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."