Simian Farmer

A man's a man for a' that

I sat at lunch last Thursday, defending the virtues of the great chieftain o' the puddin' race to a small table full of disparaging co-workers.  The indignity I felt at having to do so wouldn't have been so pronounced had anybody else at the table ever actually tried any.

I'm talking about a haggis, of course.  Goes a long way to show the stigma applied (wrongly, so often) to so many things.

I dinna let it bother me much at all, bolstered as I was by the prospect of indulging in that same sumptuous repast the very next day.  I don't have the words right now to capture, properly, the feeling of the evening, but I did manage to secure a small bit of footage that goes a very short way towards that end.

I hope it suffices.

A new week begins

And I feel a little bit lost.  But only a little, mind.

Amy and the boys left the house yesterday about 10:30 in the morning, after which I felt a small sense of release I never would have known had been pent up.  It burst forth from my breast and flew around the living room in care-free abandon, careened off the head of the Boxer, jostled the wedding photo on the wall, and knocked the TV remote to the floor.  The sense stopped, suddenly, realised what foreign territory it had encountered, started quaking a bit, and emitted a barely audible pitiful little whimper.

It fled right back from whence it came, locked and barred the door, and I could hear it panting into a brown paper bag as it tried to stop hyperventilating.  It's still cowering there this morning as I type this.  Freedom after a long confinement can be hard... and cruel.

Similarly, I wandered about the quiet house, not quite sure what to do with myself.  I unloaded and then reloaded the dishwasher.  Checked my email.  Decided to head out to buy a bookshelf for Amy's scrapbooking area.  I texted her to let her know I'd have it assembled by the time she got back.

After I returned from my brief trip to the store, I was seriously amazed to find the house in the exact same state as that in which I left it.  That hasn't happened in four years.  FOUR YEARS!

The dogs and I have yet to establish what sort of uneasy truce will govern the week.  I retreated to the basement briefly at one point to change the load in the laundry and returned to find that the Boxer had puked up twice on the living room carpet.  Compensating for the littlest human, perhaps?  I maintained my equanimity as I dispensed paper towel to sop it up.  Silly, I thought, that the dogs will devour *whatever* the boys eject, but get picky with their own expectorations.

I had a late lunch of macaroni, and an even later supper of leftover Sex In A Pan, the cheesecake my wife cooked up for the 'Home Pleasures Party' she hosted the night before.  (Yes she bought a couple things, no I won't say what.)  It really is very good cheesecake.

I do have to admit that I re-installed that video game and indulging a couple (few... er, several) hours yesterday.  The last couple comments in the previous post force me to make this admission.  But I'll be good, I promise.

**********

I want to give a good accounting of the Burns Supper I attended on Friday.  I took several pictures and even a few choice video snippets.  I will do my best to make the homage reflective of at least part of the evening's sentiment.  Impossible to capture it all.  The keynote speaker this year - always flown in from Scotland, and normally a minister-type person - was a retired governor of the Scottish corrections system and, as always, an excellent public speaker.  His unorthodox career contributed in no small way to the occasional hilarity with which his keynote was imbued.  I'll leave with my favourite line from the night.  A healthy dose of irreverence is a key ingredient in any Burns Supper.

"Having been to Saudi Arabia, I learned that a young, unmarried couple caught in the act of fornication was like to be stoned.  This took me aback a wee bit, because in Glasgow, Scotland it's quite the other way 'round."

Road trip!

For the first time since we bought our house nearly four years ago, Amy is embarking on a road trip with our two boys, leaving me alone with the dogs.  Mom and the boys leave Sunday morning (Declan has gymnastics on Saturday) and will return home next Friday. 

They're going to see Amy's folks, five hours south of us.  After nearly 11 months, Amy's dad has yet to meet his second grandson, so that little oversight will be rectified.  (The province of Alberta is redneck by obligation, industry, inclination and choice; the further south the deeper the hue, generally.  Folks in Lethbridge, with a little practice and a stiff northerly wind, can hawk a lugie across the Montana border -- this indirectly plays into why Papa hasn't yet met Tavish, but incorrigible personal foibles don't need to be discussed right now.)  And with both Amy's mom and sister in the same city, there will be no lack of maternal oversight for the boys.

Which brings us back to me.

At home.

Alone.

For a week.

