Things I Did Not Need To Learn In Public School

Math.  Sure the basics come in handy, that is undeniable, but when was the last time you used a protractor?  When was the last time you used a compass?  If you think I’m talking about that little Boy Scout gadget that tells you which direction you’re facing, you’ve only proven my point further.  When was the last time you did long division, or multiplied fractions manually?  Do you even remember how?  I don’t.  If I have a math problem to solve, I’m not reaching for my pencil, I’m reaching for my calculator.  They have those now you know.  Number of times I’ve used a protractor since public school:  zero.   

Gymnastics.  In my public school for about one month each year the gymnasium was turned into a gymnastics museum where ancient relics were hauled out of storage and dusted off for us to admire, before finding out these were to be used for some sort of athletic purposes, all having the potential of causing us great bodily harm.  The spring board didn’t spring, the rope climb made me feel funny like I was going to wet my pants, and most of the “equipment” was actually wooden boxes with a thin layer of leather padding.  The scariest of all was the trampoline, especially for me being the tallest kid in the class.  Oh, did I mention the metal ceiling in our gym was only 20ft high!  Along with the anxiety of jumping on this thing without a helmet or neck brace, I did not have a great deal of confidence that my smaller classmates who surrounded all four sides of the trampoline with their arms up, would actually catch me should I mistakenly take an errant trajectory.  Number of times I’ve been on a trampoline since public school:  zero.

French.  I have nothing against people who know how to speak French, in fact I applaud their ability to do so.  I wish I knew how to speak French, but I don’t, and do you know how many problems that has caused for me during my lifetime thus far?  Absolutely none.  I’m pretty sure that if I was ever dropped off somewhere in downtown Paris, I could walk out of there with a tasty croissant.  Je ma pelle hungry.  Or whatever.  You know what I mean.  I’d do just fine.  Number of times I’ve spoken French since public school:  zero.

Art.  Simply by showing up to art class you should be guaranteed an A+.  Art is an expression of oneself, not something to be graded on.  But were you ever allowed to express yourself?  No.  Sure, the teacher would let us take turns sniffing the fruit scented markers repeatedly until we got a nice little buzz, but then just as our creative juices started flowing, she’d force us to twist a small square of tissue paper onto the end of our pencil, dab it in glue, and paste it to a piece of cardboard over and over again until we made something that resembled a turkey.  That seems unnecessary.  Number of times I’ve twisted a small square of tissue paper onto the end of my pencil, dabbed it in glue and pasted it to a piece of cardboard over and over again until I’ve made something that resembles a turkey since public school:  zero.

Pfft… waste-o-time.

I'm An Adult Now

I’m a little early with this I suppose, but in another year and a bit, I’m going to be 40 years old.  I don’t consider myself old by any means, however as I approach this benchmark age I can’t help but think about the life experiences that have brought me to where I am today, and how my perspective on life has changed through the years.

Basketball was such an important part of my youth, and I remember running through the various drills during high school practice and the feeling I got after dunking over the opposition like they were yesterday.  But that wasn’t yesterday.  My last game was nearly 20 years ago.  I’ve barely touched a basketball since.  “Kids” who weren’t even born yet at that time, are now themselves graduating from high school.  It just kind of blows your mind when you stop to think about it.  Where did the last 20 years go?

Every morning when I wake up now, I get out of bed and hobble to the shower, working through the stiffness that has taken control of my ankles.  Multiple severely sprained ankles during my basketball playing days, and 20 years tacked on for good measure are surely to blame.  The stiffness goes away after about 15 minutes of moving around, but still, it’s an undeniable sign of age.

Grey hairs that once freaked me out, no longer even get a second look.  They’re there, I know it, and there’s nothing I can do about it.  It’s just a matter of time before my receding hairline takes care of that problem anyway. 

My knees make weird noises sometimes when I walk up the stairs.  That’s new.  I’ve accepted the fact that I wear glasses.  Contact lenses are still great for the rare occasion that I do anything remotely athletic, but aren’t worth the hassle otherwise.  I am who I am, I like who I am, and if you don’t like me, that’s your problem, not mine.  I wear a tie 5 days a week.  I know how to cook a turkey now.  Couldn’t say that 20 years ago.

