories as an old family photo album.

“What about this cheapie reindeer ornament?” I held out the item in question. Thin felt once covered all of the brown plastic. Coverage was now more spotty in some areas and there was evidence of teeth marks, although not sure if it was child or dog . One eye was missing. “Surely this doesn't have sentimental value.”

We looked at it briefly and then said in unison, “We'll put it in the back of the tree.”

As we talked about our favourite holiday moments from yules gone by, I was struck by an odd thought. It occured to me that remembrances of the past seasons is rarely about the gifts we received, yet that is what we spend the most time and effort on. Humans are an odd bunch.

Hotel Hell

Remember last Friday? The snow was flaking unreal! We got so much shovel-ready precipitation, my Nova Scotian neighbour, Cec, was almost impressed. To her, anything under a meter is a mere skiff. Mind you, as I'm typing this, it's her hubby, Cam, I see shovelling their 50 meter driveway. I'd help but I have this column to write, eh.

As it happened, the blizzard struck on the same day the company I'm employed by was taking inventory. Not only were we to work far into the night (at my age, 9:30 is far into the night) but also had to return early the following day for the computing part of the counting festival. No exceptions. The only way to be excused from the process was if you had a note from your mortician.

As I watched out the store window at the wind-blown blast, I debated my options. Cupcake, aware of the scheduled conditions, had insisted I pack some essentials in case I chose to hotel it close to the office. I'd complied grudgingly. I've braved some pretty hairy driving conditions just to sleep in my own bed. I was resolute a little snow would not stop me.

Until I looked outside, that is. It was snowing sideways. I watched as a sanding truck skidded out of control and did a three-sixty. Maybe the hotel idea wasn't so bad after all.

Phoning around for decent, discount accommodation went poorly. The least pricey place I found was $126.00, including tax which, given my late arrival and early departure, worked out to almost $16.00/hour. There are darned few things I would willingly pay that kind of dough for.

However, eyeing the crotch-deep snow (stupid 29 inch inseam) I finally deemed it my most prudent alternative. Picturing the perils of Devon Hill, once tonight and again the following day, chilled my blood colder than the Frosty the Snowman's knickers (Oh wait, he didn't wear clothes... hmmm..)

As soon as the last stock bin  was counted, I fired up my trusty Kia, and followed the ruts down 184 Street to my temporary digs. For legal reasons I can't name the place but it rhymes with Gravelodge; a snot-nosed-kid-friendly hotel chain. It featured an arcade room, waterslide pool and the sound of little feet running up and down the hallways at all hours of the night with parental-sounding voices yelling at them to be quiet.

Inside the room I did the time-honoured routine of all hotel guests and turned on the lights, sampled the softness of the bed and checked the bathroom for thugs, miscreants and terrorists. I assured myself I was the only undesirable in the room and called Cupcake to tell her I was safely sheltered

“I know!” I told her excitedly, “how about you drive into town and join me? Drive slowly, of course. Safety first!”

Amazingly, she declined.

When I hung up from our too-short conversation, the silence in the room was deafening. Other than the thundering little footfalls outside my room from over-sugared yard-apes.

I switched on the TV.

Not being a TV person, none of the scrolling choices appealed to me and I switched it off in disgust. It didn't even have the Christmas Tree Channel.

I noticed a video game controller on the TV stand and fumbled with the remote to fire it up. Finally  decent entertainment! I gulped in shock and disappointmnt that the selection of games available dated back to the months of Kim Campbell's short-lived government and the start of another disaster; the first Iraq War. Worse yet, the vultures at the hotel's pricing department wanted $6.95 plus tax per hour to play the creaky games. $6.95 an hour! Factoring in my previous computations, that would make an hour of Super Mario 3 cost over $23.00!  I went back to my $16.00/hour TV hoping desperately the shows had gotten better since the last time I checked. I surfed briefly, ultimately settling on Howie Mandel's “Howie Do It”. Five minutes of that was all I could take before I turned it off again. Watching the blizzard was better than that.

I rummaged though my hastily thrown together overnight bag. I recalled packing a book and my hand-held Sudoku. I grabbed the book and headed for the bath. Nothing beats reading in the tub. I wondered on the way, however, how many other people had been in that tub and just how diligent the cleaning staff may of may not be.

I decided to skip the bath.

The bed, too presented some concern about it's previous occupants. I'd been reading articles about how bed bugs have become a problem. I decided to sit in the faux-leather chair by the desk to read. I hoped nothing icky could live in Naugahyde. I looked at the title of my fiction selection and sighed mightily. I'd began reading a three book sci-fi potboiler and noticed I'd inadvertently grabbed Book Two by mistake. I tossed it aside in frustration and played Sudoku til the battery died. I went to bed to escape the oppressive boredom.

Sleep eluded me amid the strange sounds in my lonely environment. I mulled over my new knowledge. Hotel rooms are way less fun without Cupcake.

Wish List

Last week I went through an annual experience that is as unpleasant as it is inevitable. No, it wasn't my yearly prostate exam, but something almost as much a pain in the butt. What transpired was Cupcake bearing down on me with intent in her eyes and The Dreaded Question on her lips.

“What do you want for Christmas?” she asked, her tone more pointed than a poppy pin. She offered a blank piece of paper and a pen for my list of “wondrous Christmas wishes” or some similar Christmas ad-inspired festive claptrap.

I sighed mightily before responding. As I have explained to my dear, sweet bride, for eons, I neither need nor want a bunch of store-bought stuff. It isn't trying to be noble or anything. I am not greed-free. No one is. However, if I want something through the year, I go get it. I'm worth it, I say, and even Cupcake may one day be convinced.

Admittedly, it's rare for me to actually buy something for myself anyway. The things I enjoy doing don't lend themselves to accessorizing. Whether it is acting, writing, surfing the net, or even playing darts, I am involved in activities that don't require anything in the way of Christmas gifts to make them better. I don't for example, need special “typing gloves” or a “keyboarding helmet” for when I'm  computing. Nothing I can think of would enhance the experience, other than maybe Cupcake waving palm fronds over me as I surfed; something she has indicated she would rather not do. Actually “violently opposed to the idea” was how she worded it.

You see, when I enjoy computer time, I mostly check out news sites and read the moronic comments of the armchair analysts that often follow the news and opinion pieces. When I am fed up with all the doom, gloom and negativity (and that's just from the Oilers reports) I need a guffaw break and check out www.failblog.org and feel superior for a while. I don't do a lot of “gaming” unless you count the countless hours I've spent playing solitaire or FreeCell while talking on the phone or while waiting for a page to load. (I can't remember the last time I've played solitaire with a real deck. Dealing all those cards would take forever now. We just can't spare that kind of time while we're relaxing. Computers for all their speed have not made us more patient people.)
(But I digress.)