As I see it, there are a number of scenarios that can play out here, and I'm at a loss as to which will coalesce; we'll have to wait and see.  The kennel of my domestic confinement has been cracked open for a spell and I'm not yet sure if I'm dog enough to step out, rip around, and piss on a few trees.  Here's a brief run-down of some of the options that have occurred to me:

Scenario 1 - Ideal
Amy leaves with the boys and I, being the good husband, have already compiled a list of Things That Desperately Need Doing, but which have been put off interminably because our children sap our energy reserves like the parasitic little spawn they are and it's normally 10 PM most days by the time we've grappled our way back to the level of the previous day's squalor, never mind about making up ground.  (Entropy's a bitch.)  I tidy, I clean, I rearrange, I discard, I sort for a spring garage sale, I sell ersatz treasure on eBay to pay down our mortgage principal.  When all is said and done, I welcome my family home to fresh flowers and a subtly imbued orange-citrus scent that's unmistakably (and almost unrecognizably) clean.  Amy, grateful, drops the boys off at my mother's house and returns to spend the rest of the weekend making sweet, sweet love.

I really do have that list started.  One of the first items reads: "Chip six inches of dog shit off back patio."

Scenario 2 - Regression
I wave goodbye to my departing family as they pull out of the driveway Sunday morning.  As soon as the tail lights disappear around the snow cobbled corner I scurry to the basement and re-install Diablo 2 on the computer.  I violently quash the small voice in the back of my head that reminds me how I once barely survived for upwards of two months on little more than three or four hours of sleep per night and the occasional box of Kraft Dinner because of this vile game.  Shall I play a necromancer?  A druid?  A barbarian?  Who cares!!  Hygiene be damned!

Scenario 3 - Solitude
Strolling through the preternatural quiet of the house Sunday morning after departure, I glance at the stack of 'to-read' books on my night stand in the bedroom.  Ah, I say quietly, I will immerse myself in The Whale and rattle through the rest of the pile after the inevitable, tragic end of the good ship Pequod and her perfervid captain.  Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency has been waiting a good long while.  Perhaps a re-read of a favourite Guy Kay novel.  (That's a redundant phrase.)  Peruse my Shakespeare's Complete Works, reading aloud whilst gesticulating wildly in the living room.  I declaim, "Out!  Out, damned spot!" noting, wryly, how appropriate that phrase in my abode, not feeling quite as mad as Lady MacBeth.  A week's worth of evenings are spent in the Comfy Chair, neat wee dram to hand, ravenously consuming hundreds of pages of literature.

Scenario 4 - Torpor
When not at work, I will forego regular meals and ensconce myself in front of the computer, mindlessly surfing the stultifying mediocrity of the internet -- a blind man panning for gold with a flour sieve.  It is my slot machine, and my attention span its cornucopia of quarters.  There will be no reason for me to dress in ought but my underwear; I will fart and scratch unapologetically.  When hunger looms, there will be a nearby brick of cheese and a large bottle of Mountain Dew to sate my indiscriminate esurience.

Scenario 5 - Pressure
One thought returns to my head after a long absence.  I have a week to live it up as a bachelor - best not to waste it.  All leftovers and perishables are purged from the fridge to make space for beer.  I share the knowledge of a free house with a myriad of married friends.  They all make excuses with their wives to get out for most evenings.  We watch manly movies, drink to excess and grind countless calories of junk food into the funkified carpet of the living room.  Nobody fesses up to having ordered "Destiny Juggernauts" come dance for us, but there's plenty left over for a big tip after we pass the hat for the poor girl.  On Thursday - before my family returns - I have intentions to clean everything up as if nothing happened, but instead languish, watching the entire Star Wars canon accompanied by a huge bag of Cheetos.  The ensuing hell I'll catch will be a small price to pay.

(This may become the reality.  We had a retirement lunch at work on Thursday for a man who served 24 years.  They ordered in Chinese and my fortune cookie was blessed with two axioms, both of which read the same: "Investigate new possibilities with friends.  Now is the time!")

Scenario 6 - Culinary
The weekend starts with my anonymous phone call to a Korean restaurant as I plumb the depths of my depravity.  Then dig deeper.  I offer a low-ball price and free delivery.  No questions asked.

Scenario 7 - Reality
The weekend ends up being some predictable combination of 1, 2, and 3.  Perhaps a smattering of 5 (without Destiny).  Regardless, the house will be way cleaner when Amy gets home and I will have gotten drunk at least once.  It'll probably involve some Cheetos. 

I still intend to make sweet, sweet love to my wife.