If there’s garbage that has blown onto my front yard, I notice that now.  20 years ago I never would have even thought about it, but now I want to hunt down whichever inconsiderate neighbour didn’t have enough common sense to secure their garbage on a windy garbage day, tie that garbage to a rock, and throw it through their front window.  That’s what I want to do.  What I actually do however is leave it there for several days to see if it will blow off my lawn and into someone else’s lawn, and if it hasn’t done so by the next garbage day, I’ll pick it up and include it with my garbage, wondering why I hadn’t just done that a week ago.

Kids seem dumber these days.  I don’t understand them.  They have so much, yet they appreciate so little.  They wear their clothes funny.  They expect things, but aren’t prepared to earn them.  Is this really the generation I’m going to have to rely on to take care of me in my golden years?  That scares me.  How are they ever going to be prepared for the “real world” when they’ve grown up being handed everything on a silver platter, cannot be adequately punished for bad behaviour, and cannot be given a failing grade in school even though they deserve it?  That’s not real life.  In my day things were very different.  Oh Jesus, I just said “In my day…”, that’s not good.

I am no longer immortal, and though I plan to be here for at least another 40 years, I know that someday there won’t be another tomorrow.  I’ve lost close family members, but I’m still here, so I better make the most of it.  If what they taught me as a child in Sunday School was correct, I’ll see them again someday.  I truly hope so.  I’m thankful for what I have, not remorseful over what I’ve lost.  People talk about saving for retirement at my age.  Save what for retirement?  Money?  Travelling?  Retirement is a tomorrow that may or may not come.  Of course I’ll plan ahead just in case, but I’m here now.  Now is what counts.  If I can do it now, I will.  If I can have fun now, I will.         

I watch the news now, intentionally, and actually pay attention.  I don’t have a job, I have a career.  Staying awake past 11pm is sometimes a chore, and sleeping in on a weekend past 9am is a rare treat.  I don’t count how many beers I’ve had in order to brag about it, I count how many beers I’ve had to make sure I make the right decision when it’s time to go home.  You will not find any references to my after-school job at Valu-Mart on my resume.  All-inclusive resort vacations no longer interest me, I want to see the world, not the bottom of a cup.  I don’t call anyone “Mr.” anymore. 

As a teenager we think we have the world figured out, but the truth is, we don’t know jack!  We reach our mid-20’s and realize the world is a much bigger place than we ever imagined.  In our 30’s our eyes finally open, and we learn to understand just how little we actually knew back then.  We laugh at our former selves, not with regret, but with humility.  When we reach 40 we have a new respect for life.  We’ve experienced a lot by now, and are getting ready to enter the prime years of our business careers.  Is this the age when we finally get a handle on life, and what it means to be alive?  I think I have a pretty good idea, but then again, maybe I don’t.  I imagine there’s a 60 year old somewhere reading this laughing at me, thinking “Nice try kid, come speak to me in 20 years”.  I look forward to seeing what the next 20 years will bring, but I’m in no hurry to get there.  I’m having too much fun right now, and really, isn't that the point?

Things People Say

Without even thinking, we all have these little reactionary sayings we blurt out at the appropriate time almost like a defence mechanism protecting us from awkward situations, but not accurately expressing how we truly feel.  I know you know what I’m talking about.  Here are just a few examples:

“Have a nice day!”  Translation:  I’m done talking to you, and I really don’t care what you do, as long as you do it away from me.

“Happy Birthday!!”  Translation:  Where’s the cake?  This means we’re having cake, right?  What, no cake?  Pfft… then I don’t care.

“Oh, it’s ON!!”  Translation:  It is so not on.  People say this when they just got burnt or embarrassed for whatever reason, and in an attempt to save face, they say such ridiculous things such as “Oh, it’s ON!!”, failing to realize that everyone around them knows all too well that they are not going to do anything in retaliation, thus only compounding the humiliation further.

“Hey Chief, how’s it going?”  Translation:  I’m going to be polite to you, but I have no idea who you are.  If we did ever meet before as it appears you are claiming based on the expression on your face, clearly I was so unimpressed with you that I didn’t feel remembering your name was a priority.

“Enjoy your vacation!” to co-worker.  Translation:  Yeah, you better run!  I can’t believe you left me with all this paperwork to do!  You knew you were going away, why didn’t you deal with it you lazy SOB!  I hope you choke on a pina colada.

“You gave it your best”  Translation:  Oh my God that was horrible!  In what world do you live in that makes you think you could even pull that off?  I’m embarrassed to know you right now.

“Happy Holidays!”  Translation:  Sorry Jesus, I am a weak, weak person who lets political correctness get in the way of what I really want to say.

