Your Fetish, My Quirk

We are all creatures of weird fetishes (= strange obsessions or phobias). The trouble is, with our warped perspective, we tend to think that our fetish is simply a quirk but others' fetishes are borderline idiotic.

Take, for example, one's fear or resentment of cats. I call that weird (aside: I like cats, so if you don't, there is something wrong with you). Another example would be ketchup (as in food enhancer). You don't like ketchup on everything? That's weird, man. Why? Because I do like ketchup on almost everything (I draw the line at pancakes). Therefore -- Are you following me closely, people? -- it's my quirk but it's your fetish.

Let's now talk about balloons. We know all normal people hate balloons. How do I know that? Well, I hate balloons, so it stands to reason that everyone hates balloons.

As a father of many, I have experienced the "joy" of balloons in the car, in the house, in the bedroom; then it's on the ceiling, under the bed, followed by out the window. At that point the whimpering and crying begins. It only ends when there is another, you guessed it, balloon.

Balloons are made to burst. That is part of their physical make-up. They have a thin membrane that covers...well, it covers nothing but air. You throw it, it pops; you sit on it, it pops; you bite it, it pops. It cannot win an endurance record whatsoever. Its lifespan runs from the time the heroic clerk gives it out till about the time that dad blows his cool, about five minutes later.

In other words, he pops his lid just after the balloon has burst its bubble.

I cannot possibly think of one good reason for balloons to exist. Yes, clerks (and stores, by extension) look good for giving out balloons. Clowns are seemingly mystical when they can convert balloons into a pony or a dinosaur or a puppy. But other than this temporary madness, what substantial good are they?

You, my faithful reader, are coming to the firm conclusion that I am nuts. (That may be very true, but I would suggest there are other reasons that back that up -- to be discussed at another time, in another place.) Suffice to say (see paragraph two), it is merely a quirk, but not a fetish.

Strange, yes. Humourous, indeed. Weird, I think not.

My balloon may be your cat. Uhmm, let me re-phrase that: after all, I wouldn't want to be caressing what I thought was a feline, only to have it pop on my lap (and I did say 'pop'). Or, my ketchup may be your dog. Again, I need to clarify: after all, I wouldn't want to spill a Bowser on my trouser.

I think I am making headway with you all. Please work with me. We all have these delicious differences that make us strange, weird, and quirky. We are all creatures of habits that we have developed from childhood, tendencies that have gone unchecked until they have morphed into full-fledged phobias.

And I think that is great. Newlyweds need to adjust to each other's habits. They won't learn that through marriage counselling; it only comes from the real thing of actually living together. That's why "they" say that the first year of marriage is generally the hardest..

It's also something that anyone and everyone needs to consider when working or living in close proximity to each other. Tenants, boarders, colleagues, employees, et al – no one is exempt. What we all need is the grace and patience to allow for other people's peculiarities.

Well, I've got to go and let my little fuzzball fetish play with a nice air-stealing fetish that one of my kids got at the store.

Mirrors and Birthdays

I got the shock of my life the other day: I saw this strange-looking guy in my house. He was bald, he was grey, and he was just a teensy-weensy bit overweight. He was also very rude: Every time I talked to him, he talked at the same time. He was me – I was looking in a mirror.

You probably got that already, but I thought I would try to fool you. If anyone told me a few years ago that I would be grey and bald at fifty-four-years-old, I would have clobbered him with my cane. My crown reminds me of the prairies that I have adopted, namely, the grey skies and the bare grassland.

My three older brothers are not nearly as bald or grey as I am. It probably has something to do with the rain back on the Coast. We all know that regular irrigation makes crops grow better. And greener. Well, their hair isn't that green – just a word picture, okay?

I don't feel 54. But how do you feel any age? One can feel full or feel cold or feel lonely, but can one feel one's age? To be sure, I can't run as fast as I once did; I get more winded than I used to; I enjoy getting to bed in good time; and I keep on using the term "kids" when I am referring to anyone under 40.

They tried to bring my birthday cake on a low-bed but the axle broke. They tried to light the candles but the flames scorched the ceiling. They brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh – no, that's a different story. I didn't know if the fire extinguisher was a gift or a precaution.