As I was saying, darts, too, don't require a great deal of accessories. There's the occasional need for shafts and flights but they are cheap like borsht and last a fair amount of time. Mine, in particular, last for months since my darts rarely go near one another in the board. The only dart accessory needing replacing on a steady basis is dart lubricant, which comes in brown bottles and goes great with clamato.  There's also a high-end extra-strength lubricant formula which comes with a worm at the bottom of the clear glass container. Cupcake sneers at these sports aids claiming they're inappropriate Christmas gifts, however, she thinks they aren't in keeping with the spirit of the season. I pointed out the first thing monks did when setting up monasteries throughout history was to grow grapes and make wine. Unfortunately, Cupcake always fails to grasp the significance of my historical examples to legitimize my behaviour. “Does it have to be booze?” Cupcake snapped, a bit sharply, I thought, given the subject matter being discussed was my personal happiness. “You like food too.”She pointedly eyed my midriff area. Well, not all at once, obviously.“Exactly!” I tried to keep the 'I got you now' sound from my voice and failed. “I get a bunch of yummy, rare treats at Christmas and then you make me go on a diet at New Years! How cruel is that?”

I explained to her another issue I have with producing a list of things I covet is that writing it out makes me feel crass and greedy. To quote Cupcake on a different topic, “It doesn't mean as much if I have to ask for it.”  I would much prefer one single gift with a lot of thought behind it as opposed to a plethora of presents available at your average mega-mart. Choosing a gift because you really know and understand that person is so much more valuable than simply more stuff.

I then pointed out to my Extremely Significant Other that whatever stuff she buys, she also has to come up with a place to store it. Our tiny abode is already jam-packed with years of accumulated other stuff and finding places for new stuff is nearly impossible. The stuff of dreams becomes a nightmare.

When I tried to explain my position, however, Cupcake withdrew the pen and paper in full huff with a snit chaser.

“Fine! You... you... Scrooge you!” she raged.

“Thanks, honey!” I beamed in glee.“What do you mean?” she squinted in suspicion.

“Well, the whole point of the book, “A Christmas Carol” was that Scrooge became as, as Old Chuck Dickins put it, 'and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge'. What a wonderful compliment!”

Stay tuned, Opraholics

Last week I was surfing online news sites, keeping on top of critical current events, (“Two Women Injured As Bulls Flee Tom Cruise Set”) when I came upon a Reuters release with implications that could shake the very foundations of the planet. After reading the terse article, I realized life may never be the same again. No, I'm not discussing the Large Hadron Collider again. This is much bigger. The bombshell I am talking about is that they announced the date of the final episode of the Oprah Winfrey Show. Wow. I thought they would have to drag her kicking and screaming off the set. I could picture her arms wrapped around the leg of a studio camera, shrieking like a harpy, as people in medical garb pull on her legs to break her grasp. I must admit, if I had her job, that's what they'd have to do to me, too.

My sad delusions of grandeur aside, in the Harpo Productions announcement, company president, Tim Bennet said they are planning on an end date of September 2011. He didn't specify why they were announcing it almost two years down the road. I'm sure they want to allow people time to get mentally prepared for the enormous crater left in their lives at her departure. Bennet didn't mention if they were looking for a younger, shapelier Oprah to fill those giant shoes (Size 14, at least) or if Oprah's clone was finally old enough to take over the show. He did, however, hint that further details will be available in the official press release, Friday and on “ET Tonight” for the forseeable future. Why the program was being wound down (wound up?) wasn't mentioned as the short article was even shorter on details and didn't even address if she jumped or was pushed. My money's on jumping.

Of course, money's no object for Ms. Winfrey. According to sources (I think I read somewhere) the daytime TV maven is, not only the richest self-made woman in America, she is the wealthiest black person ever. EVER! She has a bigger annual income than half the countries in the United Nations. She could buy anything she could ever want, other than being effortlessly thin.

But she's EVERYWHERE! I groaned audibly in the lineup at Sobey's the first time I saw Oprah's “O” magazine. I figured she either had an ego the size of Mount Trudeau or her accountants had decided she hadn't quite saturated the market. They should know, too, since they prepare and package Ms. Winfrey in every concievable way.  I mean, you can buy Oprah jewellrey and Oprah fragrances (Eau De Talk Show Host) and other Oprah this and that. I'm surprised there isn't a line of Oprah power tools. In pink.

I did a little investigative-type journalism and “googled” Oprah Winfrey. The miraculous instant-info machine coughed up 9,330,000 “hits”. By contrast, I got four. They were about my son, Chris Jr.

Nonetheless, besides being a TV show, two magazines, five books, a multi-billion dollar business and a myriad of other things, Oprah is also a website; www.Oprah.com. (Of course.) This is only because it didn't occur to her IT people to create their own domain. This way, they could have called it Oprah.oprah. The website is full of, guess what? Oprah.

I find it interesting that I have come to know about Oprah without ever once having watched an episode of her show. I've seen bits here and there... mostly Tom Cruise jumping on her couch and teeheeing like he'd taken a trip through the giggly-weeds. But she's on during the day when I'm at work and our paths never cross. Not that I watch her when I'm home on a weekday, obviously. Daytime TV? Are you kidding? I couldn't take it even when I was hopped up on morphine following my hip op.

Still, without being exposed to the creepily powerful TV show, I still manage to see her everywhere else, getting interviewed, making speeches and being filmed, photographed and followed like some ill-fated English princess. Despite the throngs of paparazzi hacks she must wade through just to... I don't know... go uptown for bread and milk or whatever celebrities go uptown for, it isn't nearly adequate. I am almost convinced “O” and “O at Home” magazines were created because they couldn't guarantee her smiling face on the covers of the National Enquirer and other magazines of that stature often enough to sate the Harpo machine's lust for media exposure. Apparently they won't be satisfied until she's on the cover of every single magazine sold around the world from Psychology Today to Canadian Bow Hunter.

This just in... (writing a column a week in advance sucks in the immediacy department) according to her website, Ms. Winfrey claimed the reason behind her earth shaking announcement is because it “feels right in my bones”. Well, I'm not one to argue with her bones, either. I'm just not into arguing with anything bigger than me. This whole bone thing does seem rather vague, however. When politicians quit, they always say they “want to spend more time with their families”. When actors end their long-term shows it's always to “go out on top” or to “quit before it gets repetitive” or  “nobody watches it anymore”.

Not Oprah. She consults calcium. Her femur told her it was time to hang them up, although rumour has it, her tibia thought she should wait a few more years.

Stay tuned, Opraholics. I suspect this story won't be going away any time soon. Nor will Oprah.

You Couldn’t Pay Me Enough!

I think having a job is a lot like aging. As big a drag as both of them are, they sure beat the alternative. As Drew Carey said, “Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY. They meet at the bar. “In all actuality, however, I like working. Lazing around the house in my jammies till noon and then wasting the rest of the day would get real old, real fast. A person needs purpose, A person needs direction. A person needs beer money. A person needs to not only put food on the table but also house that table. A few utilities are nice, too. And a satellite dish.

