Things that deserve the stink-eye:

when birds conspire.

Wordfuse (Celebration Edition)

Interjection (inspired by the phrase just sayin'.)






A phrase used to describe the sheer unrestrained joy when one's DIY HELL blundertakings are finally FINALLY over!!!!! This unbridled elation may be accompanied by several fist pumps and a variety of other exaggerated celebratory behaviour. (And probably scotch. Lots. Of. Scotch.)

Sometimes. Sheesh.

Disturbing.

Sometimes I leave notes for myself. Reminders.

And then forget about them.

Uh, I wonder what this one means?

Things that are most likely the devil:

This is a reasonable bedtime snack. Right?

This appetizer packs a thwack of calories. But I don't care. I want one.

Fathers' Day Gifts

Dads: you must save the Fathers' Day gifts.

Dear Daughter & Dear Son,

I saved all those handmade gifts you gave me. They are adorable. I treasure them. Kudos to your teachers for fostering the arts and for helping provide evidence that you once thought I was "#1" and "the best."

And now that you are teens and have a tendency to loathe me at times, these have become even more precious. I am going to start using them for guilt purposes. Next time you stomp away to your room in a huff or ignore me, I might just hang one of these on your door or put it under your dinner plate.

Have a nice day.

Love,
Dad

Write something up.

I'm proud of the people in Vancouver who are trying to
trump shameful stupidity with kind words.
Image from here. 

Zoetic (Random Chalker Edition)

Thanks random sidewalk chalk kid. I needed that.
Maybe you need a reminder too?

I had no idea.

Whistling in the dark?

I always wanted to be a father. I had no idea.

Being a father is hard. It's not like my two teens make it hard, at least not any harder than any other kids do. I love my kids like I love writing. More. But I had to grow into this role.

I am not a friend to my teens. I do not treat them as equals. Instead, I'm a coach. That's how I would describe it. Their personalities demand it. I teach. Encourage. Discipline. Enforce boundaries. Help set goals. Advise. Make them think. Steer them toward their talents. Question their choices. Force them to make choices. Push. Pull. Mentor. Counsel. Cheer. Convince. Collaborate (to a point). Remind them to shake it off. Believe in them. Caution them when they win. Love them when they lose. And sometimes I just let them play while I go regroup.

I wish I could be more, and less. Less selfish. I wish I were one of those born-to-be-a-father fathers. They do exist. I know some. Sure. They're human. They only seem perfect. But still...

Don't tell them, but there are times when I don't father my teens. And you know what? Those are my absolute favourite times being a father. Those times are rare. Some examples:

When we travel together. Our favourite trips north south east west mean so much to me: wandering together, discovering, exploring, sharing. Love that. When I listen to my son play guitar. When I listen to my daughter sing. When my son and I golf; I never act like a parent during those excursions. (We eat chips, catch frogs, find lost golf-balls; I let him lead; he's a much better golfer than I am.) And I'm never the parent when my daughter and I discover a new song or new book or a quirky movie to share, discuss, revel in.

It probably doesn't seem like much. But that's just the way it is. Right now anyway. When they were young, everything was a discovery together: snow, debating if the moon is a boy or a girl, the ocean floor covered with starfish. Loved that. But they are becoming their own people now, just as they always were, just as it should be.

Yes. Fathering is hard. I had no idea.

Clunkers

Image from here.

I'm not a car snob. I could care less. As long as it works. (Don't ask me how it works; I don't know.) There is one type of car I love though....

Old cars. Clunkers. At my age I no longer want one, but I love old cars. I'm not referring to vintage cars or collector cars. That hobby confuses me. I pine for cars that won't pass inspection, the ones that negatively affect the environment. They're rare now. Every time I encounter one roaring down the highway like a lawnmower it transports me to my high school/University days. Beaters. Love 'em.

My first car was a heap. My Dad bought several beaters for me (he was kind of a hoarder before hoarders had TV shows and mental health professionals). Never much more than $500, their engines were in decent condition, their bodies in need of reconstructive surgery or at least a serious make-over. I didn't care. (Cars today look like they're on botox.)

My first car was blue, a 1970s something-or-other barge of a car. (I'm can't remember makes and models; it's not my thing.) Rust bloomed here and there. Even the windshield wipers were gigantic. I could fit eight friends into that beast, easily. It had a hole in the interior ceiling. The trunk seemed just as large as the interior. No seat-belts. And it was puuuuuuure freedom.

My second car was red, a little newer but still from the wrong decade. Smaller but more rust-blooms. And an interior broiled by the sun on some used car lot until it cracked. Seats doubled as back-scratchers. The rear doors didn't often open. A year later, the rear door handles were ripped off after my friends simply pulled harder to open them, forgetting the handles were useless. Again, pure freedom and fun (especially when the girls had to crawl into the backseat).

My third car was brown. Again 4-door; again wrong decade. Once, at a party, a friend backed into it. I had left the party for a while to attend a different party so he couldn't locate me and confess so, concerned, he called me the next day. I had driven it home that night but didn't notice the dent. I told him not to worry about it. With all the rust, what difference would a dented door make?

Cars are so expensive now people are rabid about protecting them. I can't fault anyone for that. It's a big investment. I forget sometimes. Our vehicle is new and shiny and predictably reliable but still...it lacks personality. Where's the character?

Speaking of character, there's only one problem with those rust-heap, high rev clunkers I love. Nowadays pretty much only serial killers drive them.

5 Things

(My idea book overfloweth.)

Why write?
I believe that writing

1. heals, yourself first (then others).
2. builds: words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, prose and poetry but moreover, it architects ideas, ideas upon which people can stand and speak and change the world.
3. reveals the wizard operating the wizard behind the curtain.
4. creates & preserves & even damages (be careful: it's powerful).
5. echoes (it's a kind of alchemy time travel too).