In brief, the rules

I decided, rather whimsically, to participate in one of the viral phenomena that circulates around this virtual realm and furthers evidence for the claim that we are nothing but some new incarnation of Ourobourus.  Who am I to presume something so grand and ephemeral as free will?  Or an ability to resist temptation?

So, with both feet, I jump in:

Five Things You Probably Didn't Know About Me

(And You'd Likely Have Been Better Off That Way.)

1.  I frequently contemplate fluid dynamics (namely: laminar versus turbulent flow) and the marvel that is surface tension whenever I observe my urine stream.

2.  I can eat an entire McDonald's cheeseburger in a single bite.  It takes me about five minutes to chew and is, for all involved, a fairly grotesque experience.

3.  In grade two I arrived late for school one morning to find my classroom completely empty.  I felt the call of nature, but it was superseded by a groundless yet overriding fear of the kindly janitor with the thick foreign accent who roamed the halls and punished truancy (in my mind) with mop handle beatings.  My class returned from the gymnasium to find me cowering in the cloak room and I spent the rest of the morning with a small turd in my pants.

4.  My first two-wheeler was a hand-me-down from one of my babysitter's daughters.  The bike had solid rubber tires and was garishly, femininely pink.  It was a Barbie bike.

5.  I first told the woman who would be my wife that I loved her during the third week of November, 2001.  I had just returned from a leadership course where being away from her had cemented my feelings for her.  This summer will mark six years together, four of them married.

(See?  I told you.)

**********

As an added bonus, my wife told me (warned me?) last night that, starting in February, every second Friday - for the next TEN MONTHS! - there will be a Stamp Club hosted in our house for her Stampin' Up independent business venture.

I inadvertently amused myself far more than expected when I launched into an impromptu speech on the rules to be followed:

"The first rule of Stamp Club is: you do not talk about Stamp Club.

The second rule of Stamp Club is: you DO NOT TALK about Stamp Club!

The third rule of Stamp Club is: if someone runs out of card stock or glue stick, the stamping's over.

The fourth rule of Stamp Club is: no shirts, no shoes.  [woo-hoo!]

The fifth rule of Stamp Club is: the stamping will go on as long as it has to.

The sixth rule of Stamp Club is: if this is your first night at Stamp Club, you will stamp."

By the end of this nonsense I was on my knees in the kitchen laughing til the tears ran down my face, my wife looming over me wondering why the hell she ever bothered to bear my children.  Sometimes I wonder too.

They couldn't handle the buzz

Amy and Declan yesterday afternoon, watching Ice Age 2; again:

Random Mammal: But aren't the mammoths going extinct?

Manny the Mammoth: We're not going extinct!  We're the biggest things on Earth!

Mammal: So then what about the dinosaurs?

Manny: They got cocky.

[Declan turns to Amy]

"What abouta dinosaurs, Mommy?"

"They got cocky, Dex."

[Declan, confused]

Dinosaurs got coffee, Mom?"

**********

That same night Dex refused to have anything to do with supper, and instead insisted on drawing on his magna-doodle in the middle of the kitchen floor.  So we let him.  We asked him at intervals if he could please sit down and eat his rice.  It was always followed by a quiet "Nope," or a small shake of the head before he returned to his fleeting art.

Near the end of our meal Dex stood up and walked behind my chair where he started to bang his forehead gently but rhythmically against the back of my wooden seat.  Slightly exasperated, Amy asked him - again - to sit down and eat a little bit of his supper.

"No Mommy.  Finish bonking first."

Ow

I am unable to type very much due to the fact of a shooting pain in my lower back.

Amy was concerned that it might be sciatica, but the sensation only set up shop in my lower back and has yet to despatch an exploratory vanguard down my thigh, crippling my walk further (though my posture today is impeccable).  Were it to do so, I would have no recourse but to attempt a rebuff through medication, perhaps complemented by a trip to the chiropractor.

Since I'm on my ass most of a day anyway, it's not disabled my ability to type, but rather rerouted what cognitive abilities I do have to focus somewhere just above my ass.  I haven't thought about my backside this much in a very long time.  I think I need to run more.

On a more positive note, I managed to carve out enough time this weekend to plough through over 250 pages of an eagerly anticipated book.  Given domestic temporal constraints with a wife running about most of both Saturday and Sunday, and two wee boys still to fend for, my reading was restricted to the quiet hours after the rest of the house was abed.  Prime time, really.  I was interrupted only ever by the sounds of the house settling down for the night, the cycles of the dishwasher and the occasional offensive *poot* emanating from a somnolent Boxer dog one couch over.