Mind you, it is insane to work at a job you hate, given what a huge chunk of your waking hours are spent at it. Sure, I have to deal with the public (Ewww!) but I see that as a plus. One of the worst things a job can be (along with “dangerous”, “illegal”, or includes the phrase “do you want fries with that?”) is for it to be boring. With customer service, however, every conversation with a client is as unique as the clients themselves. Each interaction keeps the job fresher than a TimBit during the breakfast rush.

Of course, there are jobs no one actually likes; serving TimBits during the breakfast rush, for example, but there are far worse. There are people that make their living smelling underarms for deodorant manufacturers. There are people who provide for their families by handling loads of excrement; sucking out septic systems,video-taping sewers or writing political speeches.

Speaking of which, I think the worst job of all would be President of the United States. Can you imagine having 300 million bosses, each with a different viewpoint on how the job should be done? Having a herd of reporters (A flock? A murder? A pride?) reporting on your mistakes as you try and do your job would be a pain in the posterior, to say the least. Can you imagine all those scrum-suckers looking over your shoulder while you're just trying to do your job? How embarrassing the headlines would be! “President McKerracher Screws Up Visa Charge For Customer.”

“President McKerracher Attacks Office Photocopier In Frustration.”
“President McKerracher Quits; Tells Press Corps to Go Scribe Themselves.”

Of course there would be plusses to the job of President. You wouldn't need to carry cash on you,. The chance of the motorcade stopping at a 7-11 for Slurpees is infinitesimal. You also would get the best hiding place for when 2012 hits and it's the end of the world as we know it. (“And I feel fine.”) Still, weathering a nuclear winter, environmental destruction, a plague of zombies  or whatever may befall us with a bunch of generals, senior bureaucrats and politicians doesn't sound like much fun. Maybe with the Pussycat Dolls, it might be okay. And a dart league with free beer.

I am frankly amazed, however, that every job gets filled. What would make a person who has just gone to school for many years to become a doctor and then remain in school for another four years to specialize in proctology? Don't get me wrong. I have a fundamental respect for these brave folk... the rear guard of the nation. But man! You couldn't pay me enough to be one.

Same goes for other medical practiconers. People who give barium enemas cheerfully, professionally and as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances, (a staggering feat indeed), I think they deserve a medal.  I can only imagine how poorly I would do at it.

Me, “Here, let me just grab this hose Mr. Shmidlap and... oh my.... I don't feel SO good...  OH NO! HAND ME THAT BEDPAN! STAT!”

No amount of monetary reward could not induce me to get into such a field. It even grosses me out to consider hairdressers have to touch other people's heads all day.

I also wouldn't be a farmer for anything, either. They must be absolutely nuts. I mean; these guys even take on full time jobs to subsidize their farming habit if need be. It isn't a job, it's a lifestyle choice. They get up at the crack of dawn to get on horseback to round up the chickens or whatever the heck farmers do, even as the rest of the world lies in bed til their snooze alarms have gone off ten or twelve times. Who else would keep us in meat? Who else would gamble their entire annual income on the vagaries of Canadian weather? Who else would keep the coffee shops in business?

There are many other unpleasant vocations. There's the photo-radar tech on Highway 60, as you're  driving by Devon, who spends his working life in a truck in the ditch, helping people have a crappy day. Then there's the job that bringer of happiness and joy to all, the telephone solicitors who, in the course of their daily work, are yelled at, sworn at and hung up on. And that's just from Cupcake. I'd put her on that “no call” list but I'd much rather she let off steam on them than me.

I will leave the last word to Oscar Wilde, “The best way to appreciate your job is to imagine life without one.”

TV Schmeevee

I am not one who watches a lot of TV. For one thing, the chance of me wrestling the remote from Cupcake is... well, remote. Control of the remote control just means so much to her, it would be no contest. She would win every match, especially since she wouldn't be shy about using a chokeslam or a diving elbow drop to back up her claim to the device.  (I would use the term “controller freak”, but I have to sleep sometime.)

Worse yet, besides, apparently, watching WWE, she favours cop shows including about 12 different versions of Law and Order and CSI. As well, she watches... I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but she watches reality shows. In fact, her dream show would be to have David Caruso win all the marbles in “Dancing With the Stars”. (He could use the marbles, too, considering all the ones he's lost playing intense detective types.)

“Wouldn't you call your stupid  'Myth Busters' a reality show?” Cupcake says in defense. “You claim it is educational but all they do is blow stuff up. You call that entertainment?” “Well, yes, actually, I do,” I had to admit. “Did you see the one with the hot water tank blowing through the roof of that house? It was AWESOME!”

Cupcake ignored my outburst. Not like her at all. “You look down your nose at my shows but a lot more people like my choices than yours,”  she pointed out primly. “Apparently, you are the aberration, not me. Again. You say I have all the taste of tofu-flavoured jello but this is coming from a guy that listens to CBC radio, for crying out loud.”

Despite our differences however, to humour her and perhaps soften her up for connubial goings-on later, I will occasionally watch a show with her on our loveseat, (A misnomer if ever I heard one. It should be known as a “keep your hands to yourself” seat). I even let her pick the show although I always am careful to shut my eyes to the gorier bits on CSI. I am not as desensitized to bloody carnage as hardcore CSIers are. Watching slow motion bullet penetration of spleens and whatnot makes my stomah feel like I've eaten too much Halloween candy.

Granted, unreality shows are even worse. Programs like “Big Brother” and “Survivor” seem to me to be designed solely for the purpose of satisfying a certain segment of the population that are into voyeurism and gossip. They scratch the itch of our collective inner Gladys Kravitz (Hey, Abnah, there's weird things going on at the Stevens house again! Abnah! Wake up!) in all of us. You can almost imagine viewers of this sort of show watching the episodes through horizontal blinds just to get that “nosey neighbour” thrill.

On the plus side, I guess, it's better for the inquisitive minded to dissect and study the entrails of fake relationships, “faux-mances” and artificial environments, as in “Big Brother” rather than the relationships of their own neighbours, friends and relatives. Mind you, hoping that gossiping about TV characters satisfies the gossip craving is like hoping indulging in pornography will satisfy carnal cravings. The prospects of either one working are about as good as the chances of me figuring out “The String Theory” in quantum physics, or even more unlikely, successfully dieting.

I must say there are two sides to watching shows like “Dancing With the Stars” or “Battle of the Blades” (okay, I will admit I found the thought of Ti Domi figure skating to be more than just slightly intriguing). On the one hand, the outfits worn by the shapely, attractive, barely clad female skaters and dancers almost makes it worth the inane judging and commentary portions of the shows. The biggest downside, however, is when I am tolerating the show as best I can and my son comes in the livingroom to question my masculinity. “Jeez, Dad, you're watching this? Voluntarily? Did you forget your kahunas in your other pants?” he'd say, guffawing in cruel mirth. It forces me to consider the moral ramifications of post-natal abortion. Like when they're 24 years old.

