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 Then there was the “No teaching the boys to play poker” rule which wasn't repealed until the boys both reached adulthood.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....

RATS! Dirtier than Chris Pronger

RATS! Dirtier than Chris Pronger. RATS! Scarier to women than breaking a nail. RATS! So disgusting and vile, even Charlie Brown uses them as his favourite swear word. RATS! And now that they are in the province, they are in the news. RATS!

Being one of those "severely normal" Albertans that King Ralph pandered to, I have always been fiercely proud of the fact that I've lived in a rat-free environment for the majority of my life. The only rat-related things we had as a kid were "rat-tail" combs and "The Rathole" tunnel in central Edmonton. Oh, and the dirty rats that killed Jimmy Cagney's brother in the movies. Even when Non-Albertans would scoff that being rat free was an impossibility, I stuck to my guns, patiently explaining that rats aren't native to Canada. According to the official Governement of Alberta website, http://www1.agric.gov.ab.ca/$department/deptdocs.nsf/all/agdex3441 for you ratophiles, PETA-philes and infofreaks, rats arrived in Canada in 1775 and slowly spread westward with human settlement. This is because rats are like politicians and must live around humans. Both are non-burrowing animals that cannot survive winter without a heated shelter.

The main difference between them is that politicians are better suited than lab rats for scientific experiments as you're not as liable to get emotionally attached to them.

Nonetheless. by the 1950's, the government recognized the approaching rat problem and created a buffer zone between Alberta and Saskatchewan. Hoping to... er... eRATicate the infestation, they laid down tons of poison and tracking powder to eliminate every vestige of rat-related activity within 30 miles of the border. Oddly, the website doesn't mention the Alberta/Montana border, and one can only assume the rats have too much trouble getting proper photo ID and citizenship documents to bother crossing international boundaries.

Yet, despite all their vigilence, suddenly, we have rat sightings. RATS! It's enough to give my woolies the willies! Oh sure, after the hub-bub, it was discovered to be just one rat in Calgary (not surprising) but still; what about next time? One ratty couple can be responsible for producing 150,000 progeny in a single year. (Christmas must be pricy for the parents!) We, as a province experienced a collective shudder.

I've only seen a live, non-caged rat once in my life. It was 1976. I was sixteen and living in Germany with my much, much older brother Bob, while Dad was peacekeeping in Beirut. I'll never forget that awful moment walking home from a dance at the Canadian Youth Centre. I could have taken the bus but it left at 11:00 and the dances weren't over until 11:30. I wanted to maximize any lip-locking and/or spit-swapping opportunities I could, so taking the bus was out of the question.

Getting that extra half hour of shaking my booty (that's what we called it back then) was certainly worth the mile or so walk home, especially if it involved a kiss good night. Not that I ever got one but I felt my chances were vastly improved by going home later.

Unfortunately, however, Germany is old. Really old. My brother Bob, old. The cobblestone sidewalks I had to traverse, predated the founding of Canada by centuries. And old is creepy. (Yes, even you, Bob.)

One particular leg of my trip home always filled me with heart-pounding dread. It was a cobblestone walk that featured an immense stone wall on the left and on the right, a wire fence separating the walk from an enormous, foreboding, ancient church and it's accompanying cemetary. "Heart Attack Alley" ran for a long city block and the oppressive darkness of the path was only offset slightly by a baleful lamp halfway down.

One particular dance night, I was stricken with terror when I saw that under the light was a great, big, ugly, venomous rat with teeth the size of Luxemburg. I froze in my tracks. My breathing was more laboured than that horrid OctoMom woman.

"Shoo!" I shooed it. He eyed me sneerily, about as impressed as the girls at the dance. "Scat!!" I cried. (The word I actually used is synonymous with "scat", but I digress.)

I looked around for any rock, a twig, grenade; anything I could throw at it. All I found was a couple pea-sized pebbles that would inflict about as much damage as an uncooked marshmallow. I hurled them anyway, hollering as loudly as I could. The yell came out rather quavery, however, because suddenly, the bells of the spooky old stone church began bonging the midnight chimes.

Certain I was being observed by long dead spirits occupying the darkened cemetary I lost both my inhibitions and my fear of the stupid rat and ran screaming headlong down the sidewalk and didn't stop until I was three blocks from the church. Even as I sat gulping great breaths of oxygen on a bus bench, I could still smell the acrid odor of sheer terror. I think it was coming from my pants.

