Things one should outgrow

The OG Scottish oatcakes. Yum.

In Nairn, Scotland this summer I discovered The Scottish Oats Bible cookbook. It provided more than just a recipe for oatcakes (a traditional Scottish healthy food staple); it offered insight into recurring habits I've worked hard to break, one that periodically hijacks all my creative pursuits. 

I've been teaching myself to bake for years now. It's artsy and inventive, and sharing my creations with my friends/kids/grand-turkeys is joyful. It's also nostalgic; many of my recipes are connected to my past, including the Scottish oatcakes of my youth.

A family member had already provided my childhood recipe:

🥣Melt 1 cup of butter.

🥣Stir in 1.5 cups of brown sugar (vanilla & salt to taste).

🥣Stir in 4 cups of rolled oats (I added 1/4 c chopped almonds).

🥣Add mixture to greased muffin tins and bake at 350℉ for 18 minutes.

A totally "healthy food staple" right? Nope...but easy-peasy and delicious? Oat-ally!

Sure, the cookbook offered some tweaks, but then I (over)thought... I should revamp this recipe... I should make them healthier... I could use a sugar substitute... Applesauce...? Crushed bananas...? I could add protein... Hmm, my version isn't good...YET... I should add jam to my recipe... they're still garbage.... Notice what happened? 

There's nothing inherently wrong with reinvention; it's a key component in creativity. But it can slip into something I've struggled with that I'd call "self-surveillance." 

If you grow up in a neglectful or highly critical environment (both), that tricky inner narrator likes to monitor, judge, and urge you to adjust and adjust expecting improvements. Sure, it's a growth mindset but one that has run amok. It also elevates product over process, and when the product (for me) is food, shame will inevitably show up to gatecrash this party. But then I recall that there are those truly healthy alternatives. Being yumped. Living in the moment. Peace. (Insert cleansing breath here.)

Dear friends, how do you ignore/quiet/bludgeon your inner Statler & Waldorf?

Things that deserve more stink eye?

Um, this was a surprise. Hmm...is it just a coincidence or is this some sort of (cryptic) response to my recent post (beef) about WORDLE?

Um, you know when you've been joking (shit-talking) about the Internet (wasteland) and sharing your totally unserious (serious) feelings about sentient (consciously malicious) technology and (hostile) AI and the INEVITABLE SINGULARITY SPONSORED BY BILLIONAIRES (the greed-based ongoing decline toward a hell-scape dystopia whereby us regular folks are enslaved by our phones/ technology in service to corrupt influencers and unrestrained plutocrats aka META et al).... Well c'mon Internet (LORD OF THE PINGS), all I did was challenge WORDLE to a battle of wits!

So, am I officially frenemies with WORDLE? Or is this a white flag? Or is this a threat disguised as a white flag? (Spoiler: YES IT IS.) Now that they've destabilized me, who knows what this means, and what's next?!

Wordfuse (Excessive Words Edition)

I like to make up words.

(noun) PS (PostScript) + ness = an occasionally sarcastic but mostly polite word/euphemism used to describe compulsive talkers, (myself included) who continue blathering on much longer than is necessary (post script after post script after...) but due to the ideal combination of speaker and listener the experience is mutually rewarding aka a total vibe. 

Think of those fun people with whom you just click like long lost friends but after 35 minutes of blathering in the grocery store you missed a meeting, an appointment, your kids' swim meet, your job, your newborn's birth, etc. On the flipside are those compulsive talkers with an appalling lack of self-awareness about their annoying verbosity aka talkaholism. 

Dear friends, how do you halt a talkaholic?

Things the deserve/give the stink-eye:

←Tell me you've been to Canadian Tire without telling me you've been to Canadian Tire. 

Um, yikes. Canadian Tire garden and lawn statues are next level disturbing. Who is paying hundreds of dollars for these resin abominations?  

Need an obviously fake panda in a bamboo cage? Get it at CT. Need a gnome doing yoga? Also at CT. Or in this case, an owl with Graves disease? I must ask you, CT, have you ever seen an owl? Because let's be honest: in this case, your lawn crimes are owl of control. 😜

Small

I've shared a few graffiti based travel posts, so I thought I'd do one more, but I'd describe this one as low controversy, high importance. 

