The Bees Knees

         You must have heard it by now. That cry of achievement, enjoyment and delight so prevalent on the tongues of today’s youth. “Sick!”  they say, with more zest than grated lemon peel. Yes, “sick” is the new “cool”, although, of course “cool” will ALWAYS be cool.
It seems weird to think of “sick” as meaning good, however. I wonder if it’s part of the “bad means good” mindset where it’s apparently really good to be “Super Bad”.  It seems “sick = good” isn’t even all that new, as the term “sick” was used in that context as far back as 2005 in an article in Rolling Stone. And if it’s in Rolling Stone, it’s got to be cool. Or sick. Or bad... er... good. You know what I mean.
Given my middle-age sensitivities, I find the use of the word “sick” to identify something positive seems mildly disgusting, almost gnarly. (“Gnarly”, in this case meaning its original intent of “offensive” and not the 90’s edition when it meant sick... I mean cool.) Why can’t these young people use something lyrical and whimsical like “the bees knees” which was so popular with in the 1920’s? (It seems when bees collect pollen to make honey, they store it behind their knees, thus making them “suh-weet!”)
There are other choices, too. What about “Hunky Dory”? That one was good enough for us; it should be good enough for them. If they yearn to toss in trendy terms with an edge to them, maybe the young people can recycle sayings such as “rad” and “gear”. Seriously; people actually would say “Man, that’s really gear!”! I think it’s more kickin’ than 23 Skidoo.
The same goes for “nifty”. Now that was a cool word. Sadly the only time you see it used anymore is on quinquagenarian cougars’ T-shirts emblazoned in glorious glitter with the phrase ”Over 50 and Feelin’ Nifty!” Such a shame.... about the loss of the word, I mean “Groovy” is still one of my favourites. Sadly, I remember when it was groovy to say “groovy”. Now if you say “groovy” you sound like an old hippy, which hasn’t stopped me, although the cops sure do. It must be the tie-dyed VW micro-bus I drive.
One expression I found somewhat mystifying and that is “the cat’s pyjamas”. What in the world were they thinking? Have you ever tried to get a cat to wear pyjamas? Good luck. We had a cat that wouldn’t even allow us to put a collar on him. Trying to put bedwear on that one would have led to lethal hemorrhaging for one or both of us.. How this could be construed as a positive is beyond me.
The problem with a lot of these sayings is that they are absolutes. It is sick or cool or groovy or whatever or it isn’t. Some, however, have degrees. Take “dandy”, for example. As a word, dandy is pretty nifty because, although it means neat or swell or skookum, when you add “Jim” to it to make it “Jim dandy”, that means it’s REALLY neat or swell or skookum. The same goes for the word “keen”. Keen is as nifty as dandy because it’s got its own qualifier, as well. Things can be just plain old keen or they can be peachy keen, which is not only much keener than keen but is also somewhat fuzzy, apparently. If you prefer the fuzz-free variety, may I suggest “Nectariny keen”.
There is one saying that was once everywhere but is now like so last Tuesday. That is... or was, “phat”.  I thought that it meant the same as all the other cool synonyms but was recently informed it is an acronym for “pretty hot and tempting”, which to me sounds like a steak.  I should add that the informant I was getting the “down-low” from, a young lady named Mary, (not her real name. Kelsey is her real name), who advised us that she wasn’t sure if there was a comma after the word “pretty” which would change the meaning slightly. Is it/her/she pretty AND hot or just pretty hot? Personally, rather than “phat” I prefer “phull phigured.”
This just in; there’s a word that’s even newer than “sick” and that word is... are you ready for this? The word is “word”, as in “You got two tickets to the Nickleback concert? Word! What? You’re taking someone else? Word!”
“Word” seems to have arrived as an all purpose word to replace all those other cool and gnarly words. Some might see it as a plus; a word to use when the word you’re trying to think of just won’t spring forth from its hiding place somewhere in your cranium. (I HATE it when that happens!)
I hope the word “word” doesn’t catch on as a cool saying. It’s so...bland. I say we should go back to the vaults. All in favour of “the bee’s knees” say “SICK!”

