Simian Farmer

Our Dollar, who art in Heaven

Marc talks about money in light of the stock market upheavals this week.  Gets me to thinking about our pursuit of money, ostensibly, through practical application, to support health and happiness, both of which are frequently the first casualties in the life-long race for it.

(I say this thinking of the fact that I spend 40+ hours per week at work when I'd rather be at home, which I couldn't afford if I didn't work.)

My comment on his post ended up being something I wanted to share here:

Money is the only viable global religion. Money talks any language and is so non-partisan as to be seen as welcoming compared to other, more retributive, gods. It is the one great, silent, ubiquitous beast that envelops the world with its influence.

When something significant happens at a financial arterial junction, the ramifications can't help but be felt on a national or global scale. Currencies are as varied as the peoples of the Earth, but money (never to be confused with currency) is the same the world over. A prick in her arm will be felt by the foot.

Therefore, much as money really is tangibly meaningless, we have all ascribed such importance to it that it is not.

If we could barter in health and happiness and apply some physical manifestation to be used as its currency, would that then replace money as a means of trade; be exchanged side-by-side with money; or do little more than degrade the inherent value of two things to which a physical measurement cannot be applied, nor should be?

Which reminds me, I have a couple of lotto tickets tucked into the sun visor of my truck that I ought to check the numbers on!

Improvising

"Look!  I got a burger!"

"You got a burger?"

"No, Daddy, I got a burger."

"Oh... you got a booger!"

"YES!"

"Do you need a tissue?"

"No thank you.  I picked it on the window."

**********

The minute -- the INSTANT -- I get my T-4 slip from work, I'm doing our taxes, and Netfiling, and waiting impatiently for the money to hit my bank account.  And before any cash goes on the credit cards, I'm gonna hire Martha Stewart to come clean our house.

Monday, bloody Monday

Birthday plans are proceeding apace for our second son this week.  He turns ONE (!!) on Saturday, which ends up being a very convenient time to host the accompanying party.  The birthday cake's been ordered, invitations have been hand-made and delivered, and I've been informed that I'm in charge of cooking.  If it's nice enough out (read: no blizzard), I'll fire up the barbeque and do up a batch of hot dogs and burgers.

We told Declan over a month ago that Tavish's birthday was coming, and it's a fact he's been reminding us of every single day since then.  "Tavish's birthday!!" he chimes in at sporadic intervals, prompted by a coo from the baby or an Audi commercial on TV.  (We have no idea what triggers that kid sometimes.)

In addition to reminding us of the impending date, Dex has also treated us to several bouts of projectile vomiting.  His appetite has waned a lot the past week and more, so we think he's picked up a minor bug.  Lots of coughing and unwontedly moody.  Last night he christened our kitchen floor and then the toilet, then our bed and then the toilet.  Tavish smiled and cooed through the whole first part of it, bouncing contentedly in his Jumperoo.

The first few salvoes have also gone off in whatever sibling rivalry is going to develop between Dex and Tav.  (I only pray it's less intense than what existed between me and my brother, or Amy and her sister.)  Tavish is not allowed to have any part of what engages Declan during play.  If the wee one makes overtures of interest and meanders to where his big brother is playing, he is rebuffed by either a swat of the hand or a lowering of the head.  The latter is then followed up by a head butt.  Right now, noggin-a-noggin, Dex is winning those battles, bowling Tavish onto his back and glancing up to the nearest parent with a challenging look on his face.  When one of us starts to scold him we are treated to his retort of, "No! Shhhh... be very, very quiet!"

Dex has also started with the commentary that is sure to embarrass both his parents in public many times in the next few years.  While in the shower with me this weekend he observed, "Daddy, you have a nipple on your butt," which he then proceeded to smack resoundingly.  There are no sacred cows to a guileless toddler, skin blemishes included. 

It doesn't help that Amy trains him while I'm away at work and then shows off when friends come over.

"Declan, what does Daddy say?"

"Yes, dear."

I do my best to hold my own in that department.

"Dex, what does Mommy say?"

"No, no."

Potato was an elephant

Potato was an elephant, he leapt from tree to tree;
he dipped his trunk in apple buds as though he were a bee.
He used his ears to sail 'cross the meadows - trees all 'round -
For he was loathe to think his feet should ever touch the ground.

He spent each night-time curled deep in crook, or bough, or beam,
And when he woke he'd use his snout to drink up from the stream.
He didn't stop to ponder why he was the size he was,
Nor felt a whit of consternation that he couldn't buzz.

His lily tusks were garlanded each sunrise with the dew,
And if they sprouted from your jaw, well, you'd be cross-eyed too!
Each noon a flock of meadowlarks would settle on his head,
They pecked and groomed the mighty thing, and rested, pinions spread.

For all his girth he'd never once caused harm to bird or mite;
He took the greatest care when leaping, climbing, and in flight.
He ate of honey, the freshest fruit (quite healthy, be assured),
And the grasses of his meadow were supremely manicured.

When scudding clouds and errant winds saw fit to make it pour,
Why, he'd close his eyes and dream a bit, and often dream some more.
His tail would twitch, his ears would flick, his lashes wet with rain,
His heavy lids would never lift til sun shone through again.

The hulking brute was much too large for poplar, birch, or pine -
He preferred an oak or baobab to take his ease and dine.
His vision could not penetrate the smaller groves, their gloom,
Spider-webbed with sticks and twigs - besides there wasn't room!

A shot rang out - a crack, a boom - though the sky was bright and clear;
Most all who heard that fearsome noise crouched quietly with fear.
But the elephant felt something bloom, he quaked like after birth;
And as he fell and crashed and stopped, Potato was of the Earth.

The rise and fall of the hirsute hegemony (3/3)

In this, the last of the three instalments of our trip through my wavy locks of days gone by, acceptance is the byword. 