Nonetheless, despite the fact that I find most shows she likes either disturbing, disgusting or simply disinteresting, I watch a bit of TV with her as often as I can tolerate. She does things for me which she has litte interest in, other than pleasing me. Ironing my work wear, for example. Catching an hour of inanity, occasionally, is the least I can do, and never let it be said I didn't do the least I could do.

And there are some positives to watching the old “boob tube” besides getting to say the word “boob”. I get to keep current on all the best commercials which are my favourite part of any show. Plus, I get to pig out on munchies as “Family TV Night” has always been an orgy of lax dietary responsibility, to put it charitably.

Besides, everybody knows you can get a man to do absolutely anything if he thinks it's foreplay. Even watch TV!

The Juxtaposition Syndrome

There are two hypothesis floating around which are equally frightening. The first is that governments are universally incompetant; like King Midas on “opposite day”. Everything they touch turns to poop. The other is that governments know EXACTLY what's going on but the information is so monumentally cataclysmic (not to mention bad), they don't dare tell us what it is, but feel a need to control our behaviour in some way.

There are numerous examples of this phenomenon where, whatever the issue, people gravitate to either “The government is useless.” or “The government is controlling us” camps. For example, I've actually heard people claim the H1N1 vaccine is a scam to inject microchips into our bodies so the government can keep tabs on you. I'm leery of this theory. They don't NEED to inject us with Global Positioning nanoprobes. We all have GPS-equipped cell phones already, which we willingly pay for ourselves, to the delight of Big Brother (no, not the stupid reality TV show). And if FaceBook isn't voluntary Big Brotherism, I don't know what is!There's loads of other similarily polarizing issues from the economy to the environment, but there's one issue that makes those two issues look as serious as “America's Funniest Home Videos.” I am talking about the Large Hadron Collider.

The LHC as it's known, (obviously named by scientists, not marketing people or it would have a cooler acronym) lies deep underground near Geneva, Switzerland. Being the mother of all science projects, the collider is old news to technogeeks. For those of us with lives, however, it's stayed below our radar. Here's what I discovered in my research.

The collider is a gigantic gizmo, looking suspiciously like an enormous roulette wheel, 30 kilometers in circumference or, for metrically challenged readers, 18 miles around. The nine billion dollar doohickey is the shiniest toy the scientific community has ever seen. It is designed to smash sub-atomic particles (itty-bitty bits of .... er... stuff) together in such a way, it will tell the egghead brigade gobs of information about the “Big Bang” which started that whole “universe” fad. Religious types refer to this point as “Creation”.

Opponents of the monstrosity claim the machine may potentially wipe out Switzerland, the planet, the solar system or the entire universe, depending on which pessimistic professor you prefer.

My career in the field consists of three weeks of Physics 10 before accepting it was entirely over my head, so I realize I'm no expert, but I do understand some things. I understand nine billion dollars, for example.
Nine billion dollars is one of those Real Big Numbers that roll rather trippingly off the tongue when discussing governmental expenditures. However, like the other Real Big Numbers that get tossed around, it is hard to grasp. To put it in perspective, to make that much money at my current rate of pay, (with no beer allowance) I'd have to work over 200,000 years. This is, coincidentally, the same amount of time it will take before the pension I am paying into, may actually be worth enough to live on.

Notwithstanding, over 100 governments worldwide, including Canada, has kicked in on on this fantastic device whose sole purpose is apparently to learn whether it will kill us or not.

The professed use of it is to find out what atoms were hanging around at the beginning of time. It won't help feed the poor or fix the economy or get the Edmonton Eskimos into the playoffs (apparently, the collider can't protect against a half-decent pass rush, either) or any other worthy goal. In fact, the only value it has, seemingly, is to satisfy some theoretical phsysicist’s curiosity.

Since governments generally are loathe to invest in private ventures with no hope of profit, (unless you're an automobile manufacturer) the whole “official line” on the “why” of this project seems so implausible. Governments must be insane to contribute to this wonderfully elaborate white elephant.

Or are they? Maybe they're only feeding us this Big Bang BS to polarize the population into Bangers versus Creation-philes to keep us from finding out what they are REALLY  up to.

And what might that be? What could possibly be worth $9 billion to a collection of governments that  is more important than doing things that will get them re-elected? What is so important that America tried to build one ahead of the Swiss consortium's version only to abandon it after sinking billions into it? Americans are many things but they are not quitters. What made them start the project? What made them stop? Of course the American model was known as a SUPER particle collider. Much better than an ordinary, consumer-grade particle collider, although the Swiss model also had a corkscrew, spoon and little pair of scissors.

For myself, I am undecided. It is easy to believe governments are full of dumb ideas and flawed plans. Having them as evil, shadowy know-it-alls is a bit of a stretch. Either way though, as far as the LHC goes, I'm sure it has something to do with the end of the Mayan calendar in 2012. As sure as I am  about the government's motives.

Key to the Wallet

Confucious say: Man who loses key to girlfriend's apartment get no new key.

 

Rodney Dangerfield say: I was so ugly my father carried around a picture of the kid that came with the wallet.
 

According to Wikipedia, which is almost as accurate as a dollar store dart gun, wooden keys were in use in Egypt some 4000 years ago. The article didn't fully explan how earlier Egyptians got into their cars, although I suspect they gained entry through the use of an early form of the Egyptian Automobile Association.
 

The word “key” comes from Old English (AD 450 to 1150, although I do know some old Englishmen who were born somewhat later.) It was spelled “caeg” and was impossible to pronounce without coughing up a furball.
 

Wallets, on the other hand, are much, much older. Using a form of research popularized by the tobacco industry, known as “imaginative fictionalization”, it has been postulated that wallets were originally invented by noted Neanderthal scientist and philosopher, Oot Groont, in the year, 500,000 BC (Before Cupcake). The brilliant cave enthusiast had devised a sack out of a piece of mastadon skin to carry the fire making tools and arrowheads he had just manufactured in his new quarry. It also carried change for the parking meter.
 

The word, “wallet”, is also much older than the “key” word. According to sources (that rhyme with “icky-pedia”) the word was coined in the first century, AD. They know this because they asked my brother Bob who was there at the time.
 

Like the fine folks back then, modern man (and ladies) love our keys and wallets. They come with us everywhere. They are like expensive jewellrey we refuse to leave at home because we can't. We NEED our keys and wallets with us at every moment. They are more precious than our children... almost.... although WAY less fun to replace. And expensive, too!
 