Giving myself that time to read precluded any and all time jacked in to the virtual world -- itself an odd sensation that, once accepted, was gratifyingly freeing.  An information junkie needs to unplug from the spiderweb on a regular basis in order to traverse a more linear path less travelled.

My tri-colour ribbon bookmark is still sitting in the doldrums, near the halfway point of Moby Dick, so I was left without a bookmark the first night I picked up my new hardback.  (I never pondered for a second heaving to with the Whale in favour of a short stay in a new port.)  Amy, with no care for my feelings or masculinity, foisted on me a cute little puppy dog magnetic page marker.  I was slightly chagrined but comfortable enough in myself to keep using it.  Plus, it amused me that the paper ears of the puppy dog face were dog-eared.

*****

I met with VP Boss (Muffy) on Friday regarding my career path for the new year.  He noted that over the past few months I have been observably disenfranchised with my role and wanted to know what I wanted.  I told him, and the ship will change heading a few points to starboard right quick.  2007 will mark a time for some changes, to be sure.  One way or another. 

Plus, I liked that he knew how to use the word 'disenfranchised'.

I have to get up and walk around a bit.  Carefully.

In the house of the Thunder Lizard

Before my folks went east to spend Christmas with my mom's family, my grandmother had her bathroom re-done.  In the same house where she and my grandfather raised six kids.  The only bathroom.  How they managed the logistics of that growing up I'll never know.

Part of the minor reno was a new toilet.  Someone - probably my stepdad - dubbed it the thunder lizard over the course of the holiday.  Reason being you can hear it being flushed from outside a couple blocks away.  If you're still sitting on it when you press that lever, you're a goner.  After only his first time, Declan henceforth sprinted away from the menace, covered his ears and warned anybody who'd care to listen: "Very, very loud noise!!" before I bravely flushed.

It sounded almost exactly like every single monster ever in the '80s Hercules Saturday morning cartoon series.  If you're over 30, you know what I'm talking about.  Only louder.  But I digress.

*****

Culled from the 100+ pics I snapped last weekend, here are a few choice selections to complement the previous post.  Looking at them now I realise it seems I have a thing for my brother, he pops up so often.  But, truly, it's only because we were together almost the entire time.  Not "together" together, but you get the point.

Anyway...

I went to my grandma's funeral and all I got was this stupid egg

Oh, she's not dead.  Not yet. Not by a long shot.

But she's a dead ringer for that old dude slung over John Cleese's shoulder in The Holy Grail while Eric Idle pushes the death cart past the row of hovels, collecting corpses.

"I'm not dead!"

"'Ere.  He says he's not dead!"

"Yes, he is."

"I'm not!"

"He isn't?"

"Well, he will be soon.  He's very ill."

"I'm getting better.  [...]  I feel happy.  I feel happy."

The ambiguously gay duo

I set this post to publish shortly after our rental car should pull up to my uncle's house in Kitchener.  Hope I'm not too far off the mark with my guess.

Me mum and stepdad spent Christmas in Ontario, coming home before the new year.  During that time, my grandmother lamented the fact that over the past 10 months she still has not seen her second great grandson.  Restrictive health issues such as being chained to thrice-weekly dialysis prevent her from tripping out here like she did two months after Dex was born.  The fiscal restraints of birthing and rearing our two wee boys currently tie us down.

That, plus the fact we were terrified of the prospect of a toddler and an infant on a plane at the same time.

The turn of the new year saw an alarming decline in Great Gram's health, from which she rebounded with such a display of doughty constitution that I could not but book tickets east immediately.  Only my mother - who, upon hearing of her own mother's health, flew back east without a second thought - and one uncle know of our impending arrival.

Did you know that it's a really, really good idea for a parent flying with his children to obtain a signed note from his spouse acknowledging the fact that she is aware of the flight details?  And, even better, if the travelling parent is leaving the country with said spawn, the note had damned well better be notarized?

Holy custody conundrum, Batman!

I've been joking with Amy all week that I'd better remember to get her to sign my permission slip or I don't get to go on the field trip to the chocolate factory.

There was no question of me and Tavish going.  My Visa actually screamed in protest when I even thought about the whole family making a long weekend of it.  Then my brother got another welder to cover for him up north where it's really cold and snowy, so he's off for the rest of the month and coming along.  Cool.  And... since he's good enough to cover half of another ticket, Dex gets to see Great Gram again.