Dear friends, although I'm a bit confused by this graffiti artist's phrasing, I say yes, go hug your Nan. (Believe me, I would if I could.)

After taking the ferry from Scotland to Belfast, Ireland, our first visit was to the Duke of York Pub, (apparently) a famous party spot in the Cathedral district. This is not why we chose to wander inside but I'm glad we did. They allow you to write on the walls! 

I might be the only person to ever describe a pub this way, but it reminded me of a time-travel version of my childhood school with the wooden desks (the ones I desperately wanted to write on), albeit with a lot more Guinness than Mrs. Pochipinski's classroom ever had. 😄

Guess who always has a pen with him? Hmm...so where did I leave my small mark? Well, friends of a certain age, some agist pylon wrote "old people are weird," so next to it I retaliated with a stern, "no we're not." Sorted that out, didn't I? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

24/31

Links to 23/31 &
the 31 Vibrant Things
Launch Post

Although I've never experienced a house fire, my entire community was once threatened by wildfire. Sadly, most of us can tell similar stories nowadays.  

So today, I chose a fire hydrant because it's a profoundly vibrant thing but unless there's one in your front yard, I bet you (like me) may struggle to pinpoint where exactly they are in your neighbourhood. Related to this topic, how many firefighters do you know? I know one, but he's not inclined to discuss his work, or even broach the subject other than this: he deeply values and trusts the people on his team. This makes me curious. 

Let's contemplate fire hydrants. What do we actually know about them? 

Quick research reveals they are typically colour-coded according to water capacity, even type of water (potable or not). They are flow-tested at least twice yearly and are replaced approximately every 50 years. Apparently, in Canada, they are pressurized to keep the water below the freezing line. 

All this adds up to key community infrastructure produced and maintained thanks to our taxes, an investment in security, a safety net, an insurance policy we hope we will never need. This implies that fire hydrants are abstractly future-orientated, so is that why we don't pay attention to something so valuable, so key to our well-being? And what else do we take for granted?   

Until we need those fire hydrants.

Of late, I've grown weary of people who seek more and more and more, heedless or blind or willfully ignorant to all they already have. I'm not referring to those seeking solutions for important social issues we should all rally to improve: education, health care, poverty, injustice, inequality, and so on, nor am I suggesting that the status quo remain uncontested. I'm speaking of those who will never be satisfied....

Perish the thought their houses were burning. But no matter—my fire hydrant will always be my neighbour's fire hydrant, even if my neighbour didn't notice there are fire hydrants all over this safe and thriving and cherished country, even if my neighbour feels somehow cheated and maltreated by our community. And the firefighters? They won't think twice about rushing into their homes to save them no matter the ideology that makes them perceive themselves as hard done by... and I hope you know, dear friends, I am not just talking about fire hydrants. 

23/31

Links to 22/31 &
The 31 Vibrant Things Launch Post

Nope. 

My partner and her friends are rarely without (spiked) coffee hence this Wayne Gretzky Maple Cream in our kitchen. But let's be clear: it was a gift. 

Since the US Orange Toddler King called Canadian hockey legend Gretzky a "good friend...who wants to make [Trump] happy," CBC news has reported his popularity among Canadians has decreased about fifty percent to 35% favourability. Around that time, thousands in Edmonton, Alberta signed petitions to rename Wayne Gretzky Drive, the road next to the old coliseum where he led the Edmonton Oilers team to win four Stanley Cups in the 1980s. What's that saying? FA¯\_(ツ)_/¯FO 

Canadians paid careful attention to how Gretzky responded to the Liar-in-Chief 's 51st state blathering. If you can call it a response, Gretzky said, "I'm just a hockey player." 

Hmm. Sure, Jan.  In fact, Mr. Gretzky, you are also a corporation that sells liquor and clothing and hockey sticks, all vibrant things that were once meaningfully connected to pride and identity for most Canadians. Isn't it curious how many leaders seem to have suddenly lost their voices? It makes one wonder if they were ever leaders at all? 