For that matter, I had more fun playing with the empty boxes after the guests left. How do you get excited about socks, ties and a DVD - "Grumpy Old Men"?

Seriously – well, sort of – I take birthdays with a grain of salt (or is it memory pills?). I just forget. I don't get too excited about birthdays anymore. I don't feel this old – or did I say that already? I am still a big kid inside, but I am not allowed to show it – not in my home, not in my classroom, not in my church, and certainly not at Toys-R-Us.

One of the troubles with "maturing" is that one may have a lot of the same needs, anxieties, hang-ups, and quirks that one had at, say, twenty, but circumstances forbid letting them out. Too many others are looking to me (and you, too) for leadership and support. I suppose one must learn to choose where to let his hair down (in my case, that would be a figure of speech).

The Good Book speaks of an outward man and an inward man – as one is slowing down, the other is not. This is not a gender thing; rather, it is a physical versus character argument. In today's vernacular we might say (possibly tongue-in-cheek): I'm not getting older, I'm getting better. Yes, I know that may smack of pride, but there still should be some truth to it.

Maturing versus immaturity, growing up but not simply growing old: these should mark the people of my generation. I don't need to look, think, or act like I twenty-years-old again. It strikes me as a sad commentary when middle-aged people try to recover their lost childhood. In other words, grannies in bellbottoms just don't do it for me.

So, happy birthday to me. I need to change the image of that guy in the mirror. I've got it: I'm going to throw away the mirror.

Runners...or Sneakers?

Runners. Let's see: There are runners that are shoots (as in strawberry runners); there are runners that are disciplined (as in marathoners); and then there are those things that those disciplined marathoners wear on their feet. There are few other definitions of 'runners,' but they are extraneous, irrelevant, and meaningless to this article. It's the footwear runner that I want to consider today.

Back in the Dark Ages – that is, sometime between "I Love Lucy," and "Everybody Loves Raymond," runners came in two basic colours, white and dirty. They came in two basic shapes, namely, over the ankle and under the ankle. And they were used for two basic purposes: for those actively athletic and those pretending to be actively athletic.

Now, when it comes to footwear, the parameters (another fancy word for restrictions or limitations) have been kicked out and tossed overboard. Runners come in all sorts of colours, all sorts of shapes and sizes, and you can wear them everywhere, anywhere, and probably even nowhere.

I was even at a wedding recently where the groom and his groomsmen all wore them. (At least they matched the black monkey suits.) If you were to check out your local hospital, restaurant, and classroom, you might be surprised to see what the respective workers are wearing on their feet these days. Classy casual, you might call it.

Do I personally care what people are wearing? Well, I'm flattered you asked. The answer is a simple, No, I don't really care. I think the bigger issue here is the comfort of the wearer, especially for those on their feet all day. I believe a soft sole makes for a strong back A little taste would be in order, too: Make sure if you take the runner route that they are clean, neat, and matching.

I would also suggest that athletes and wannabe-athletes keep their footwear on at all times: There is nothing as repulsive as smelly feet that have been "runnerized."

This column would be confusing if one our American friends read it. You see, they understand the word runner, and the other word runner, but not this word "runner." They call that casual footwear "sneakers." Keep that in mind next time you are at Wal-Mart in Great Falls. Who knows, if you ask you for their selection on runners, they might send you to garden department.

One thing I haven't discussed is the price. I am shocked when I find out from my students paid for their latest pair of togs. I can get a meal at the Golden Corral in Great Falls for a family of eleven with what they paid for two pieces of slick footwear.

So, in fifty years, we have shifted from a simple set of runners that served in a useful capacity to a serious (and expensive) fashion statement. Runners have taken on a life of their own, namely, they are a reflection of the definite casual approach we have adopted as a dress code for our culture. Add to the mix blue jeans, open neck shirts (how can you tell a male is writing this column?), along with a tieless, suitless, and hatless wardrobe, and you have the man of the 'oh-oh' decade.