Which is a complete surprise for everyone out east - my mother and uncle included, who still think only Tavish is coming.

The really fun part is going to be four hours of plane travel - each way - with a relatively high maintenance infant.  (Dex will be good with the seat-back TV, a juice box and the freedom to pee in his pants if he has to; though his mother has expressly instructed that I take him potty every 15 minutes, because he's still TRAINING, dammit!  No back pedalling!)

At least I'm amused at the thought of the impression we'll give: two 30-something males with two small boys in tow and nary a breast to be seen attached to any one of us.  I'm thinking of affecting a lisp at the baggage check-in just for a bit of fun.

The really cool part will be the opportunity to see my grandmother stretch across three intervening generations to touch and take in her great grand babies.  A belated Christmas present that brings me much joy to deliver.

Ho ho ho!!

Non work-related ennui

Whenever I pause to contemplate the fact that there are no naturally occurring Coffee Crisp chocolate bars anywhere in the continental United States of America, I get a little bit scared and renew my dedication never to move there.  Some things really, truly ought to be more ubiquitous than they are.  One of the few confections requiring an art for proper consumption.

Other than that, though, I have a generally high opinion of our southern neighbour and the vast majority of her inhabitants.

*****

I have not learned - nor does it appear I ever will - to keep my mouth shut past a certain point in a conversation.  Most notably with my wife.  True, she mostly knew what she got into when she married me, but I owe her more than a few kindnesses, and my tactful silence is one on which I sometimes fail to deliver.

As we drove home from... somewhere, last week, and approached the lights where we turn left onto the funny sounding French road that takes us to the oddly spelt Sesame Street character road that forks to the right where we are the first house on the truly unfortunately named Place where we live, we chatted amicably.

(I love the Discovery Channel and would be more than content with just basic cable, and that.)

Out of the blue I commented to Amy that if one of the lottery tickets (which I feel compelled to insist we rarely buy) stuck to the range hood above our stove actually paid out, one of the first things it occurs to me to do is contact the Teutuls from American Chopper and get them to make me my own Darth Vader Bike.

How fucking cool would that be?!

Amy knows of my 30-year love affair with Star Wars as well as the fact that the Discovery Channel is one of the few exemptions from my general disdain of television.  So the comment I made was neither unexpected nor particularly eye-roll worthy.  I think my wife's geek buffer is thickening.  Heck, she even went on to opine about her surprise that they haven't done that or a similarly themed bike already.

That's really where it should have stopped as we drove home.

As I lamentably continued my preponderance of pondering, I mentioned that I'd first have to learn how to ride a motorcycle, never having driven one in my life.  Then I got a little carried away when I started thinking out loud:

The bike itself won't do on its own... oh no.  I'll have to find someplace around here where I can get a custom-made leather Darth Vader suit just for riding the chopper.  You know, with that blinkie chest box he's got.  And a helmet!  With the flared neck guard, but open-faced so that I'd be Darth Vader with cool shades on or something like that.  Oh... and a cape.

I know it won't happen, so maybe I should just content myself with the hat.

*****

Watching the transition from baby to boy in our eldest son is increasingly fun.

Last night, before his bed time, I finished off my wife's glass of water.  Dex wanted the big empty plastic cup.  Sporting his little blue terry-cloth bathrobe, he trotted into the kitchen and grabbed the chair closest to the sink, dragging it with one hand while he maintained a grip on the cup with the other.  One hand dedicated to his prize, he clambered up the chair and strained on tip toes to turn on the faucet, filling the cup only halfway with tepid tap water. 

He turned off the tap and painstakingly lowered himself to kneel on the seat, his cup secured to his chest by the crook of one elbow.  He dangled his bare toes off the edge until they found the floor and, ensuring his grip, scampered back into the living room to deliver the gift to his mother.

Amy and I raptly observed the entire process.  Seeing the suppressed grin of innate pride on his return trip gave rise to our own.

*****

Browsing in Hallmark yesterday for some cards to accompany a small handful of gifts I intend to send out, I came upon a 20 dollar hardbound book detailing, in 150+ pages, the propriety that ought to be incorporated into proper personalised notes.  I tried then to think of something more disingenuous.

*****

I'm going on a trip quite suddenly this Thursday.  Back again Sunday.  More later.

*****

Reinforced by observation this morning: I can't stand the thought of cars with gas caps on the passenger side.  I'm pretty sure I'd refuse to buy a vehicle on that criteria alone.