Things one should never outgrow:

To me, this broken tree looks like a lion. 

showing who you are on the inside.

Vulnerability requires courage. It might feel like you're breaking. In a way, you are. But the beauty's inside. Bring it out. Your honesty will encourage others to be more authentic too. And it frees us to become more.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

obviously re-branding way too hard. Nice try desperate bathroom scale company. Nice try.

Dear Extroverts,

It’s true. You dominate our culture with your social swagger, your big personalities. Yet at least 4/10 people are introverts. Therefore we introverts would like to share our thoughts. First, some definitions.

Extrovert: typically an assertive, multi-tasker and risk-taker, who enjoys social situations and characteristically thinks out loud.

Introvert: typically enjoys quiet concentration, listening more than talking, thinking before speaking, and taking a cautious approach to risk.

No disrespect but since you can’t interrupt us right now, following are some specifics about us introverts.

1.       We like people but we need to be alone to recharge our batteries.

2.       We like earphones. If there were an earphone for the entire body, we would like that.

3.       Despite this, we are usually good listeners.

4.       When it comes to friendship, less is much more; this is sometimes hard for extroverts to understand.

5.       Introverts are not characteristically shy; it’s just that our default setting is quiet (usually).

6.       When people cancel social plans with us, we glow inside.

7.       Never EVER surprise us with a party.

8.       We can act like extroverts when needed but it can be exhausting.

9.       We are not afraid to lead or take control but we prefer to do so quietly.

10.   We thrive behind the scenes.

11.   Extroverts are more motivated by rewards than we are.

12.   Introverts enjoy being appreciated for what they can bring to the group rather than for who they are in the group.

13.   Widely reported famous introverts include J.K. Rowling, Clint Eastwood, and Steve Martin. So yes, cowboys and comedians can be introverts too.

14.   We do not think we are better than others; in fact, we sometimes feel shame for not being extroverted.

15.   We are dreamers; we think too much.

16.   We don’t want to be cured of this.

17.   It’s not funny when you send a stranger over to talk to us.

18.   Hermit? Don’t go there.

19.   YOLO? No.

20.   A pack of introverts is called a library. 

Wordfuse

Sometimes really big things fall over. And when they fall over, they make a big mess. And sometimes it's hard to clean up that mess.

"Those who fight corruption should be clean themselves." ~Vladimir Putin

Along Boulevard Rene Levesque

We had to be through security by 6 a.m. so my wife and I exited our Montreal hotel room around 4:45 to catch a shuttle bus to the airport. In the elevator with us that morning was a young woman with long shiny brown hair almost down to her waist. She kept her head down, her manicured left hand held a clutch purse and although we did not make eye contact, I could see from all the mirrors her obvious beauty. Probably not yet 20 and thus not much younger than my own daughter whom we had only moments before left sleeping in our hotel room, I wondered why she was awake so early. Rushing to some job maybe? A lifeguard shift?

No.

We checked out and left. Our suitcases rolling along behind us on a wet Rue Drummond, we walked toward the Bell Centre and then a few blocks along Boulevard Rene Levesque, the sun not much more yet than suggesting morning. We saw her twice during that short trek to the bus stop.

The first time we encountered her again was almost immediately after we left the hotel. She stood smoking a cigarette along that first street. She seemed to be waiting for someone.

The second time we saw her was from a distance while we stood at the bus stop looking up the street hoping that indeed this promised bus would come. She was clearly weaving as she walked, some sad substance traveling through her veins. As she wandered closer and closer, I hoped she would join us and catch the same bus and it would take her safely somewhere. Home? And then suddenly I remembered myself, just a kid, waiting for my school-bus one morn, fascinated by the thick fog around me like a cloud closing in until a few moments later when I spotted a wolf out the bus window barely visible across the road in that same fog and then all the goose-bumps rushing up and down my skin like cold water.

She weaved around us and down the street and either helpless or foolish, I don’t know, we watched her until she disappeared and all I could think about was all the missing Indigenous Canadian women but also their parents and their kookums too and my own children and aren’t we all just each other’s children in this immense indifferent country? 

Despite all the wonderful things I enjoyed in Montreal for almost a week, this is my strongest memory.

Just so you know, the answer is no.

Should Toronto re-elect Rob Ford?

