Things one should never outgrow:

If a kid gives you a drawing, pay attention because that is an honour, a true gift. It's also a reminder of who you used to be.

Sadly, most of us outgrow picture-giving. But why? Is it because it's just too vulnerable? Is it because we fixate on so-called imperfections? Why do most people think they can't draw? Why do we become so self-conscious? When exactly did that inner critic suffocate the artist within?

Kids don't much care about that stuff. This drawing may look a little nightmarish, but it's definitely a delight. That gaping maw looks like some sort of invitation to another world, a world where carefree kids live, where imagination and creativity is still more important than banal conformity. Don't be afraid. Go ahead, hop in there. Explore.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

whatever it is my bathroom towels are looking at. They are clearly not amused.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Just why?

lawn-ornaments.

What inspired this purple polka-dotted chicken butterfly chromosomal mess?

Things that (think I) deserve the stink-eye?

Apparently.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Um, a both impressive and disturbing display, I encountered this performance art-piece (?) outside a grocery store so let's hope it's less urine and more someone's "leaky" orange juice.

(Get it? Leaky. Sorry.)

Just so you know, the answer is no.

Is it possible for me to NOT wonder every time I use a boot-boy if today is the day when he snaps and becomes a wood chipper?

Whoa.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

peculiar home remedies.

#evenonesthatwork
#paige

Tufts

We have this weird cactus. We've had it for over a year. Last summer it grew the strangest buds. They looked like thistle-tufts that were about to go to seed. Like grey cotton balls after they visit their hairstylists gave them all some sort of mini mohawks. Like tiny Truffula trees without their trunks. (Dr. Seuss would have loved this cactus.) Sadly, they also reminded me of creepy baby mice. 

And then it got even weirder.

They blossomed. This long arm reached out from that grey fuzz on that cactus and then a day or two later it bloomed this white lily type flower. It looked like paper origami, petals cut very carefully. The smell? Like the softest whisper of the most alluring perfume. I’m not sure I've smelled much better than that smell.

After a day or two: gone.

Cut to over a year later. We forgot about this cactus after its odd blooms. Then one day we noticed it in another room. My wife suggested we throw it out. It was no longer round and full. It had shrunken and wrinkled a bit. I’m the one in the family who keeps the plants alive (or revives them after neglect) so I protested and by protested I mean I gave it approximately a measly ¼ cup of water and put it on my desk.

And then a few weeks ago it began to grow. Seriously grow. Three or four centimeters at least so far. And it’s changing shape, no longer round and squat but taller and thinner, a green triangle. I’m kind of jealous in fact. And one more thing: it’s covered it tiny tufts.

Two things about our freaky little cactus:

1. What the crap is this thing?!

2. Don't ever give up. Things do change.

(I have been afraid to believe #2 for a long long time now. But I think, mostly, some days, here and there, even though I am probably wrong, I'm starting to believe again. I hope the same for you if you need the same hope, I do.)

This is my hood.

I bet if many of us were to do a quick survey of our friends we’d discover that most of us were taught the same childhood songs. Itsy Bitsy Spider. You are my Sunshine. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and so on. I even remember this: “I’m Hen-er-y the 8^th I am, Hen-er-y the 8^th I am I am.” Wait a minute. That may not have been pre-school. For some reason I’m visualizing a drunk dude with a Cockney accent belting out that song. Uh maybe scratch that last example, but one tune I clearly remember my teachers taught us was that old stand-by, “if you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.” I think our teachers had us clap twice after each line then they would switch it up and we would stomp after each line. If you’re happy and you know it stomp your feet: stomp, stomp.

Until it reached a saturation point and became annoying, that song truly could make me feel happier. Today it reminds me of something a little sad: Stompin’ Tom Connors. His death brought back some classic Canadian childhood memories: the Tommy Hunter Show, feeling proud and impressed that Anne Murray was Elvis’ favourite singer, that game show Definition. Uh maybe scratch that last example; that little gem just popped into my head but some of you may not be at all aware of that classic Canadian game show and even if you are it may not quite fit here. Anyway, despite the loss of a Canadian icon, I still feel a little happy thinking about Stompin’ Tom and that piece of plywood he would drag from performance to performance.  

But what if you’re not happy? What then? Clap your hands? It might help for a while. Stomp your feet? It might help for a while too. But speaking of Canadians, there’s always one solution for unhappiness....

A wiener roast. With your friends. In the backyard. In the snow. In the library with a candle-stick. It doesn’t much matter where. (I respectfully suggest that wieners may be optional.)

You know I’m right. What are you waiting for?

Things that deserve the stink-ears:

far-away-noises in the middle of the night that mess with one's mind when it's much too early (and irritating) to be AWAKE!