Boggles My Mind

I eyed my opponent with deep suspicion. After all, I had been victorious for the last... oh... dozen matches at least, suddenly, stakes are being discussed, high stakes.  Serious stakes. The field of battle was to be “Boggle”; the game where you make words out of lettered dice. The adversary was my dear, sweet, child-bride; the lovely, the charming, the vocabularily-challenged, Cupcake. The stakes; having to tidy the kitchen, including washing all the dishes that had been accumulating since breakfast. It looked like the aftermath of a Gordon Ramsey show.
“Are you sure you want to do this, honey?” I asked magnanimously. “I know I am the reigning Boggle champ in this house and don’t want to take advantage of you. I am aware your talents lie elsewhere. We could do something we are more even at.... arm wrestling, perhaps.”
“That’s okay,” she breezily replied. “I admit you usually win since “my talents lie elsewhere”, as you diplomatically put it, but I have great confidence I can be triumphant if I pit my talents against yours.” “Game on,” I chortled, grabbing the clear plastic dice container and giving them an enthusiastic shake. I spun the lid into place which forces the 16 die into a neat square four dice across by four dice down and automatically starts the battery-powered timer. The battle had been joined!
The letters were really good ones... it was to be a high word-count round and every second was vital. Amid my concentration, however, I happened to glance up at Cupcake. For some strange reason, she was unbuttoning her nighty.
“Hey!” I blurted out in astonished realization. “That’s not fair! You’re not allowed to distract me like that. That’s... that’s... are you not wearing a bra?”
Cupcake never looked up but continued to feverishly jot down words. I realized I had dishpan hands in my future if I didn’t get cracking but my eyes kept being diverted to her bosom.
You see, the problem is that men are actually hard-wired to appreciate the female figure, especially in the chestal area.  This is hardly news to the billions of women out there who occasionally, and not all I’m sure, use this particular male weakness to further their own agendas. Really! It happens!
Many sociologists maintain that man’s pursuit of beauty is what fuels greed. It is common knowledge that many women are attracted to great, big, thick bulging wallets. This because, to those same sociologists, women aren’t wired for appreciating looks as much as security and status. Multi-billionaire Aristotle Onassis put it best when he said that “Without women, money would become meaningless. “
The media is well aware of men’s fascination with the female form but the messages being sent are mixed. Besides the seemingly thousands of websites dedicated to examples of the fairer gender in various states of undress, there is even a site where women post pictures of their charms to be rated on a scale of 1 to 10. If it is an example of the objectification of women, it certainly appears there are a lot of women who don’t appear to mind. The supply of volunteers seems endless... well, according to a friend who told me about it. As well, if commercials are to be believed, the most desirable women with the most splendid examples of female attributes are attracted to men who drink large amounts of beer. Call me crazy but it has been my experience that this is not the case.
I took another quick peek at Cupcake pulling her nighty aside and then checked out the length of her word list. I still had a chance if I could just focus. It was particularly frustrating because the effectiveness of her ploy is just a one-way street. There is no body part I could flaunt that would have the same effect on her even remotely. The closest I could come would be to unwrap a chocolate bar and wave it seductively in front of her.
I redoubled my efforts at finding words while trying to ignore Cupcake’s heaving cleavage. I vowed not to think of her luscious ample appendages and only focus on the Boggle rack... I mean frame. I wrote like the wind and got some really long, extra-value words.  I may be easy but I’m no push-over.  Finally the timer beeped the end of the match. It was time to tally up our words.
After crossing out all the words we had in common, we counted silently our own scores.
“So... how many did you get?” I asked, my hand covering my total of 38.
“I got 37,” she said proudly.
My victory dance was quickly cut short. Cupcake had yet one more card to play.
“If you do the dishes while I wait for you in bed, I won’t do up my nighty,” she said softly.I was outraged that she would offer such a deal. I was so incensed, I almost didn’t go for it.Stupid hard wiring.