Just so you know, the answer is no.

Should you ever suppress the impulse to sing in your vehicle?

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

?

defining clean.

The other day, I could hear the washing machine sloshing so I investigated to discover it seemed to be busy washing nothing. My first thought was typical: our washing machine is possessed. My second thought was that my wife forgot to put the clothes in before she started the cycle.

Intent on teasing her, I mentioned it the next day and before I could toy with her she explained that she was "washing the washing machine."

What?!

That's a thing? She confirmed it; I kid you not. But why would a washing machine need to be washed? And then my mind exploded like popcorn: how much wash would a washing machine wash if a washing machine could wash wash?

Thankfully I held inside this jibe (albeit a witty jibe) since I could tell by my wife's demeanor that there was nothing unusual in her mind about this practice of washing the washing machine and furthermore I should be thankful (and am thankful) that her way-too-high standards maintain a high level of germ-free-edness in our life together. I could have shared that "I suspect that this idea was created by the same people who invented wooden calendar frames and a variety of other useless products and practices," but I refrained and dare I say, I "washed my hands" of the whole thing. Sorry. Couldn't resist.

One last thing: I apologize if you indeed own a decorative wooden calendar frame. In all fairness, they are likely very, very useful especially in apocalyptic type situations where one needs emergency firewood.

"Don't Know."

Lynda Barry

Lately I've been reading books about art and the creative process. They're rebuilding me. I need to do this sometimes. (Don't you?) A little art therapy I guess.

One of the books is a graphic non-linear autobiography. The narrator tells her own story through a series of drawings and doodles and collages framed by thoughts. In one section she's doodling and there are ghosts behind her yelling "Don't Know!"  The girl is the book's author struggling with her desire to become an artist. The problem is she doesn't know if her work is any good. She's already experienced that inevitable turning point we all undergo at some point regarding self-expression and art: someone judged her work negatively. Now she is followed by ghosts whose lingering presence forces her to question the value of her work. And she just can't determine anymore what's good. Before, it didn't matter.

So how does one know if something is truly good?

"Don't know."

Every child experiences this. Every artist experiences this. Really anyone who creates anything. I very clearly recall winning an art contest in Grade 3. There was an assembly and I was presented with a book. The man reached out to shake my hand but I didn't know what he was doing so I stood there until finally I reached up and held his hand for a while. He laughed. For years after that I wondered, am I an artist? Art class, for me, was my school safe place. I enjoyed most things about school but Art class felt more like home than my own home. I never felt stupid there. And honestly I don't ever remember being criticized there but I do remember one useless lesson I learned at some point in junior high: real boys don't do art. And that's when the critic appeared: me.

I just finished my first year in a new job. Despite the many challenges, I almost entirely loved the job. Especially the creativity. The risk-taking. The problem-solving. Testing hypotheses. The play. Never the same day twice. Researching. Collaborating. Designing. Learning. Developing the art of it. Practicing. It was hard. But it rarely felt like work. But I wonder, was it good? I truly think it was and yet....

"Don't know?"

Some things just cannot be judged at least not in quantifiable ways. I believe, once again, that what's most valuable is not measurable. Like art. So I say: "ghosts, go away."

Things that are most likely the devil:

bullying.

Some People

What for?

I tend to avoid people who gloat. Braggarts exhaust me. My immediate compulsion is to disappear. It's yet another circumstance where I would love a magic remote control so I could press the pause option and interrupt all that showboating thus allowing me to, uh, pull an (e)scapegloat.

What do people have to gloat about anyway? It's just not Canadian boring.

I only recall one sustained gloat-fest encounter from which I couldn't escape. Many years ago we invited some new neighbours over, a couple we thought we might have a lot in common with but had never socialized with before. After dinner we were talking about something, the women in one room, the men in another (as usual, sadly) when suddenly the gloater randomly asked me if I wanted to see his American Express gold card.

I laughed in his face.