Following is one of my favourite quotes, an idea I truly affirm: "you are the average of the five people you spend most of your time with." In my life, choosing my circle carefully, has made all the difference. We Canadians continue to make choices about the many circles that integrate us with the US. We know that someday, US citizens will replace Kim Don Un and the majority of us will dance in the streets with them, but until then, we will do those necessary little things because they continue to all add up to bigger things. 

20/31

Links to 19/31 &
The 31 Vibrant Things Launch Post

As I've been exploring in this series, it seems to me that vibrant things do in fact possess a power over us: "philosopher Jane Bennett theorizes that things have a sort-of agency—they can "speak" to us... open windows to memories and ideas... summon a deeper relationship." 

So could someone tell my kettlebells? 

I would like them to speak to me like my pea-brain imagines a personal trainer would similar to my 1980s (old-school) PE teacher who would watch some of us attempt various sports and shame us with his literal groans, ha. 

Why won't my kettlebells yell at me and demand I lift them, repeatedly, until I finally morph into the muscular gymbro I was always meant to be? Er, who am I kidding? I just want to live longer and it's my kettlebells' responsibility, right? I'm sure they're well-versed in the facts about aging and muscle loss and protein and grip strength and longevity and other such jargon that bores me—I'm an English major and the only word I like in this (run-on) sentence is jargon. (Actually I quite like the sound of longevity as well.) 

But let's be honest: my not-so-vibrant kettlebells don't give a shit about me. (Insert my old PE teacher's shame groan here.) Do they help me? No. They just sit on their rocker-recliners ,watching TV. (Sometimes I watch with them.) IYAM, at this point they're more like dumb-bells because all my kettlebells do is silently mock me. 

19/31

Links to 18/31 &
The 31 Vibrant Things Launch Post

This green ceramic pig with wings sits on a table in the corner of our living room at the front window, looking outside. No one in my family knows this, but this vibrant thing has a job. So shhhhhhhhhh.

I saw it in a home decor store years ago and it said, "buy me!' Also this: "if you buy me, you're an idiot." Also this: "You know you're going to buy me so stop fighting it...you idiot." Also this: "I'm hilarious and stupid and unnecessary and you know that's why you love me!" 

I circled that store like six times trying to leave without this pig, and then it whispered, "I am the middle finger to everyone who ever told you that whatever you thought you could be or do or become was IMPOSSIBLE." 

And so I bought it. I swear the cashier stifled a laugh as I paid her... maybe $29? BUT IT WAS WORTH IT. 

Hear me out: like, who doesn't need a pig with wings? Dear friends, do not believe the naysayers: PIGS FLY! All the time! If you are paying attention, here we are living in a world of everyday impossibles: texting and refrigeration and antibiotics and driverless cars and facial biometrics and contact lenses and hydraulics and vaccines and contraception and pasteurization and the scientific method and deodorant... just look around. 😶

But there's something else about this pig: I trust him—he helps me cope with letting go. Purchased around the time my selfish tender heart was grappling with both our kids leaving home, I fretted how was I supposed to live without them? Sure, I wanted those teens to get the H out of our house then, but would we ever be together again? I could imagine many irrational things that might interfere, might make it impossible for us to be together—crimes, disasters, death—but let's be honest friends, never once did I imagine a pandemic BUT THAT HAPPENED, so irrational thoughts or not, insert smug face emoji here. 

The pig looks out the window because (like me) he's waiting for my son and my daughter to return home. And whenever they both do (with silent relief), I turn this winged pig toward our living room to watch us talk and debate and laugh and eat cupcakes and play games and now our grandkids are here too and all of this is joyful PROOF that despite all the possible ways that this harsh world might plot to prevent us from being together again, we are somehow together anyway and yes dear friends I'm grateful that the impossible is indeed possible. 

11/31

Links to 10/31 &
the 31 Vibrant Things Launch Post

Christmas lights? Nope. 