A Graduation Situation

     Last Saturday was a big day for my buddy Pete, whom I’ve known since Grade 5. I have referred to him in this space often; even, occasionally, in a kindly way. Pete, along with his bubbly missus, Roxanne, were proudly watching the graduation ceremony of their youngest daughter; the radiantly beautiful and sweet Shelby.
Given that, once more, I was not considered for the role of “keynote speaker” at her graduation (Or any others. Ever. The blackguards. Good thing I’m not bitter.), I would like to share some insights into the phase of life these young folks are now entering based on my observations, convictions and crap I’ve just made up.  Here then, for Shelby and all her fellow graduates across this great land, are pearls of wisdom to base the rest of your life upon. Or not.
Don’t worry if you don’t know what you want to be when you grow up. I’m almost fifty and I still have no idea. The problem is with the “growing up” part. I’ve seen what it does to people. It’s not pretty. Look what it did to Nick Nolte.
As comfy as home is, it’s time to move out.  Don’t worry that there are no jobs to be had and rent is astronomical and transportation costs for those cursed with youth are absurdly expensive. Just get out. We parents know you’ll be back in no time anyway, but at least if you get out right away, you’ll appreciate home so much more. You might even start helping out a bit.
You can be anything you want to be. That is, if your parents are rich and generous, and you’re actually smart enough and talented enough to do what you want to do. No? Sucks to be you then. Can you say “Would you like that upsized?”
Don’t be in a hurry to get married. No matter how old you get.
There’s no such thing as a free lunch... unless you’re gorgeous with an incredible body or are a politician.Networking is great to increase your social base and possibly establish business contacts. But beware of social networking websites. Having pictures of your drunken parties posted on your profile page can be problematic for potential employment and/or parents you told you were just spending a quiet evening doing homework over at her friend’s house.
If you work for a small company, expect to spend years establishing a reputation and paying your dues.  You will get the worst shifts and lousiest pay. This is also true if you work for a big company.
Avoid “get rich quick” schemes. I will say, however, that the poor fellow with all his money in Nairobi, needing help to get it out, sounded legit.
Everyone is normal until you get to know them. Always allow for other people’s foibles since we have to tolerate yours. You can make an exception for people who spit when they talk. Ewww! It’s okay to be without your cell phone sometimes and talk to people face to face. I know that sounds kind of old fashioned but you might like it if you try it a few times. It may be awkward at first but don’t give up. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.
Now that you’re out of school, it’s okay to wear warm clothes outside in winter. Watching young people walking to school without any gloves or headgear whatsoever gives me shivers worse than one of Cupcake’s lectures.  I can appreciate you didn’t want to wreck your ‘do that you’d spent over an hour creating, but ears lost to frostbite aren’t pretty, either. What if you need glasses some day? How will you keep them up?
Don’t be in a hurry to have children. Just remember how rotten you were. If you weren’t rotten, don’t forget it skips a generation sometimes.
Eat properly. Good nutritional habits developed young can stick with you, much like Nanaimo bars. Sadly, it is too late for me and I am condemned to eating unhealthy, processed food which is chock-a-block full of enough salt to attract cattle as well as other tasty ingredients such as sodium erythorbate, whatever the heck that is.  You’ll be better off to stick with foods that have only one ingredient; “carrot”, for instance, or “lettuce”.
Start thinking about fibre. It’s never too early. Oh yeah, and retirement.
Get plenty of exercise. Just remember while you’re out there playing hockey or football or extreme rocket-boarding with your young, bulletproof bodies, that you’ll need those same bodies when you’re older.     You won’t need pictures to make you think of the good old days. The aches in your body, wherever you had a major owie; broken arm, dislocated shoulder, reattached leg, etc. will remind you of those carefree times for the rest of your life.
And most importantly, don’t take advice from strangers.
Good luck, Shelby!