This was followed by an short awkward pause during which I searched his eyes for some punch line and then with my questioning eyes I remember whispering "seriously?" Oddly, he was not at all phased by my reaction. So what's a guy to do when confronted with some weird-ass dominance hierarchy scenario in his very own living room? Being poor and completely disinterested in this sort of posturing and clearly happy to be the beta male in this situation, I shrugged my shoulders and nodded as he opened his wallet. I recall chuckling somewhat still wondering if he was just messing with me. But nope. He was indeed serious, obviously blinded by some sort of clinical case of "gloatitis," because after the exalted card was held up like the Lion King he then provided, verbally, an itemized list of purchases, the insane cost of his wife's engagement ring, blah, blah, blah....

Yup. That was the first time I met Donald Trump. *wink* I realize now he may have pissed on one of my trees before he left my yard that night. Anyway, we didn't invite them over again after that. My wife and I don't enjoy gloat-cheese.

Here's an idea: instead of a gloat button, why not a whoop-whoop button? There's nothing wrong with celebrating one's accomplishments but as the saying goes, "flattery is all right as long as you don't inhale."

Wordfuse (Oscars Edition)

It's inspiring to witness someone's dream come true. This might be part of the appeal of the Oscars.


It's not so inspiring when an actor's dream accomplishment is overshadowed by cosmetic surgery gone so awry that one watching is moved to fuse the words surgery and REALLY?

#whoa
#notfoolinganyone
#remembertothankyourdoctor
#poordeludedmickeyrourke
#imagineseth&amysayingit

Monomania

Image from here.

I like this word.

Apparently, monomania is a psychological condition whereby an individual is fixated on a particular way of thinking, a delusional way of thinking. 

There's a French synonym for it: idée fixe.

I think that phrase summarizes it perfectly. 

Pathological examples apparently include seriously unhealthy fixations such as anorexia nervosa or de Clerambault's syndrome when psychiatric patients are absolutely convinced their doctors are in love with them or even people who are convinced that aliens leave messages on their voice mail (or maybe just being Donald Trump).

In a senseless way it sorta makes sense doesn't it? That is why I have formulated my own pea-brained theory about monomania: tragic patients, creepy stalkers and Roswell pilgrims aside, I believe everyone has a mild/moderate case of monomania.

Think about it. We probably all need to be a little more self-reflective and a little more critical of our perceptions and why we believe what we believe. 

I definitely do. My typical idée fixes include

1. Something I like to call "worst-case-scenario-izing."
2. That I strongly resemble Russell Crowe, or if I'm truly being honest, he resembles me.
3. I sometimes believe wholeheartedly that a clever turn of phrase in a film or TV show was actually, at some point, inspired by something I said.

De. Lu. Sion. Al. (But fun!)

What are yours?

Wordfuse (Pitiful Attempt Edition)

blundertaking (noun): blunder + undertaking = the act or endeavor of one who embarks on a task, project or pursuit that he or she is almost surely doomed to screw up; however, the blundertaker, compelled by the remote possibility of success (aka a 1% chance), feels driven to attempt anyway. See here and here. And see here as I continue to attempt do-it-yourself plumbing today. 


(Maybe say a prayer.)

This is my hood.

This is my neighbourhood. Word.
What's yurs like?

Was and Wasn't

     Eight years ago this week, my Dad left our home and returned to Saskatchewan for Christmas and to await another spring, his favourite time of the year. Before he left, he stood at his truck, afraid someone was going to hug him. While my wife and kids and I hugged my Mom, my Dad stood his ground. I obliged his unspoken request but my wife and children (just barely school-aged then) didn't. The next time I saw my Dad he was dead. I had a feeling. He died suddenly on a cold spring morning the following April. My Mom said he was eating breakfast and suddenly pushed the table away and fell to the floor.
     In the past eight years, I have thought about my Dad many days. We didn't have a typical father-son relationship. I suppose no one does. What is a normal relationship? And yet our relationship seemed closer than the one my older brothers had with him. At least, I think it was. (As close as Dad might ever get.) Yet we didn't agree on much. I am still the black sheep.
     My brothers are practical and responsible and industrious. They are what he expected. Me not so much. I once thought I was his opposite but I'm not, and yet I am. Confusing, I know, but I'm trying to explain. I saw the side of my Dad other people rarely ever saw simply because I was always seeking to know the real him. I saw the cracks and I pried them open. I never bought his facade and I challenged his bullshit. I asked personal questions. I rattled him. I got under his skin. I very rarely ever intentionally disrespected him and I surely did not want to purposely disappoint him but I didn't avoid anything out of politeness either.
     And I think I became the side of himself he hid, the side I pried open, the side I was so keenly interested in: the man who loved movies and stories and beauty and humour, the curious man, the man who dreamed of flying, the man who wanted to explore the world, the candid man, the emotional man, the spiritual man, the foolish, silly man who didn't act his age. Sometimes I'm positive I became the man he might have become if his mother hadn't become frail and absent and bed-ridden for almost two decades and his father had not become an alcoholic. In other words, the man he might have become if he had actually had a childhood.
     Is that what we do with parents? Mine them for the qualities we want to inherit and disdainfully discard the rest? And then wind up with what we chose and their worst qualities too? I seek to make you understand him and yet I didn't really understand him myself.