This is why all true Albertans are more than happy to pay for a government department who's sole purpose is to keep the rats at bay. We, as a people are scared scatless of them. By the way, Happy Birthday, Bob!

Lock Up The Silverware

I am so tired. I can only sleep mere minutes at a time, keeping one eye open for the menace stalking the house. Nothing is safe. He'll rob us blind if he has a chance. My only defence is my cat-like reflexes and constant vigilance. I'm doomed. Cat-like reflexes aren't exactly my specialty; more like three-toed sloth-like reflexes, unless the cat is really sick or something.

Constant vigilance isn't exactly my strong suit either, although I have been working on that since the threat has become too great to ignore. I now know that any lapse in attention is fraught with peril for when leaden eyes droop too low, too long, BANG! There's goes our coffee maker.

The problem isn't that I live with kleptomaniacs or in the rough part of town. Calmar is so small, the closest we have to a “rough part of town” is the Senior's Knitting Club where they meet daily to share needles. No, the reason I must guard my possessions like the last human alive in a zombie movie, is that my son Matt is moving out of the house to go to college. Everything that isn't nailed down or chained to something solid is at risk of being packed off to Matt's dorm against its will.

“You're kidding, right?” I grunted when Matthew announced he was taking the stereo with him. “That was a gift from Uncle Gordon for all of us.”

“Well, I own a quarter of it and I'm taking my share. It would be a shame to break up the set,” he advised me matter-of-factly, although distractedly. His eyes furtively darted this way and that, looking for things to make his new digs more homey.

“I am going to need some money for essentials,” he went on, his gaze resting suspiciously long on our toaster-oven. “Mom said you'd help me out.”

“Your mother cannot dictate my actions,” I responded imperiously.

“Yeah, sure, Dad,” he snorted in derision. “Since when?”

How much influence Cupcake may or may not have was not something I felt confidant arguing at that moment. I decided to deflect.

“Never mind that, I gave you my debit card so you could get some “essentials” last week and what did you do? You bought a flippin' drink mixer! How essential is that? You see one in our kitchen? No! We don't even own one! How essential can it be?!”

“Man,” Matt cringed, “I hope the lectures in college won't be this shrill.”

“SHRILL?” I blurted out shrilly. “I'll show you shrill!”

“Look, I swear I bought a ton of strictly essential stuff,” Matt pointed out. “Mom bought the drink mixer to see if it would get a rise out of you. Shall I tell her it did or didn't?”

“Oh really? And did your mother say it's okay to rob us blind of our DVD collection?” I fixed him with a accusitory stare.

“Why do you care?” he shrugged. “You have a hard time sitting through a half hour TV show. I can't see you voluntarily watching any of the movies I've borrowed. Besides, lots of them are mine anyway; Christmas presents, birthday gifts, that sort of thing. How can we identify which ones are mine? Or does every DVD that ever entered the house belong to you? Makes getting them as gifts kind of hollow.”

Since I didn't have a good answer, I switched tactics.

“I'll want a full accounting of every item you're taking from the house,” I challenged.

“You can inventory it all you like while you help me lug it into my dorm,” he parried skillfully.

“Now I have to help you move?!?!” I gasped. “Back in my day, that's what we had buddies for!”

“Really, Dad, if I hear you use the words 'back in my day', I'm going to hurl,” Matt scowled. “That's all you talk about. This isn't back in your day. This is my day.”

“I don't mind you having your day but must it be on my dime? Hey! That looks like my shirt you're packing!”

“Hardly, Dad,” snickered Matt. “I can't see you wearing a Drive By Punch shirt. Or any rock band shirt for that matter.”

“I'd wear a Pink Floyd shirt,” I responded defensively.

“Ha! More like a shirt with “The Emeralds” on it!” he chortled breaking into a duh duh duh duh duh duh dut version of that scourge of every wedding; The Bird Dance. I blew my top.

“Listen, you ungrateful, disrespectful, sassy...” I sputtered in rage.

“Hold it! Hold it! Hold it! Jeez, Dad, why do you seem so angry about this?” Matt challenged.

“Angry? Angry?” I blustered ineffectually. “I'm... not... I'm... a little jealous. And... terribly proud. And sad. I'll... I'll miss you, Son.”

“I'll miss you too, Dad.” He held my gaze steadily, confidantly. “And I just want to say...”

“Yes, Son?”

“I asked Mom and she said I get the stereo.”