Interior Monologue: [flipping over in bed for the second time] What is that noise? [flipping again] What is that? [big sigh] It's like...it's like...[listening carefully] it's like there's a bathtub in my neighbour's yard...and it's empty...[attempts to shut it out and return to sleep but hears it again]...and inside the tub there's an otter...[flips over]...an otter?...[listening carefully again]...yup, an otter...and he's, what is he doing?...he's scootching his bum...yup, he's scootching his bum back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...bathtub scootching squeaking noises [furrowed brow]...scootching and scootching...and yup, that little bastard is smiling at me while he's scootching and scootching [visualizes uzi]...what is he doing and why does he hate me?...scootching and scootching and scootching...[riddles little otter with bullet holes followed by a momentary pang of guilt and then finally, thankfully, slumber].

Knees?

source

A London University did a study on pain. Participants were asked to squat against a wall as if sitting on a chair. The longer they maintained the posture, the greater reward they earned yet the longer they remained in that position, the more pain they had to endure. Apparently, after about 100 seconds the pain increases significantly since the thighs begin to bear the whole weight of the body. However, the real test began when researchers invited other participants to sit on their knees thus adding weight to their task.

How long could you last?

In fact, the answer depends on exactly who sat on your knees.

In all the groups studied, “people held the position longer and so endured more pain the closer they were to the beneficiary.” In other words, if the person who sat on your knees was a stranger your ability to squat would be poor in comparison to squatting with a relative on your knees. Researchers found that “people will do more for their loved ones irrespective of whether they like them or not and the closer you’re related to someone, the more pain you will go through for that genetic connection.” I guess we’re just programmed this way.

The conclusion? Family matters. Immediate and extended. Enjoyable and not-so-enjoyable. And especially biological. Our genes matter in ways we probably do not always recognize or even understand. (Sort of explains why you keep inviting that drunk uncle to Thanksgiving, doesn’t it?)

I enjoy writer Erma Bombeck’s description of her family: “a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another’s desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.” (My family is not much different. Maybe add gas.)

However one defines family and despite family dynamics, those researchers have proved something else too: families endure pain for each other.

Is there someone in your family who needs your knees?

Some Relief Please

Um, why do the Olympic mascots
look like metric wrenches?
#howtoscarechildren

This is not meant to be disparaging. Who am I to criticize sports? But the Olympics are killing me. I'm GUTTED. I'm knackered even.

Here's the thing: where's the much-needed comic relief?!!!!! WHERE?!

All the tension. All those bodies. All the spandex. All those pissed-off coaches. All the events I keep missing. All those neon shoes. All the events that confuse me: what happened to the tug-o-war? All the crooked judging in synchronized swimming: what can those judges actually see? All the inspirational music. All the bawling. All the parent replays. All the 4th place finishers. All the reporters insisting athletes define disappointment. All those google doodles. All the Prince Harry. All the hyperbole.

It's too much. Absobloodylootley. I want to but I can't look away. My anxiety is at 8 awaiting the next emotional marathon double lutz thingamawhatthehell are those hats for? Bullocks! Most sports confuse me but especially these sports. (Except for the shot-put. I'm totally all over that.) Why team dressage and not dodgeball?! I'm gobsmacked. I'm just going to fast-forward it all until the closing ceremonies when the arts will rule again unless, please no, the Spice Girls show up. (I wonder how old Baby is now? Is she all botoxicated? Now I'm worried about that too.)

The Olympics would be a lot less stressful and confusing for me if we could just periodically cut to Mr. Bean on the keyboard again. PLEASE?! (I do love how those Brits talk though. Smashing!)

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

I'm sure there must be a very good reason why my wife put a couple of her bras on the backyard deck to, uh, sunbathe?

#butihavenoideawhatitis
#nevertellheribloggedaboutthis
#nevertell
#never
#shitwivesdo

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."

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

awesome things that deserve the stink-eye!

#garagesale
#iffatbastardhadastool

Farmers need a fix?

I think my mother-in-law needs an intervention, a texting intervention.

#damnyouautocorrect
#whengrandparentstext
#freakingcoldout

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Soup is good. I love vegetarian food. Therefore I make veggie soup. Lots. But why do these all-vegetable bouillon cubes need to be marketed as "chicken style?"

This reminds me of vegetarian hot dogs. Or vegetarian chicken wings. Why waste your vegetarian time making vegetarian food look like non-vegetarian food? I don't get it.

#weird
#odd
#stumped
#passiveaggressivevegetarianism
#ormaybeitisanartform?

Sometimes. Sheesh.

I found another sticky note today. An old one. It's my handwriting but I'm stumped. What does it MEAN?

#thishappens
#thishappensagain
#asastrategystickynotesareclearlynotworkingforme

Things one should never outgrow:

novelty gifts.

#redneckwineglass
#itisbettertogivethanreceive
#whydidntithinkofthis?

Wordfuse (Elf edition)

In and of its elf, the following "Elf on the Shelf" inspired You Tube video is not that creepy. Actually it is kinda creepy. I kept expecting the Grudge girl to come contortionist-ing around the corner. *shivers*

Considering my kids are teens now, I am definitely out of the loop regarding the Santa's Elf on the Shelf mythologization. But all I can say about that is this: once they're teens, Santa's naughty and nice list works about as well as remembering to use "I" statements during heated discussions. *sigh*

#madelfskills?
#chuckywouldkickhisass
#chuckystillscaresme