• He loved to talk and exaggerate and spin a good yarn yet he always avoided the truth of the matter.
• He was not demonstrative or affectionate yet he never once hit or spanked us.
• He wheezed when he laughed and he laughed a lot yet he had a grinchy demeanor.
• He swore all the time yet he never once said fuck.
• He believed in work, it was his religion yet he hated churches. 
• He was a farmer, practical and rooted in harsh reality yet he was a dreamer, always seeking spring instead of admitting fall frost. (He made me a dreamer too.)
• He wanted to fly a plane someday. He even built a runway. (Tell me that's not a dreamer.) It never happened yet he made sure to arrange my first plane trip, something I'll never forget.
• He loved to travel yet he did not believe in recreational or holiday time.  
• He made toys out of iron to give his grandchildren yet he claimed he was so busy he had to work 18 hours a day.
• He said that to raise happy kids you should just give them everything they want yet he had nearly nothing growing up.
• He always told me land was the most important thing and that someday some of his beloved property would be mine but this never happened; instead he paid for my education even though he detested universities.
• He always gave rides to hitch-hikers, he was quick to share gum, candies, money in his wallet, he frequently forgave long overdue bills, yet he didn't believe in charity.
• He would always sit on his knees at the kitchen table and there would be a big ring of salt and pepper around his plate whenever I cleared away his dishes yet he never said please or thank you.
• He loved the outdoors and wildlife and would bring home wounded animals: rabbits, an owl, a bear cub (I kid you not), even a raven yet he loved his bulldozer and thought nothing of pushing down trees and busting through beaver dams and thought climate change was a comedy routine.
• He was overtly political and he told me who I should vote for; I rarely voted for his candidate yet I could never fathom not voting (and now refuse to tell my own children for whom I vote).
• He told me once after we finished installing a door: "There, now we can quit arguing." Confused, I replied, "I didn't know we were."
• He often told his friends I was smart and they would tell me about these conversations later yet of course, I most strongly remember the one time he directly told me I was stupid.
• He always had to be in charge or first (so exasperating) yet he rarely had to tell us twice and never had to raise his voice.
• He loved to remind me that his mother was an artist. He loved country music, dances, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and a good movie bar-fight and he loved it when a sassy woman punched a man in the movies and he loved "The Flintstones" and restoring old vehicles and welding and building toys yet he thought the arts were a waste of time and money. 
• He held not-so-private grudges yet no one was ever turned away from our door.

     He was and wasn't many things. Just like me I guess. And if I could, I probably wouldn't change anything about him. Miss you Dad.

Weird Word-of-the-Day

Har (interjection): expresses the sound of laughter, with a [delightfully] sarcastic connotation.

You might be thinking that I forgot to double the har. Nope. I prefer one. I do indeed appreciate this word's sarcastic-ness but I enjoy it more for its disconcerting nature, especially when using it just once. Doubling the word sends a fairly clear message: "I find what you say to be harmlessly amusing but silly." However, the single har implies something different, something more difficult to interpret.
That's why I've decided a single har is the perfect comeback for my teens. It flummoxes them. Momentarily perplexed, it knocks them off balance, makes them jittery. (Yeah. My parenting goals are likely not chapter titles in parenting guru handbooks. But whatev.) This technique might even be the dazzle camouflage of the war that my wife and I are currently fighting known as raising teens. An example follows.

Teendaughter: Just so you know, I volunteered to be the designated driver after the party tonight at [insert name of teen-with-too-much-freedom here]...