They irk me. 😡

Yes, it's irrational, yes it's unfounded, yes it's ironic, yes I'm not proud of it, and yes, you wouldn't think deep breathing is necessary but yes, it is. 

Also this: I know I'm not alone in being riled by these truly vibrant things—things that should evoke celebration, joy, peace, contentment, but instead, they make my blood pressure spike. 

My reasoning? Let's be honest: they can be a cumbersome chore. I once read a news report about a man who attempted to untangle his Christmas lights and after hours of strained patience, he finally got his hand gun and blasted them...then his neighbours reported him. Yes, too far dude, but isn't there a tiny part of you...?

The main reason though? THEY JUST CAME DOWN YESTERDAY. Yesterday. 

Our relentless snowfall, our mini ice-age finally melted (like, last week), and it took a few days to get around to removing them rage-yanking the Christmas lights off the tree in the front yard. Side note: imagine a Maypole dance scene written by Stephen King—that would be me circling our ten foot tree as I unravel a string of Christmas lights (oh jingle bells) seething all the way, deep breathing all the way + 18 swear words, lol. Sigh.   

Here's the kicker: my wife absolutely adooooooooorrrrrrrrrrres Christmas lights. I'm happy they make her happy, but this also means my dark, destructive thoughts (irrationally longing to be vented and affirmed) must remain inside, inconspicuous, and in-check, or risk becoming infamous. 

Here's my point, dear friends: in marriage and partnership things like clutter, or dishes, or laundry, or thermostats, or tchotchkes, and yes decorations too...well, let's just concede that one person's vibrant thing might be more torment than blessing. 

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

April is Poetry Month

I adore this strange poem. It disturbs, yet... uplifts too?  

One of my earliest memories is standing (rapt and terrified) next to a cow in bloat. Maybe four or five years old, I longed to run but I couldn't move. A medical emergency, bloat occurs when a cow overeats, the ingested feed ferments and excessive gas expands internally; it must be released or the cow will die quickly. But the men in that field that day (including my father) just paced and grimaced and stared. They seemed to be trying to decide something. I didn't know it at the time, but a veterinarian was on his way. What I recall most clearly was the cow's suffering—its frantic and unrelenting bawling—and although childhood me couldn't fully grasp the procedure and its intensity, finally, finally, finally someone arrived and I witnessed a puncturing and heard the gas release like a balloon deflating. The bawling ceased. The cow stood up.

I apologize for these images which are especially potent for animal-lovers, also for the poem which may be upsetting. But I share these words and this story, because no doubt this experience helped me learn compassion and empathy, key factors in shaping my neurobiology, my emotional intelligence...but something more too, something dark I continue to confront.... 

This formative event thrust me into a degree of discomfort I'd never experienced before and one I never wanted to experience again. Already an anxious and stressed child, this incident reinforced avoidance.  Childhood me longed to ESCAPE and quite frankly, it became my default. I'm not proud of it, but I only have enough capacity to remain in the north field with those closest to me. I soooo admire people, those nurses, and doctors, and counsellors, the firefighters, the death doulas...but I am not a rescuer.  

This is why I appreciate this poem—despite featuring a seemingly imminent death—Gilpin focuses on an alternative perspective, a less sober and severe inevitability—albeit temporary. The poem features no rescuer, just a cow and her calf in a cloudless field, alive. In this poem, I am not the farm boys seeking notoriety, nor the cow or her calf, but instead I relate to the poet.    

Dear friends, I can't save you, and I'm sorry for that, but I will always want you to notice the stars. 

Fed up?

Fuel your body & feed your mind.

I've been thinking about breakfast for supper: it's refreshing, uncommon, even a tad disruptive. 

I'm interested in disruption, in being unruly. Aren't you? 

If you're thinking that my example isn't exactly rebellious, you're correct. It's a meagre example, but the sentiment is what's important. 

I've been reading some terrific books, two classics. 

1. In Letter to my Father, Kafka denounces his father's callousness and cruelty and yet never shares the letter with him. However, for over 100 years now, we the public can read it and perhaps feel a bit emboldened, a bit inspired to challenge authority, even an authority that has provided much but is stuck by mental rigidity, discord, and selfishness. 