A Mouse in the House

          Last week, I came home from work in a fine mood. The day had whizzed by faster than a cop heading to a holdup at Tim Hortons. All was good with the world. Good, that is, until I walked in the house. Without any external clues whatsoever, I could feel tension in the air. My fears were confirmed when I entered the dining room and saw Cupcake sitting at the table with her arms crossed and a look on face like she’d just drank sour milk. I quickly replayed  the recent past for any transgressions I may have done, real or imagined and, for once, came up dry.
“We have to talk,” she stated through gritted teeth. She would have had to cheer up a bit just to be described as angry. I needed a snappy come-back to maintain my good spirits. Her spirits, unfortunately, were too far gone for me to improve.
“You want to thank me for making the bed every day this week?” I suggested hopefully. She ignored my dual-purpose quip designed to both lighten the mood and illustrate what a good boy I’ve been.
“Earlier today a mouse ran over my foot,” she declared, her voice just one notch below shrill. Her face was a picture of accusation. I’m sure she thought I’d trained it expressly for the purpose of running over her foot.
“Did it hurt?” I asked, full of concern.
“Of course not you... you...” she sputtered .
Before she could form an unpleasant, yet descriptive adjective/noun combination (stupid idiot, for example) for me, I thought I’d dig myself a little deeper.
“Well, the way you’re acting, it sounded like when it ran over your foot, it was with my Kia,” I pointed out reasonably, although perhaps unwisely. “You’re not hurt and other than the minor issue of the mouse, everything else is fine. Look at the real consequences.”
“Look, Buster,” she snarled. “You know how much I hate mice. Either you get rid of it or I’ll show you real consequences. You constantly leave that screen door open; just inviting the disgusting vermin to come in. You better have a business license for this Hanta Virus halfway house you’re running. I won’t sleep a wink tonight knowing that horrid creature is menacing us.”
“Don’t worry,” I consoled her. “When he chows down on the mousebait I have in the vents, he won’t bother you anymore. You know, I wonder if he will be creeped out by any mouse skeletons he comes across in the walls from previous infestations.”
“Ewww! Don’t even talk about that! That’s revolting!” She involuntarily shivered. “I want you to set out traps and catch it before it eats the poison!”
“Okay,” I cautioned as agreeably as I could. “But don’t blame me if you’re lying awake at night listening for the SNAP! Minute by minute... hour by hour... you’ll be laying there... waiting for that dreaded...” “All right, all right all right,” Cupcake waved her hands to stop the imagery from continuing. “I get the picture. Fine, you can keep your trap shut... like that will ever happen.”
“Nice,” I grunted. “Look, it’s not fair to be mad at me because a mouse scared you. That’s all I’m saying. No one knows who left the door open when it managed to sneak past our defences. You’re simply redirecting your anger of the moment towards me and it should be directed elsewhere.”
“Redirecting my anger at you has worked for decades, why should I change now?”  she pointed out absent-minded and then caught herself. “I mean, I don’t do that!” “Well, according to this book I’ve been reading...”  I began
“Oh no! You’re not reading ‘Chicken Soup for the Menopausal Man’ or some other claptrap, are you?” She broke in. “If you really want to improve our relationship, you will forget reading books telling me how I should act and catch that flea-bitten, lice-ridden rodent  NOW!”
“Be reasonable,” I implored. “It’s not like I have an AK47 and can shoot up the walls until its dead. These things take time. I have no idea where it’s at right now. It could very well be writhing in pain, gasping his last breath as the poison wracks his poor little body; drying it out worse than a ninety year old in a tanning booth.”
“Will you stop with that stuff? You’re not helping!”  She snapped.
“I’m just trying to explain,” I replied defensively.
Our son ambled into the room.
“If you guys are talking about the mouse, I saw it run out the back door when Mom left it open to bring in groceries.” He stated nonchalantly.
Cupcake was thrilled to be rid of her nemesis. “Thank heavens! You notice when I leave the door open, they run out, not in?”
“When they run in they haven’t met you yet,” I mumbled under my breath.
Later on I cornered my kid. “You never saw that mouse run out of the house, did you? That sounded like a load of hoohaw.”
“You’ll never know,” he smiled. “But you owe me one.”