Consider, if you will, the loss of a wallet. I misplaced mine recently and immediately began to mentally enumerate all the pieces of paper and plastic I hold so near and dear. It wasn't just the credit cards and debit cards and health cards and auto cards and grocery store member cards and government cards and “air mile” cards, and a submarine shop card that only needed three more visits to get a free sandwich but a myriad collection of little bits of life. They sit largely unused, unnoticed but still treasured. It is the scrap of paper with the phone number of that old buddy I ran into at the mall a few months ago. It is a business card from a dart shop where the scrawled name upon it had promised to give me a great deal on a set of tungsten hammerheads. It is all those flakes of day to day that accumulate and we are so loathe to throw them out, let alone lose them.
 

And yes, I was choked about the cash inside the wallet, too. I had a lot of money on me. I feared that it was twenty bucks I'll never see again, although I rationalized it would have been well worth it to get the rest of the wallet back intact. To replace all those little bits of plastic and paper would have been a pain since you need ID to get ID. Where does one start nowadays? Before, you just went to a registation office and told them how you'd lost your drivers license and they'd just give you a new one. Not so now. They are so afraid of identity theft, you have to prove upside and sideways who you are and need a notarized affadavit from Ed Stelmach himself just to get a replacement.
 

Losing a set of keys wasn't so bad at one time, either. You simply swiped your wife's spare set and went to the local hardware store to get a replacement. If it cost more than a buck and a half, you felt ripped off. Nowadays, however, with computer chips imbedded in the plastic grip of the key to our precious vehicles, to replace a lost key is more than the price of a muffler. You can get a brand new windshield cheaper than an ignition key. In fact, it is worth more than my bi-weekly car payment!
 

Of course not all keys are as important to us as our car keys. There is the collection of keys we have that hang on the key ring holder in the porch. It holds about three dozen keys of various descriptions that we have managed to accumulate over the years and have no idea what they open. We are afraid to throw them out, however, because sure as Christmas ads follow Halloween, we would need one of those keys the day after we tossed them.
 

As far as my errant wallet goes, I was lucky.  This time.
 

I had inadvertantly put the wallet on my son's headboard when I was hanging up my pants after work. Since he's gone to live in the dorm, Cupcake has been slowly moving all my clothes into his closet. All the while it was misplaced, however, I developed a new admiration for my old wallet.
 

 could say although I'd lost my wallet, I'd gained a new perspective. Frankly, I'd rather just have the wallet, thanks!

OH NO H1N1!

There is much concern recently regarding the  “swine flu” or “H1N1” virus and in the public debate, there are more discordant voices than a junior high chorus in the throes of puberty. The many questions I have about the ailment are echoed by the vast majority of people I have discussed this with. Okay, so I only discussed it with Cupcake, but the vast majority of her agreed and I've found if we both actually agree on something, it's got to be true.

The questions we have are basic. How great is my own, personal risk? How can I tell if it's swine flu or regular flu? Do I need  a doctor's appointment, every time I get the flu just to find out what brand it is? And most importantly, is it still okay to eat Bac'n Puffs?

So called “expert opinion”  regarding the relative danger of H1N1 over competing flu flavours is as polarized as an arctic bear. Some say that,  although some people do die of swine flue far more people die of “regular” flu. Now that's a comfort! Others claim it's the second coming of everything from Spanish Flu to the Messiah Himself and that we're all doomed if we don't wash our hands every two minutes and cough and sneeze and otherwise issue phlegm into our armpits.

I must interject here that I am not an early adopter of the whole coughing/sneezing into your upper body thing. The reason we cough into our hands is in case SOMETHING IS THERE!  Coughs can harbor anything, from a glazed coating to a deep lunger, waiting to leap out and decorate the bicep area of your best wool sweater. Let me tell you, fellow traveller, I would much rather have mystery moisture in my palm than on my shoulder. This way, you can continue your conversation while discretely sliding your hand in your pocket since the disgusting dampness looks better there than on the outside of your pants. Do  not, under any circumstances, look at the contents of your hand at any time while it is occupied with the aforementioned bodily semi-fluid. We want discretion with our secretions. I am glad I got that off my chest.

You see, they're taking this prevention thing far too far, They don't allow hand shakes after soccer but kids touch every straw in the carton when getting a fountain drink at the store. They don't take socks back at clothing stores if worn but if you go bowling, they make you wear shoes previously sweated in by dozens, if not hundreds, maybe thousands of feet with nothing but an anti-bacterial spritz in between. Ewwww!

Reality is, germs are everywhere you want to be. Sure, you can disinfect your hands with one of those sanitizer wipes at the grocery store but once discarded, you're touching products, money, keypads conveyor belt, grocery separators, etc,  and eventually, touching your eyes, or mouth or nose. Next thing you know, there's a single microbe in your system that duplicates and copies itself almost as much as Hollywood's “creative” machinery. The little virus and/or bacteria dudes  grow in size, strength and numbers until your immunity system recognizes the threat and starts to wage war on the interlopers. There is no effort at diplomacy. There is no political squabbling over the necessity for the conflict. The white blood cells (so named for the colour of their cowboy hats) simply drop the gloves and go toe-to-toe in hand-to-hand combat with their microscopic adversaries. Make that flagella-to-flagella combat.

The bottom line is you can be a germ Nazi like Michael Jackson or those two creepers from the Listerine commercials but there are no guarantees. Poor Michael is now as dead as the careers of the Listerine schmucks.
So what can we do to keep ourselves safe?
Here are some tips. Follow them at your own peril.
DO stay home from work if you're sick. Sure, you'll get fired since the boss drags his sorry butt in no matter how awful he feels but at least you can feel superior as you stand in the lineup at EI.
DO line your pockets with plastic bags filled with hand sanitizer. Keep your hands in your pockets at all times and get others to open doors for you, etc. If you have other pockets, keep them full of tissues for wiping off your shoulder.
DO avoid all other people and anything others may have touched. For best results stay hidden under your bed as much as possible.
DO NOT listen to the public health messages relating to H1N1 and other wellness matters as they just stress you out and stressed bodies are an easier target for disease to invade.
DO NOT follow the “five second rule” for food that has hit the ground. This is especially true for food that has any moisture to it at all. The only foods that are truly safe to eat after dropping are nuts in the shell and bourbon balls which have a higher alcohol content than Roughneck beer and can kill H1N1 at ten paces.
DO NOT assume your husband has the swine flu just because he's a male chauvinist pig. MCP is far more prevalent than H1N1, Just ask Cupcake.  Just don't start with “Hey, Wench!” or swine flu will be the least of your healthcare worries.

Bonjour la Bonjour

I love live theatre. There's an edge to it you just don't get with TV. I've been onstage when the wheels came off a production; the cast all wearing their best “deer in the headlights” look, desperately hoping a castmate will save the day. It gets the ticker beating faster than cops in the rearviews. When it's live, anything can happen.

However, when my son invited me to a Red Deer College production, I was hesitant. Red Deer is a ways away and it was snowing intermittently. Plus, Matt was rather evasive about the play. “It's by a Canadian playwright, Dad,” he reassured me. “Mike Something or Other. You like Canada, don't you? Patriotism etcetra.” Matt was motivated to include me because his buddy, Dan was in the play. Matt knew if I went, we'd take my car, use my gas and eat on my debit card. Being a student he's so broke, he's been hitting up  homeless guys for spare change. He finds it much easier being an arts supporter if I supply the bridge financing.