“That looks great on you!”  Translation:  If I say what I’m really thinking, it may impact our friendship, so I’m just going to say this, and try to change the topic as quickly as possible so that I don’t accidently utter something I might regret.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it”  Translation:  It’s not okay, I will remember this forever, and I will get my revenge if it’s the last thing I do!  I will hunt you down bitch!!

“That random blog thing you do is great!”  Translation:  You are my hero, and everything you say is bang on.  Thank you for putting my feelings into words, and for being so handsome.  You should be paid a lot of money to do this, you are so incredibly awesome!

Thanksgiving Dinner

It’s Thanksgiving weekend and all through the house

Decorations are everywhere thanks to my spouse

Turkeys and pumpkins, some Halloween stuff too

A cornucopia of clutter forever within my view

Family is forever, and that’s what I fear

To get through this weekend, is gonna take a lotta beer

Children running and screaming, making all kinds of noise

Parents throwing up their arms, figuring boys will be boys

Four or five hours, turkey takes a long time to cook

Maybe those frozen dinners deserve a second look

I’m hungry God dammit, when can we eat

I want to dig in, and fill my belly with meat

Mashed potatoes, gravy, and don’t forget the stuffing

Am I really full already, or is my stomach just bluffing?

I eat more regardless, until I can’t move

Music is playing, but I’m in no shape to groove

Is it hot in here or is it just me, I’m starting to sweat

My poor stomach aches, full of turkey and regret

The table is cleared, turkey carcass waves goodbye

My mother-in-law yells from the kitchen, "Who wants some pie!"

Of course I say “I do”, fighting that feeling of doom 

Thinking a burp and a fart would sure help make some room

But we’re all sitting at the table, alas I cannot do that

Just have to sit here and moan, “Oh man, I feel fat!”

Still I am thankful, and for that I can boast

It’s people, not things, that matter the most

I’m a pretty lucky guy, despite all my rants

Happy Thanksgiving to all, put on your stretchy pants!

** Disclaimer:  This of course does not reflect in any way whatsoever the wonderful family members that I will be visiting this weekend.  Any resemblance to actual family members is purely coincidental!

If I Were A Prison Warden

If I were a prison Warden, I’d be picking up the phone pretty darn quick to see if I could make a deal with Jack Astor’s Bar & Grill whereby I would take all of the broken crayons off their hands at no charge.  Instead of pencils or pens, both of which can easily be fashioned into some sort of weapon to be used against me, I’d give my prisoners the broken crayons to write letters to home with.  Let’s face it, there isn’t too much damage a prisoner can inflict on me with a broken crayon, except for maybe the inflammatory comments and drawings they doodle on the walls of their cells at my expense, but those would cause more emotional pain than physical, so you have to take the bad with the good I suppose.  A prison Warden needs to have thick skin, otherwise he’d probably be depressed a lot of the time, what with being in a place where most of the people don’t like him and all.  And every Tuesday afternoon when I go on my crayon collection run over to Jack Astor’s, I could keep my fingers crossed thinking that maybe this time they might even throw in some free garlic bread.  I like garlic bread.  But if I’m not going to eat it right then and there, I think I’d ask them to put that garlic butter that they pour all over it in a little cup on the side, otherwise my garlic bread would get all soggy, and there’s nothing worse than getting home and opening a container filled with soggy garlic bread mush.  If I wanted porridge I would have asked for porridge, but I don’t like porridge, so I probably wouldn’t ever ask for it.  I’d much rather have pancakes.  But don’t even think about putting fruit into my pancakes!  No way man, I like my pancakes left alone with no other ingredients getting in the way.  Just leave them nice and thick and spongy so they can soak up all the maple syrup, because the best part of having pancakes isn’t even the pancakes themselves, it’s the syrup.  The pancake is nothing more than a vessel that transports the maple syrup from my plate to my mouth.  Sometimes the maple syrup drips onto my shirt, and that makes me mad.  A lot of people like to smoke when they’re mad, but not me, I don’t smoke.  I think the only reason people even take up smoking is for the additional work breaks, because really, why else would they do it?  Smoking stinks and makes your fingers turn yellow, so no thanks I’ll pass.  I like to pass drivers who are smoking as quickly as I can, because for some reason smoker’s drive slowly.  Maybe it’s because the car window is partially open, and they don’t want to mess up their hair.  Bald smokers don’t have that problem, but they do have to wear sunscreen or a hat when they cut the grass.  Some people like cutting grass, but I’m not one of those people.  If I was the prison Warden I’d make the prisoners who were interested in the grass cutting position submit resumes to me written in crayon, and then hire whoever uses the green crayon most effectively.  I’d have to be careful though, because the prisoner I hire could try to cut the grass slowly to maximize his time outdoors, so somehow I’d have to find a way to eliminate the turtle speed on the riding lawnmower, and rig it so that there is only the rabbit speed.  This isn’t a Sunday afternoon drive, this is prison, so he needs to get it done fast.  I don’t want the other prisoners getting jealous and starting a riot.  Quiet Riot was a band back in the day, but I don’t know if there is such a thing as a quiet riot.  Riots are normally loud and out of control, or the equivalent of a big party, but with periodic violence.  Everybody have fun tonight, everybody Wang Chung tonight!  But don’t Wang Chung with nun-chucks, ‘cause that could cause some serious damage.  I seem to have gotten off topic.  What was I talking about again?