Pulsing Forehead Vein (this is what I named the voice inside my head in these types of situations): When did she ask for the vehicle? When did she ask to go to the party? Where is this party? Who is chaperoning this party? What sorts of frat-boy teen wannabes will be at this party? Where is my taser? Oh hell no...

Teendaughter: (ignoring my pulsing forehead vein) and drive everyone home...

Pulsing Forehead Vein: With our one-and-only family vehicle? The same one I'm sort-of partial to no one barfing in?! The same one you never, ever offer to put gas in? Oh hell no...

Teendaughter: (bubbly) But because it will take a lot of time to drive everyone home I will need a later curfew.

Me: (one eyebrow raised, high intensity eye contact engaged) Har.

Teendaughter: (confused silence as she eyes me curiously and realizes the conversation is not going to continue according to her happy-go-lucky-out-the-door-before-anyone-can-say-no plan) MOOOOOOOOOM!

Yup. I love this word.

Wordfuse

     fauxthentic (adjective): faux + authentic = a word used to describe something or someone obviously fake, yet legitimately so (as if the subject owns their disingenuousness, either due to cluelessness, entitlement or deep, deep insecurities [perhaps all three]); subjects fitting this description often inspire their own Halloween costumes (and sue for their share of the profits).

     See spray-painted pink metal Christmas trees, politicians shaking hands with "the people" during election time, reality showmances or Snooki for example: Bravo Television executives, excited to offer viewing audiences barely tweaked versions of what they are already watching in horror, have announced the latest fauxthentic reality show: The Real Housewives of Celebrities in Rehab (who may or may not have been on Dancing with the Stars.)

Likers

     I have a little confession: those screaming girls at concerts scare me. They look like one giant congealed living thing glued together with hairspray, its countless mouths opening and closing, it's camera-flash eyes like high-frequency tics. 

     Yeah. I'm not much of a crowd person. But I do enjoy concerts. Sort-of. I find them curiously engaging like I'm studying them for an anthropology class or something. I know that feeling of mass movement, hopping to the beat, a synergy with friends and strangers, rushing the stage, a throng thronging. I remember Rod Stewart once leaning down and offering his hat to one of those screaming girls who likely still keeps it under glass.

     Despite appreciating those experiences, what I really prefer is the music minus the drama. Unplug it and I will come. I recall that happening twice and those were my favourite concerts ever: the legendary Ray Charles and the one-of-a-kind Buffy St. Marie. Did girls ever scream at those two? 

     Although I may never intentionally attend another concert where screaming is on the playlist, I must confess something else too: I respect those mildly pathetic and scary screaming girls. Why? I guess it’s because I prefer the “likers.”

     I’m sick of haters. Take Justin Bieber for example. Maybe I don’t buy his music and maybe I don’t know why so many girls apparently watch him blow-dry his hair on you tube but I certainly don’t hate him or his music. I’m just bored when people choose people to hate and wear their hatred like a badge that provides them with an identity.

     Sure. Everyone has the right to their preferences. And I'd prefer my likers to be more low key and less pathetic, yet even if it manifests itself in the form of one gullible screaming girl at a time, I must confess that I am pleased whenever there is a little less hatred in the world. 

Weird Word-of-the-Day Wednesday

schmaltz (noun): "excessive sentimentalism, nostalgia, fond memories." Apparently derived from the Yiddish word smalts meaning "melted fat." Uh, what?! Anyway...

     I'm feeling schmaltzy tonight looking at my school photo from Grade 9 circa 1980s. Look at me! How did I not know what a chick-magnet I was? Okay, maybe not a chick-magnet but at least chick bait? Or maybe a dangling carrot? (Yeah I know. Quit with the metaphors. It's getting awkward.)

     Check out my feathered hair. And count them: three unfastened buttons, intended (I guess) to show off my manly chesthairlessness. The eyes (and the open shirt) say confident but the slightly skewed mouth says facade-hiding-my-geekness-about-to-crack. 

     Here's what I remember thinking about then:

1. Christie Rudy.

2. How did Kate Stagman get away with a book report on a book that doesn't exist?!

3. Dodgeball sort-of freaks me out.
4. Why isn't Suzanne Somers on Three's Company anymore?

5. Christie Rudy.