“Maybe Mom will do my laundry while we're gone,” Matt remarked as we discussed the play.

“Don't be ridiculous!” I chastised him. “Mom has better things to do than your laundry. I've been needing some mending for weeks but she's too busy. What nerve!”“That's okay,” chimed in Cupcake sweetly. “I will do his washing. I don't mind!”

I looked at her like she'd grown another head.
“But I thought you said...” I began.
“No no! It's okay! Really!!” Cupcake hastily interjected.

Her voice then fell to a coarse whisper, “If doing laundry encourages him to come home....” I sighed inwardly. I'd forgotten the goal was to get him to visit. I'd thought we were helping him become more independant. Apparently I was wrong. Again.

“Whatever,” I shook my head in resignation, “Is this play a comedy? I love comedies! Nothing like a silly farce to hit the old funny bone, eh? Beats that 'artsy fartsy' stuff all to pieces.” “Actually, Dad, I'm really not sure,” he gulped. “It's probably hysterically funny! You know us college types... always drunk... never serious.  Ha ha! See? Come on, it will be fun.” “Okay, fine,” I caved. I knew no matter what, he would go anyway and couldn't really afford it. At least I could ensure he got a decent meal in him. His cheeks had started looking a bit sunken. After he hoovered up an appetizer platter for two and Cesear salad like it was an vacuum cleaner demonstration, we were off.

When we arrived just minutes before showtime and still managed to get front row seats to the “theatre in the round”, mental alarms began clanging loudly. Also, the set didn't look at all like a living room or anything normal. It was a series of wooden platforms piled up to look haphazard with just a single, ancient recliner in the middle. Under and around the piles of wood were shards of glass symbolizing something terribly important but I had no idea what.

“Bonjour, La, Bonjour” was the name of the play, I noticed, as I peeked at the program. The playwright was a Quebec Nationalist named Micheal Trembley, a man who, according to the bio, declined an Order of Canada.

“Oh no. It's going to be artsy fartsy!” I cringed. “So much for patriotism!”

“Shush, Dad,” my precocious offspring snapped. “It's starting.”

The actors filed down to the piled up lumber and stood on the flat portions of the platforms. Dan, playing the lead character, “Serge”, stood beside Matt to start the show. The other characters; four sisters, two aunts and a deaf father who reigned over the piled platforms from his recliner, would speak to him as the lights would engulf them.

In varying degrees of French-tinged English, the characters addressed only Serge. Each dialogue with him was charged with more raw feelings than a catfight on “The View”. Each character was like an   emotional sponge drawing their lifeblood from him. Eventually,  it became apparent he'd had an incestuous relationship with each of his older sisters (!) and they were all screwed up as a result. Or they were already screwed up and thus had the incestuous affairs. Beats me.

One sister craved food and was fixated on how fat she was getting, one was addicted to some kind of pills, while the eldest by quite a few years, was having a fling with one of Serge's buddies. Nicole, another sister, seemed the most normal, although in that family, it'd take little to win that title.

Afterward, in the hallway with Dan's parents, I had to laugh. Dan's younger sister ran over to give her brother a hug for his stellar performance. Her mother grabbed her.

“There will be none of that in THIS household!” she joked. Everyone in earshot busted out laughing.

I will say that despite the weird plot, the acting was wonderful. I actually enjoyed myself. Now if I could just figure out what it all was supposed to mean...

Radical Femininity

What is the difference between a  sumo wrestler and a radical feminist.? Sumo wrestlers shave their legs.

I got in trouble for my last column. The editor told me to expect some negative mail regarding a thoughtless and insensitive comment I`d put in the piece. I struggled to remember what the article had even been about. I hadn`t read it in a week and in my mushy memory, last week`s effort usually slips away faster than dreams of Catherine Zeta-Jones upon waking. I certainly didn`t recall writing anything that was liable to draw a crowd bearing pitchforks and torches. That`s Brian`s gig.

"You used the phrase, `the little woman` when referring to Cupcake," he said, striking what I heard as an accusatory chord. "The radical feminist lobby will be all over you. This will be worse than the time you referred to her as "the wife"."

I sighed. It is so hard. Writing about women in general and my wife specifically, It is practically impossible not to offend certain segments of society if they are whiny and perpetually offended by trivialities. To say "the wife" is seen as objectifying females and mentally filing them alongside other possessions as "the house", "the car", "the ride 'em lawn mower", and what have you.

Okay, so what is the alternative to "the wife"? What is the difference between "the wife" and saying "my wife"? Doesn`t the word "my" signify a possession as in "my house", "my car", "my little pony" etc., just as much as the "the" word?

"Don`t be purposefully obtuse," Cupcake snorted when I broached the subject with her.  Actually, she used a euphemism for "unintelligent donkey" but this is a family paper. "Most women are not hung up on such niggling little matters. I kind of like being called `the little woman`. It sure beats some of the more accurate alternatives. But what we females dislike is to be treated like and referred to as some kind of chattal."

I turned away and rolled my eyes. (If she catches me eyerolling, I get a lecture about taking her feelings seriously or some such.).

"It`s pronounced `cattle`", I sneered. "The point is that women do that "poor me" thing but essentially run the show. There may be men at the heads of the ships of state but it`s their wives that hold the rudder. Women are now the ruling class."

She fixed me with a squinty stare. "And don`t you forget it!" she spat as she stomped off. So much for trying to open lines of communication and all that blah, blah, blah she goes on about. "Exchanging meaningful dialogue indeed".

Literarily speaking, women have it easy. They have tons of ways of referring to men, such as "guys", "fellas",  "dudes", "boys", "the hubby" and in some circles, "johns". For the most part, these synonyms are pretty innocuous and  non-judgemental. What do we have for women? "Dames", "broads", "chicks", and the oft-employed word for a female dog word. Very negative. Some don`t even like being called "girls". Others bridle at the term "lady", believe it or not.  And my gosh, if you call the wrong woman "ma'am or madam", you may just as well as called them an ugly old bag or the head of a house of ill repute.

You never know when a term will offend the easily offended. "I`m not a lady, I am a woman," sniffed one woman haughtily to me when the subject came up. I immediately slotted her in that female dog category.