Smacky Jones: Noisy Eater

There I was, innocently eating my lunch, when along came Smacky Jones, who upon scanning the room, decided to sit directly behind me.  I don’t know if Smacky Jones was his real name, but one thing I know for sure, he quickly broke into my list of Top 5 noisiest eaters I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering.

I don’t know why the sound of other people eating irritates me as much as it does, but it does.  At least if people chew with their mouths closed, I can tolerate them, but Smacky Jones was not a closed mouth chewer.  No, Smacky Jones had apparently never learned table manners at all, and almost appeared to be flaunting that fact.  If Honey Boo Boo had a secret older brother, so unrefined and unable to live up to the high etiquette standard of that family, who if America even knew existed would bring shame upon Mama and Sugar Bear, Smacky Jones would be that brother.

Bite after bite, sip after sip, the sounds travelled, making it feel as though he was mere inches away from my ears.  I was left helpless, unable to defend myself against the sounds of chewing, and the gradual moistening of food in his mouth.  Each smack of his chops, and each slurp of his lips caused my back to seize up tighter, my eyes cringing in disgust.

I’m not a violent person, but I must admit, thoughts of a Smacky Jones shaped hole after I threw him through the plate glass window went through my head.  Alternatively, I would not have felt the least bit remorseful had a large black ACME anvil fallen suddenly from the sky, landing directly on top of his open-mouthed head, or if in his wild feeding frenzy, he unknowingly ingested a large stick of dynamite, which upon exploding, left his mouth saliva-free, unable to produce the noises that were bothering me so.   

Alas this is not a cartoon, this is real life, so I got up, and with a quick “Meep Meep!!”, left Smacky Jones to scarf down the rest of his lunch, well beyond the range of my hearing. 

Fifty Shades of Grey

It was just past noon, and there I was, innocently minding my own business and enjoying a quick bite to eat, when two flies suddenly decided to land on the hood of my Jeep.  I watched for a few moments as they gracefully danced around one another, before eventually losing interest and refocusing back on my lunch.

Several bites later, I looked up once more, surprised to find those same two flies still there.  I watched intently, and before long, noticed a change in their demeanour, that once playful look in their eyes, having now turned to lust.  They moved slowly, but deliberately closer together.  One male, one female, their intentions became quite clear.

The sunlight glistening off their naked bodies, the seductive dance continuing a few moments longer until slowly, ever so slowly, they embraced, wrapping their legs around one another.  Their bodies pressed together, she caressed her chest against his, his hands wandering to wondrous places, exploring her body, their wings fluttering in ecstasy, as two became one.  The male momentarily pulled away, then re-embraced her, this time mounting her from behind, and with that, began thrusting, plunging his tiny fly penis deep inside of her.

I looked to my left, then to my right, wanting to see if anyone else was witnessing this public display of insectual intercourse.  Am I being rude?  Should I look away?  Unsure of the protocol, I decided to turn on my radio.  To my great delight, the radio was already set to the special month-long Dave Matthews Band channel on Sirius.  I couldn’t make this up if I tried, but wouldn’t you know it, the song being played at the time was “Loving Wings” (not the full band version either, I’m talking about the more intimate Dave Matthews solo version from the Benaroya Hall show).  Seemingly appropriate, I reached over, and turned up the volume.

“I give to you my everything, You’ve given me these loving wings…”, I listened to the tender melody, gently whispering the words inside my head, and as I ate my the rest of my lunch, watched these two flies going at it doggy-style on the hood of my Jeep.