Whoopee Maylong!

          Everyone loves ‘Maylong’. That’s what we call the annual kickoff to summer. It’s actually supposed to be ‘Queen Whatsherface Day’, to honour some long dead British monarch, whose progeny are about as relevant to my life as that of the Octomom.  Some might say retaining such minor trappings of royalty is a little reminder that when we want to do something fairly significant in the political realm, like dissolving parliament or adding members to the senate, we have to ask the permission of, well... a foreigner. (This is no sleight to Her Majesty, if she’s reading this. It’s just that I don’t get why anyone else would care.) On the other side of the coin, that’s the beauty of the Maylong. There’s no real ‘reason for the season’ for this holiday; no Hallmark cards or gifts to buy. In our heart of hearts, it doesn’t really matter to us why we get a long weekend in May, just as long as we do.
Although the Maylong is the signal for the green-thumbers and ‘Bloomers’ in the community to start planting gardens, for most folks, Maylong means camping. Therefore, as a public service, since I know nothing about gardening, (I’ve actually manage to kill rhubarb.) I have compiled a list of camping tips for all you Maylongers out there.
1. Don’t trust anyone else to bring something vital for the tent; poles, pegs or the top flap, for example. They will forget for sure. Then when you discuss this with them, they will get all snitty and leave in a huff. You will never get another Christmas card from them. Ever.
2. If a bear gets all your food, let him. Don’t try to dress up in a much larger bear suit to scare it away or you may be brought down by a pack of men in much larger wolf suits.
3. If you’re concerned about spilling some of the naphtha gas while fuelling up the stove and lantern, don’t worry. EVERYBODY spills. They don’t worry, so why should you? The way they designed the spouts on those stupid metal cans makes spillage inevitable. Think of it as liberating it to return to the land from whence it came.
4. Make sure your vehicle is powerful enough to tow your RV. In this part of the world, trying to haul a fifth-wheel with a Smart Car and creating line-ups behind it that are kilometres long is a killing offense. Besides you look so silly with that itty bitty car dangling from the RV hitch.
5. Be aware that no matter how hot it has been leading up to the Maylong and no matter what the Environment Canada forecast might promise, it will snow on the Sunday of Maylong. It always does. Who says the ‘Guy Upstairs’ has no sense of humour?
6. Do not set up a tent in a low spot or gully as it will get flooded if... or rather, when it rains. Erecting the tent on the side of a hill is out, as well, since water will course through your tent as you are trying not to roll out of bed and down the hill into the gully, despite being lashed to a tent pole. The best bet is to set up camp on top of a hill. Just pray there will be no lightning. 100 million to a billion volts of electricity and thin sheets of waterproof nylon do not mix. At least your charred remains will be conveniently shrink-wrapped.
7. Breaking wind in a wet tent is just cruel, man.
8. A note to camping women; don’t serve beans at supper and then be surprised at the incidence of Camping Tip 7 from your loving spouse.
9. Camping food is so good, it has a much higher allowable limit for ashes, cinders, bugs and dirt than home-cooked or restaurant food.  The ‘Three Minute Rule’ applies to anything dropped near the campfire.
10. People look their absolute worst when they are crawling out of a tent first thing in the morning. Avoid camping with ugly people. (Come to think of it, I haven’t been asked to go for a while...)
11. Always bring back-up toilet paper. I can’t stress this enough. And wet naps. Bring lots.
12. Shut your *^#$#^ cell phone off. You’re camping, for crying out loud.
13. When you’re camping, there will be bugs. Bugs love sugar. Given these two truths, make sure you wash your lips off after you’ve scarffed down that glazed donut before you have your nap, or your sticky, sweet lips will become irresistible to insects living on the forest floor mere millimetres from your mouth. Trust me, waking up with a millipede moustache is a drag.
14. Have fun. Just remember camping is all about relaxing, enjoying friends and family and getting away from it all. But mostly, it’s a great excuse not to do gardening.