The social mores against criticism of women is a concern. Like racial minorities, they have an equal right to be portrayed as silly or stupid but such is not the case. Caucasian men have become the last people allowable to make fun of on TV, Little Mosque on the Prairie, notwithstanding. Everyone else is part some kind of minority that allows them a free pass from being a joke butt. The last black guy that European-North Americans were allowed to laugh at was George Jefferson, oh and Shaun Majumnder, but only because he`s from Newfoundland

Women, of course, are a whole different kettle of fish. They are actually a majority but it isn`t politically correct to make jokes about women because.... because... well, I`m not really sure why, frankly. The last vestiges of sexism are pretty much outweighed by the reverse-discrimination that is rampant. There are, for example, many exercise places that do not allow men; Lady Fitness, Curves, Sweatin`to the Oldies... Oh wait, that last one was a Richard Simmons video series. My mistake. Still, the point is that there are no men-only exercise places because the minute they try, they have more placard waving, foaming-at-the-mouth radical feminists demanding to be allowed inside than legitimate workout customers. The fact that they appear to have spent far more time inside a Wendy`s, rather than the inside of a Lady Fitness is, apparently, irrelevant.

I responded to Brian`s concerns quickly."Don`t worry, Boss," I reassured him. "I haven`t had a hate letter since my last Rita MacNiel fat joke."

Rules I Live By

I've been married a long, long time. Cupcake and I were just kids when we tied the noose. I mean knot. I was 21 and Cupcake was... somewhat older than me. I can`t tell you by how much as that information is only available under threat of death. In either case, it truly was a loooong while back. Our marriage, I mean, not Cupcake's birth date.

The year we wed was 1982; a past so distant, on TV were M*A*S*H episodes that weren't re-runs. We also enjoyed such fare as “The A Team”, “The Love Boat” and “T.J. Hooker”. Okay so maybe “enjoyed” is too strong a word for “The Love Boat”. This was the year NBC premiered their new show, “Late Night With David Letterman” which thrived on having Reagan as their presidential target.

Making records at the time were Jennifer Warnes teamed with freakishly spastic singer Joe Cocker singing “Up Where We Belong” and The Oral Thermometer's mega-hit, “Up Where It Don't Belong”.

The point I'm underlining is that Cupcake and I have been in a relationship for decades and in all that time of wedded bliss, you'd think by now we had enough rules. You'd think that every petty dispute possible will have been worked out to this point. You'd think I'd have finally wised up. You'd be so wrong.

You see, like the average hubby, I bumble along trying not to makes waves with the little woman. Life will be just dandy and all of a sudden... BAM! A new insta-rule. “You must not ignore your spouse when talking with the guys”. You didn`t even know what hit you.

Insta-rules come in three varieties. There are the ones you`ll be saddled with for the rest of your life, such as, “If you look at another woman like that again, I will kill you with my bare hands” rule. Then there are the shorter term rules that slowly fall by the wayside, such as the “No having the TV on during supper” rule which was amended twice... once to exempt my Hockey Night in Canada and once to exempt Cupcake`s “Survivor”. Then there was the “No teaching the boys to play poker” rule which wasn't repealed until the boys both reached adulthood. I should never have told her we were playing for their allowance money. Little did she know they were both up fifty bucks on me when the rule was made. Luckily they believed me when I said it was just for pretend, anyway.

Then there are the real short snappers; rules don`t last long at all, “Whoever is the last to shower has to dry the cabinet with their towel before tossing it in the laundry” rule. Yeah, right. That will happen.

“Hang your jacket up properly in the closet, not draped on the back of a chair.” I just wait for her to forget herself just once and then it's back to chair draping until next time the rule is re-introduced.

Another rule that has been created through clenched teeth was “If you make the bathroom rug wet by any means whatsoever and I get my socks damp as a result, you will be punished.” Apparently, I`m not too old for a “swirly”.

There is a certain evolution (Sorry, Brian!) to the rules that crop up, however. It will start out as something like “No eating crackers in bed”, which becomes “No eating crunchy or crumby food in bed” which is followed by “And no eating food in noisy packaging, either” and finally, “No eating in bed except for quiet food with no aroma whatsoever.” So far, all I`ve found that fits that bill is plain tofu or cheese curds in a bowl. One is gross and the other bungs me up worse than a plastic cork.

The rule we`ve had the longest tussel about, however, involves bed making. Cupcake thinks the rule should be, “Whoever is last out of bed must make it.” This is because she leaves for work three hours before I do (he said trying not to sound smug). She's also first up on weekends to finish her repose in the recliner in the livingroom so she can enjoy television even while she's asleep. This conveniently ensures I have to make the bed every day.

I followed the rule for a while but then rebelled and suggested the rule should be, “Whoever is first in bed and messes it up should have to make it.” Suspiciouly, Cupcake readily agreed to that one. Said we could try it. Then she chuckled menacingly. I was scared.You see, my rule didn't specify when the bed had to be made. That night, Cupcake was first in bed, as always and, at 4:45 AM, upon waking, began to follow the dictates of my poorly thought-out rule. She straightened her side of the bed as vigourously as she could, making sure to jostle the mattress so enthusiastically, it felt like a tiny, localized earthquake had hit our bed that was at least 12 on the Richter scale.

After a couple mornings of waking to shaking, I suggested a compromise rule. I would make the bed on weekdays before she got home, while she did it on weekends after I was up. Unfortunately, her people have yet to get back to my people. The bed remained unmade over the weekend. Life as we know it, somehow, continued...

Arrgh, River Pirates

Avast me hearties! Give ear to me tale of hardship and woe on the raging waters!  Last Sunday, preparing to celebrate International Talk Like A Pirate Day, I stood alone at the boat launch in Devon's river valley. I'd tried the rustic facilities beside the launching area, but dry-heaves from the stench quickly drove me out.  After a lengthy internal debate over retrying the iffy biffy, an old schoolbus finally arrived with a half-ton truck. Both were towing hi-rise canoe trailers. What had been a lonely, desolate, windy place was suddenly transformed into a hubbub of cheery activity. Everyone seemed excited at the prospect of a canoe trip down the Mighty North Saskatchewan River. (Cue Arrogant Worms song, “Pirates of the North Saskatchewan”).

The weather had been great all week but Saturday night saw the temperature drop faster than Paris Hilton's britches at a hottub party. It went from 25 the previous day to just 15 the day of our river ride. The once sunny skies became more threatening than a grizzly bear with a dozen rye and cokes in him. What was worse, however, was the wind was almost strong enough to name, like they do hurricanes.

There was no way I was going to cancel, though. I'd paid over thirty bucks to this Rent-A-Canoe dude and I wasn't going to let a little thing like dangerous winds thwart my pursuit of adventure. Besides, I'd planned ahead and wore layers and layers of clothing in order to stay warm. I also ensured I had a lot of high energy snacks such as trail mix which I was able to enjoy guilt-free for once, since I was actually doing something active.

After a half-listened to safety speech by Mr. Canoehead, we loaded up our voyageur-mobile and headed out on the water. I sat in front on the seat with Judy on the floor in back. This worked about as well as a solar powered tanning booth.  I probably outweigh Judy two-to-one. This inequity caused the bow of our boat to be much lower than the stern, making our canoe go in circles. The other fourteen boats were already way ahead of us when we decided to give up and land in order to change positions. By the time we got back into the stream of things, we could barely see the other canoers in our armada.