2. I also read Camus' The Stranger, and it's clear now why this book is a philosophy must-read. The protagonist is so damn frustrating; his entrenched mindset leads to his downfall, but that is Camus' greatest maneuver: we readers must ask ourselves why we think so differently and then wonder perhaps are we just as entrenched in a status quo? 

I bet Kafka and Camus liked breakfast for dinner.

Dear friends, haven't we had enough of the current (and appalling) status quo? The chaos? The corruption? The unchecked oligarchies? The nauseating greed? The shame flung at the Pope for not endorsing war? WTAF? Is it finally FINALLY time to eat this chaos for breakfast? 

I think the world has had enough; recent backlash feels different. I know feelings aren't facts. I know. I know. How dare I be optimistic in this economy? But isn't optimism itself rebellious? We are made to feel small and powerless in this doom culture but we can still read and write and tell and resist and persist and vote and boycott and protest and multiply and amplify those voices likewise fed up. 

Things that deserve the pink-eye:

Big sniff energy?

whatever this is. 

Gross. 

😒😷👎

Yes indeed, practically every time I acquire a head cold with a runny nose, if I blow my nose too hard AIR ALSO COMES OUT OF MY EYE! 

Yes, you read that correctly.

I did not have rebellious tear-ducts on my aging bingo, but here we are. This condition is apparently more common in older folks, babies, and those who've broken their noses, all conditions that currently describe me—the baby part is apt since I have a cold and I'm a man—and yes I did add this for preemptive reasons in the comments. ;)

The only bonus: no pink eye. YET. 

Dear friends, aging is no a (decidedly) laughing matter. 

Lifework

I'm so inspired by the Artemis II astronauts. (Click here to read about another likewise inspired Gen X'er.) 

The mission is a milestone achievement for us Canadians as it marks the first time a Canadian (Jeremy Hansen) is part of a lunar mission. If you're following it, you also know it's the first time a woman (Christina Hammock Koch) has orbited the moon. And it's a Canadian-U.S. collaboration. Sigh, I remember those days fondly. 

I first heard about the mission over a week ago while watching a news clip during which a cynical news commentator cited the mission as yet another distraction by the US administration to deflect from ongoing scandal after scandal. At the time I felt just as cynical. I still do. How can I not? As I mull over this war and its warmonger leader easily rage-bated by a criminal regime he and his claquers thought he could bulldoze down over the weekend to do what...build a statue of himself and a ballroom? Insert 63 swear words and the barf emoji here. 

It's exhausting.

But, dear friends, look to some real leaders: the men and woman aboard this ship the size of a ten-person tent. Their aim is to test the aircraft's systems for future missions and exploration, and that in itself is historic, but in the clip below, there's a truly human operative unfolding: I'd call it lifework. Using this opportunity, the astronauts seem to surprise a fellow crew member with a touching dedication, one that speaks to authentic legacy: not greed, not fame, not to escape consequences, but what we selflessly do in the name of honour and friendship. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Rob. ber. y. 😡

I never thought I'd have to quit turkey cold turkey! 😮 

Start Fresh?

scream start fresh

It seems to me that children typically start fresh every day. And we adults...do not. And it seems to me that in restoring ourselves, it helps to be like a child, to assume the necessary disposition—open, curious, unfettered, and, er...not so damn uptight?

Dear friends, I know I have been whining about this for weeks now, and I apologize for that, but I think I think I THINK Spring is finally ready to get on the fucking dance floor!

(Sorry...still a tad pissed off.) 

Sure, today's forecast high is a mere -5C / 23F...and yes, that's still a heap of smoldering garbage BUT, if I adjust my disposition to childlike pep talk mode, I must admit that it's SO MUCH SUNNIER here FINALLY the sun the sun the sun. Despite the temperature, there's (almost) melting! That's a win! Plus, I HAVEN'T SHOVELED SNOW FOR (nearly) 24 HOURS. 