Motherhood

          Although last Sunday was Mother's Day, Cupcake had to work and I was busy helping tear down the set from the previous night’s finale of the play we just did at the Legion Hall. As a result, it was decided (‘it’ being Cupcake) that Mother’s Day would be postponed for a week and we would be allowed to dote on her and wait on her hand and foot at that time. With the onslaught of Mother’s Day marketing (‘Show Mom how much you love her on Mother’s Day with a new ironing board!’) I have been thinking a lot about the role of mothers in our society and I've come to the conclusion that it must be a pretty neat experience. Indeed, when anyone wants to describe all that is good and wholesome in the world, motherhood and apple pie rank one and two respectively.
           In fact, motherhood as an institution is held so sacred, the worst insults men hurl at one another (during heated hockey games, for example) aren't so much directed at the insultee himself, but at his mother. The old standby, ‘Son of a B___’ is a fine example of this, but there are many others. Good taste and restraint, things I’m not particularly good at, prevent me from listing them but trust me, they are plentiful. Anyone who has ever golfed probably knows them all. Apparently, you can call down the person who has displeased you, even his wife, kids, vehicle, anything, but don't make fun of his mother. Them's fightin' words, doncha know, and only serves to demonstrate the high regard mothers are held.
            At risk of displeasing a large swath of the population, I have to admit I'm not so sure this motherhood thing should be as highly vaunted as it is, except, of course, in the case of my own mother who is a saint. After all, the only prerequisite to motherhood is to plunk down in some stirrups and push out a kid. I mean, how hard can that be, really? Oh I know most women go on and on about the pain of childbirth and how they spent 78 hours in labour (the number of hours increases with each telling -  something like the distance walked to school by grandparents), but really, the only source of information on the amount of pain experienced always comes from women. Now, obviously they aren't going to minimize the description of the discomfort, otherwise they will have nothing to hold over their kids to make them feel guilty.
          Actually this whole childbirth pain thing has bothered me for some time. Thankfully, my own mother (Did I mention she's a saint?) never brought up the subject of the agony and stress I caused her when she evicted me from her womb. (I didn’t even get my damage deposit back.) Mind you, being the last of eight children, there's a good chance she may not have noticed the event.
          The mother of my children, however, is a whole different story. I can't be allowed to bemoan any pain whatsoever (bashing my thumb with a hammer, breaking my leg skiing, the big snip etc, etc,) without her bringing up the fact that it could not have possibly hurt as much as producing our two wonderful children. Frankly, I didn't know it was a contest. In fact, if I got the same mileage out of my Kia as she gets out of her pain of childbirth thing, I would not have to fill up with gas again until well into the next decade,
          Okay, perhaps I overstate my case somewhat. Besides providing a huge selection of guilt-inducing birthing stories, motherhood has some pretty terrific things going for it. Take for example the ‘magic lips’ that come with the title of ‘Mother’.
          A mother’s magic lips can kiss "boo-boos" all better, purse in such a way that every kid within fifty yards knows they've been caught, or smile with such radiance over every single gift from the heart that mothers get from their adoring offspring; from freshly picked dandelion bouquets to the clay handprints being churned out in kindergartens everywhere. These same magic lips can diagnose a fever from the forehead of a sick child, comfort a broken heart or simply provide a decoy when she goes for that quick cheek peck, followed by a surreptitious sniff for signs of beer or cigarette smoke.
          Mothers also have other magic features that hold them in good stead. Broad shoulders to cry on, hands that can just as easily make supper, as make emergency repairs to clothing, and spit that can clean even the toughest stains on any small face.
          As I said at the start, motherhood would be a pretty cool gig. Now if we could just dispense with that child birth thing, men might actually be interested in it.