Thankfully, high school ended on a rather high note.  I had thick brown hair - tastefully combed - and won the MVP award at the culmination of what was our school's inaugural rugby season.  (I didn't score a single point, but man did I play with heart!)  I graduated with honours and even made out with a real live girl before it was all done.  Two of them!  (No, not at the same time.)  The future was my stomping ground and my boots were tied up tight.  Bring it!

Though my hair will not see me to the end of this journey, neither will I allow that to debase me to the point where I attempt to compensate for something that just ain't there.  I have seen many, many comb overs in my years on this planet, and if nothing else I have absorbed one salient point from all my observations: a comb over is NEVER a good idea.

Go Picard or go home.  That's what I say.

The rise and fall of the hirsute hegemony (2/3)

Today we finish going through elementary school, zip right on through junior high, and end up at my first year of high school.

If we consider this three day trip and try to relate it to the Hero's Journey, grade seven can definitely be called the nadir.  It was my lowest point.  It's one redeeming quality is the fact that I came out of it (somehow) and have been given proof on a number of separate occasions that I am reasonably attractive to the opposite sex.

It was not then the case.  Unfortunately, that year, I don't think I could blame my mother.

The rise and fall of the hirsute hegemony

Just about everyone I know these days knows me only in my current guise.  Which is to say, the way I've looked for the past five or seven years.  My haircut has been nothing if not predictable.

There was a time, though... a time whose memory is receding nearly as quickly as the hair-line joke I feel I must insert here.  At that time I sported such a coif of dishwater brown hair as would make every tenth person halfway inclined to nearly do a double take.  (They never would, but the inkling to do so was planted, and that was enough.)

Come with me for a few days.  Relive with me the glory days of my heavily shaded pate, shrouded as it was in such an abundance of hair.  I am a blue-blooded Canadian male and...

... I, too, once had a mullet. 

(Of course, I blame my mother.)

viva la famille!

Monday will be a holiday here in the richest province in the country.  Not only do we have more money, natural resources, pick-up trucks, cows, and gay-bashing rednecks than the rest of the country, we also have at least one more holiday.

A former Premier of this province lost his son to drunk driving.  The Premier assumed some of the blame for his son's death because Dad was into politics, not so much into his family, and Son turned to a life of artificially enhanced sensory excess as a means to compensate for the father - son time he so desperately needed.  Son died, Dad felt remorse, Dad created provincial holiday called Family Day.

Like most everyone else, I don't often look at it as other than another Long Weekend.  I don't think I've once participated in any officially sanctioned Family Day activities.  I do regularly spend time with my (immediate) family and don't see much of a need to commit a whole day to it as being more significant than all the others.  The same as I didn't do a bloomin' thing on Valentine's day.  My wife and I share a sentiment about that date, and I am ALL for that. (She did make me a miniature brown milk carton chock-a-block full of York Peppermint Bites.  It resides on my desk at work and is emptying at an alarming rate.)

Actually, I do owe my mother a date.  In the spirit of Family Day, I'll take her out to a movie this weekend.  How about that!

Speaking of family, Tavish's birthday is looming (two weeks plus a day) and the little bugger's teeth are still holding out on us.  Not a one.  Spreading his lips apart in a comically grim rictus reveals a full upper row of buds I just know want to break free of their fleshy confines.  And if the little man's rosy cheeks and nightly squalls are any indication, he's gonna cut them all in the same week.

Plans for the near future:

Perhaps the long weekend will present me with the chance to make a video showing the proper way to eat a Coffee Crisp.  Y'all are doing it totally wrong.

I'll get the first post (of maybe two or three) up of my hair history on Saturday or Sunday.  Because I'm all about embarrassing self-aggrandizement.

Winter winds are waxing chill

I find pictures a lot less engaging when they don't have real people in them to add a little personality.  Unless you're Ansel Adams, which I'm not.

Since I mostly took pictures in Tumbler Ridge for work, there were blessed few with people and personality.  The few here are more to get a feel of the landscape I was in for the first two days of this week.  It really was gorgeous scenery and it's too bad I couldn't have taken the time to enjoy more of it.

My experience of lifetime

I lost the entire post I had written as a prelude to showing pictures of my recent trip to Tumbler Ridge and I was on the verge of getting really huffy about it.  Then there was a PA broadcast here at work asking Sylvie to pick up line 101.  But it was in French.  (Gabrielle and Sylvie are the only francophones in the office and this was probably the first time one had cause to page the other.  Weird.)  The sheer incongruity of that jarred me out of whatever funk was about to come over me.  So that's good.

To recap:

I was first in the office this morning.  The key wouldn't open the frozen lock so I made it in through an open side door.  I walked the dark hallway to the front, but I couldn't even turn the dead-bolt from the inside -- it was still frozen shut.  I borrowed a small pipe wrench from the maintenance shop, ran back around the side door of my trailer complex and pried the lock open after bashing the ice build-up off the base of the door.  Welcome back.

I drove 1,608 kilometres over the last two days, which equates to almost exactly 999 miles.  That's about 16 hours on the highway.

My east Indian travelling companion described his snow-shoeing experience of yesterday morning as, "My experience of lifetime."  I have no idea what I'm going to do with the four brand new pairs of snow shoes now in my possession.

I had to disabuse that same man from the practice of drinking and driving (in complete ignorance of the law), something he's been inclined to do under domestic prohibition, militantly enforced by his wife.  I was disturbed and amused by this admission.  More amused.

I have many pictures of Tumbler Ridge from the past two days.  'Twas sunny and cold, but without a hint of wind.  Gorgeous.  I also took a brief bit of video while snow-shoeing, only as long as the temperature allowed a naked hand to hold my camera aloft.

Hopefully I'll get the best bits up tomorrow.