“We are going to be the last ones to arrive,” I moaned. “I don't want to be last!”

“Oh, stop your whining,” grumbled Judy. “We can catch up to them when they stop for lunch.”The thought of lunch made me feel a little better. I put my back into closing the distance with the other vessels with visions of my ham croissant dancing in my head.

We began making pretty good time once we'd figured out the whole steering thing and no longer going in circles. The others had seemingly all decided to wait for us although as we approached we could see that they were still paddling madly. The reason for their lack of progress, and ultimately, ours too, was that the river had taken such a turn, that the gale-force winds that were once at our backs were now in our faces. We laboured to paddle our tiny craft against wind and wave as we encountered meter-high whitecaps kicked up by the gusts. Snatches of the song, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” kept racing through my mind.

We attacked the waves with gusto, our muscles straining to keep moving forward. It wasn't a case of not giving up as that wouldn't have helped. With the velocity of the current below us and the wind at our bow, you couldn't coast. If you stopped paddling for even a second, your canoe would slough sideways and be turned over by the huge waves, So paddle we did. Mentally, I swore that if we got out of that patch of river alive, I was going to give up canoing permanently.

As soon as we made another corner, however, the wind instantly abated and the river's surface was calm once more. The sun even came out. We headed to shore for a well-earned bite and a chance to rest our arms which were ready to rebel and fling themselves from our bodies. We didn't care how far ahead the others got. It was snack-time.
At the halfway mark, we pulled off shore to find a gaggle of giver-uppers too pooped to continue. Their boats were already loaded onto the trailer. My shoulders, arms and fingers all voted as a bloc to bail on the rest of the trip but the Scot blood coursing through my veins would not allow not getting full value for my money. As they say, the difference between a Scotsman and a canoe is that canoes tip.

We pressed on. After we fought two more gale force sections, and beaching in the shallows like confused whales, we finally drifted under the Quesnell Bridge in Edmonton and landed at Laurier Park. I knew we weren't the last, at least, because another couple had pulled in a minute after us. It was only then we found out that we had actually arrived first and that of the 15 boats at the beginning, only three would make it all the way. Ten teams quit halfway and two had to be rescued by the RCMP!

I slowly, carefully and gratefully slipped  into Judy's car for the comfy, effortless ride home, a funny little ditty dancing in my head.

And it's a Heave (HO) High (HO) Comin' down the plains, Stealin' Wheat and Bareley and all the other grains...

Sleep Depraved or Deprived?

As I type out these words, I am strugging. My mind is more sluggish than escargot. My eyelids feel like two heavy steel garage doors that have come off their tracks. My mind hasn't experienced this much fog since I watched that BBC special on English weather. The cause? Going to bed and waking up in the same morning without enough morning between those two activities.

For most of us, there is an almost religious adherance to getting “the right amount of sleep” and we all know exactly how much that is. What each of us considers to be the right amount can vary widely, of course, but for most, no matter how much sleep we feel is right for us, according to surveys, just like everything else in life, besides calories, we aren't getting enough.

Sleep stats indicate the majority of society stagger from day to day suffering from Sleep Deprvation Psychosis or SDP. (Not to be confused with the engine oil additive). You can pick out the SDP sufferers as they are the ones biting off the heads of their co-workers while breaking into tears at the slightest criticism. (“You wore THOSE steel-toes with that plaid jacket, Buck?” “Waaaah!”)

Those afflicted with SDP are so short on shut-eye, they drop off at inopportune times, such as at work, when driving and while smooching with the spouse.The latter is the most serious, being cause for justifiable homicide. Getting a female judge is the ticket to “old sparky”..

Our lives are throttle-wide-open fast and stealing from our sleep time is the only way to get more hours from a day. Unfortunately, those hours come at a cost. Lack of sleep leads to such horrible, debilitrating illnesses as headache and, worse, “sleepy-tummy”; the latter, a disease where you don't so much feel crampy or nauseous, but just a little... icky. Add to that the epidemic levels of the aforementioned SDP that make both swine and bird flu fans envious, and it is easy to see our sleep gap is wider than the gap between the teeth on a smile at a Willie Nelson concert.

Still, not everyone is sold on the value of sleep. One of the most famous anti-sleep crusaders in history was Thomas Alva Edison;, inventor, innovator and brainiac. This poor guy was so driven to be productive, when he was tired, he would sit in a chair with a pencil in his fingers over a pie plate. When he would fall asleep, the pencil would slip from his grasp and clatter onto the pan, waking him up. That was all the sleep he afforded himself before getting back to work. An amazing man, truly, mind you, I bet he was a Productivity Nazi as a boss.

Although there is nobody in my large, extended family I know of that is as hard core as Edison, (all their pie plates actually have pie in them) we still have quite a variety of sleep-types contained therein.
Take my siblings... please. (Ha! Sorry, Henny!) Obviously products of the same genetic material and upbringing, more or less, they still have sleeping habits of a variety wider than Julia Roberts freakish mouth.

My brother, Bob, for example, is ex-military. Very punctual. Despite his love of camping in the great outdoors, (he makes that guy in Man vs Wild look like a city slicker) he is ruled relentlessly by the clock. No matter what he is doing, no matter how much fun he is having, he makes sure that at precisely ten o'clock, or “2200 hours” as he would call it, he is in bed. He then reads until 10:29 and then puts his book down, sets his alarm and I'm sure, hears an order (“Company...Commense SLEEP!) and obeys instantly. He is generally, and probably majorly and corporally, out by 10:31 to rise again at “Oh six hundred” exactly.

His routine is the ideal, according to sleep experts as his wake/sleep cycle is as regular as an Ex-Lax addict.
My sister, Kathy, however, is different from Bob in so many ways. She is thin. Learned, too; she is a doctor of neuro something-or-other and has all these letters after her name. The letters are abbreviations of Greek phrases that can be translated as “Way smarter than you.”, “Makes more money than you”, etc. In order to achieve what she has, however, she had to develop a sleep routine that involved her only getting four or five hours of sleep per night. Going to bed at 10:00 but getting up at two or three, was her strategy for getting ahead in the dog-eat-dog world of whatever it is she does. The more sleep-minded among my other siblings viewed her as the black sheep of the family.

Myself, I love to stay up late. It's a hold-over from when the kids were young and the only time I had for myself was late at night when the family were all safe in their beds and I could relax. I appreciate every day I have on the planet and have a hard time letting go of each one. I do not go gentle into that short good night. I love to sleep in, however, and like nothing better than the occasional ten hour sleep marathon on a weekend augmented by a nap mid-afternoon.. That is a rarity, however, because, although I enjoy sleeping, as long as I get my seven hours, I'm good to go. In fact, extra sleep makes me tired and groggy. Like I am now. Hmmm... Now I am wondering whether I didn't get enough sleep or too much? Cupcake thinks it was the beer and tequila.... hmmmm....