Driven to Distraction

               Hopefully, while you read this, you’re not behind the wheel because the provincial government has recently enacted new legislation to tackle ‘Distracted Driving’. This new law is an attempt to curb motorists who drive with undue care and attention. It is, however, different than the existing law of ‘driving with undue care and attention’, but don’t ask me how. I recall last summer, for example, when the brave men and women who patrol the QEII had an enforcement blitz designed to curtail multitasking motorists between Alberta’s biggest cities. One guy they caught was reportedly playing a guitar while on his journey. A guitar! Maybe a harmonica I could see but no guitar made anywhere would fit between me and the wheel. There were, of course, many other tickets issued, too, including people putting on makeup, reading the paper, watching TV and DVD’s and one couple who were... er... uh... otherwise preoccupied, to put it delicately. The vigilant vehicle cops had no problem laying charges in those cases. To deal with this new infringement on our rapidly eroding civil liberties, I thought it timely to discuss the worst distractions we face at the wheel and possible ways to ameliorate them.

Eating: I... I mean, a friend of mine... is certainly guilty of this and has been known to munch a delicious bun, egg, sausage and cheese, arterial choking wonder, on his morning commute quite often, if his waistline is any indication. Now, however, road food will become illegal. What’s next? Banning drive-thrus? Who hasn’t gotten their order and was already reaching in the bag for French fries before they even got out of the parking lot?  Seriously! Does anybody actually ever take drive-thru food home to eat? My advice to dining drivers/driving diners? Plan your day better so you can prepare wholesome, healthy, nutritious food at home before venturing off to work. Yeah. Right.

Drinking: Although drinking alcohol is still illegal in a vehicle, (Probably a good thing) according to government sources, you can still have your Timmy’s while you putts along in the slow lane. Of course, if you’re steering with your knee so you can roll up the rim and accidently create a multi-car pileup, police may apply the charge. (I may have paraphrased the spokesman somewhat.) One strategy you might consider is to put your “double double half caff” into one of those beer-holder hats with the tubes that go from the beverage directly to your mouth. This approach boasts the advantage of totally hands free operation, although you will look like a dork as you drive around with the stupid hat on your head. It’s kind of a cop magnet too.

Children: Probably one of the worst distractions you could have in your car, children weren’t mentioned in any of the pieces I’ve read on it.  Who hasn’t seen crazed minivan mommas whacking the kids in their booster seats in the back while barrelling down the Yellowhead at 120 K? The answer lies with two easily acquired items; a coat hanger and duct tape. Simply put the hangers into your little darlings’ jackets they’re wearing and suspend them from the handy plastic hooks they have above the back seat window for just such a purpose. The duct tape is for their mouths if they appear unhappy with the arrangement.  Make sure you tie that seat belt around them or you may be in contravention of some law.
Cell phone: This is the item that kicked off the whole driving distracted debate.  It has only gotten worse with the fact that the average cell phone can now do practically everything except barbecue a steak. There are a couple strategies to deal with this popular distraction that occur to me immediately. One method is to pick up hitchhikers and have them answer your phone and relay messages. The downside to this plan is if you run out of hitchhikers, you might have to resort to forcing people into your car against their will, perhaps at gunpoint. This may be a bit extreme for folks who just need someone to dial for them but it beats getting a ticket.  The other alternative is to place the cell phone under your front tire, drive over it back and forth a number of times and free yourself of its tyranny.

Texting: Are you nuts? Just stop it! Good grief, I can’t figure it out sitting in the dining room with the manual right in front of me. To be texting while driving is insane. Surely your “Whasup?” can wait while you’re kind of busy piloting a massive, dangerous machine alongside other massive, dangerous machines, all whizzing along at speeds in excess of the posted speed limit suggestions on those quaint signs on the highway.
Intimate interaction: Just remember those three little words: GET A ROOM!
Sadly, as well intentioned as distracted driving legislation is, a timely reminder that driving is an important enough activity on its own without multitasking, too. Unfortunately, I can’t see it making a difference. We have speed limit laws too and I don’t notice much adherence to those statutes, either.