What I'm saying is this: I've lowered my expectations and it's embarrassing but I'm actively summoning some version of childlike ignorance to cope with this interminable transition aka I'll take what I get and pretend the recess bell just rang and call it STARTING FRESH and if you live in northwestern Canada, that the best one can do. 

If being less uptight doesn't work, does anyone want to meet up and scream? 

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜)

  weatherroneous

Dear friends, I introduce SPRING in Northwestern Canada. 

One might call our version of Spring 2026 less of a welcome seasonal change and more of a meteorological paradox. 😠

While other (northernish) bloggers tell of snowdrop flowers and actual butterflies, featured here is the (repellent) view through our lower floor window. Yes, that's our backyard (tomato garden box entombed) and yes, that's the peak of a neighbour's home in the distance. 

Although locally quite on brand for this winter, all this flake news has become MORE and MORE and MORE snowtiresome. 

Insert rage sigh here. 

Cliques and...

source

Unfortunately, we all know what a clique is. Sure, there are wholesome exceptions—a book club for example—but typical cliques are comprised of people who think tribalism is a personality, people who don't choose their friends carefully or, in short, sheeple—a frustrating collective driven by one or two ringleaders, secretly aching to maintain their fragile egos and dubious influence, buoyed by herd mentality and their gang, all ill-equipped or actively-resistant to thinking critically about their norms, their conduct, their code. One might call them oppressors, bullies, or the cream of the crap. 

Does my description bring anything to mind?  

Cliques are exhausting. I remember because I've been in them. I think this sort of temporary insanity is commonplace. I've learned my lessons and I'm wary. Decades later, joining ANY group for me is like a passport application: periodically necessary, but references must be involved, and I may never travel there anyway. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

But whether it's Junior High or 2026, there's no escaping some cliques: here we are again. 

I'm thinking about those groups I can't seem to ignore or escape, namely the Alberta Separatists (rolls eyes here) who aim to impose their policies on us other 7.5/10 proud-to-be-Canadian Albertans who have indeed been undervalued by our federal government, but c'mon people there's NO WAY our province would be better off independent from Canada—not to mention solvent—nor would we be independent for long—insert Orange Shitpile Biff Tannen 51st state blustering nonsense here—a reference to another relentlessly inescapable ringleader and his clique of idiots currently in charge of (effing) the (entire) world. Sigh. 

What to do though? Defying cliques is exceedingly onerous; they disregard reasoning. I'd be delusional to think this blog post would impact much of anything but nevertheless, I do hope to arm you with a new-to-me clever (and satisfying) language counterpoint to the clique: the claque. What if clique members had a word to ponder their roles as mimicking sycophants, clapping and clapping ad nauseam at their ringleaders' bullshit? 

Dear friends, I know it's only a word, but as I've suggested before, precise word-choice impacts worldview, so please use/drop/insert/release this word (like a balloon) as you see fit (sly as a fox). 

Canadian Mishap

zoomed in to said offending snowflake ;)

Curious to know a little known life-as-a-Canadian hazard?   

Choking on a snowflake. 

True story. 

Mishap occurs more than you'd think. I will never not recommend a brisk walk during a snowfall but if the wind(chill) is blowing a certain direction—the exact direction one must trudge to return home—well, dear friends, don't sing along with your ear pods or risk inhaling those adorable fluffy (damn) (killer) snowflakes. 

One more thing: if it weren't March this post would be unnecessary (even embarrassing) but it's time FOR THE MELT TO BEGIN. Sigh.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

"Illegitimi non carborundum."

 Um, why is this printer so rude? 

I have this temporary teaching gig and I'm love, love, loving it. But the printers? They're conspiring against me. I did the HR courses; I know this is low-key harassment. I mean you can't just threaten me with a papercut and call me an MF! 🤯

Indeed, I print too much but it's for EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES you copier gate-keepers. I'm not peddling microplastics or printing guns...I'm trying to prepare pre-service teachers to love teaching and create art and celebrate student self-expression and make a difference in the world...but those persnickety printers? Let's be honest: they've made it xerockward, haven't they?