I personally wear runners (sneakers, for you Montaniacs) as often as possible - though, I must admit, that my favourite footwear is flip-flops (known as 'thongs' when we all still loved Lucy.) To date, however, I have never found a nice pair of dress pants and matching tie that go along with red flip-flops.

Runners. It seems you can wear them anywhere and everywhere. But that makes me ask the following question: If a runner wears runners, who wears sneakers?

Summertime!

I stepped outside the other day, sans hat, and suffered the worse case of sunstroke I had ever experienced in my life. By the time I staggered in, I was craving to go back to school, cheering for the Calgary Flames, and voting NDP.

Seriously, folks: Is it hot out there, or what? Are these the days that make you want the January blizzards to come? Not quite? I agree. It's hot, but not that hot – at least not yet.

Our routine down here in Funstonville is to work outside in the morning, inside in the afternoon, and a mix in the evening. And when I say "in the morning," I mean no later than 8:00. I still see that as sleeping in. Some of my eldest see it a little differently: Anything earlier than 9:00 AM during summer holidays is akin to taking a monk's vow for self-discipline.

It is intriguing how creative a parent can be down here in Southern Alberta, what with the limited lakes, parks, and other free recreational areas. I have discovered an excellent swimming hole, a tubing adventure, volleyball at an neighbour's farm, and enough tennis courts to keep Roger Federer happy for a year.

Back in my Kamloops days, I had access to approximately 100 lakes, all for fishing in or swimming in. You guessed it: I never used any of them. For all the fishing I could have done, my best catch of the day was at Safeway, the next aisle over from the hamburger.

I know there is a plethora of student-run, government-supported programmes to keep all of our young people busy (read: out of Mom's hair). I sincerely think that is great, though we as a family don't participate. My main caution would be getting our kids too dependent on programmes and people outside the family unit. I know that sounds quite political but methinks it's a reasonable outlook.

Some of you are likely saying, Boy, he's got sunstroke again. Not really. There are plenty of families out there who want to do things as a family, with other families, in family-safe environments. One can no longer be too cautious, unfortunately.

So, whether it is time, money, or content, parents today need to be creative for the sake of their children. To us (so I am now speaking on behalf of my wife as well), simply having other people provide our kids' entertainment, occupy their free time, and control what they do and when they do it, it not the way to go.

Believe it or not, the same could be said for all these great Bible camps out there: Just because it involves the Bible (for me), doesn't mean it is a safe and happy environment.

Hence, we expend that extra effort to find things that are inexpensive, wholesome, and meaningful. Do we succeed each time? Are you kidding? It is a goal – a philosophy of life, if you will – that we are constantly aiming at.

Summertime is a great time for re-grouping for families, for re-charging the domestic battery, if you will. It is at the end of the summer, however, that the kids are anxious to get back to school (in whatever form you choose), and the parents are wasted from being so creative and innovative

Or maybe even suffering from sunstroke.

Twenty-Seven Years

Twenty-seven years ago this coming Thursday (July 10) I took one of the most significant steps in my life. The move I made ranks up there with my embracing of a personal God, the birth of my children, my move to Alberta, and my shift back into teaching eleven years ago.

I said "I do," and I have been doing ever since.

I don't suppose you could find two more different people. They say I have always been different, but on that day I became even more different. One of us was from a small interior town, the eldest in the family of only girls, and very smart. The other one - that would be me, for your information - came from a suburb of Vancouver, the youngest of only boys, and, well, let's just say that grade ten was the best three years of my life.

Gwynne was a near-valedictorian; that is, she was next in line to the really, really smart guy. Me? I wasn't exactly next in line: I was at the end of the line. By the time I got my grad papers, it was tomorrow and everyone had gone home.

When Gwynne married me, I was a full-fledged postman. The politically correct term is letter-carrier. Yep, I was that, too. I always identified myself as a first class male. (I grew tired of explaining that one, so I dropped it.)

Gwynne has stuck with me through thick and thin - my thick head and thin skin. We moved a few times throughout British Columbia, and finally fled to the Wild Rose province six years ago. Three jobs, nine kids, and around nine moves later, we are still hanging in there together.

Committed marriage between a male and female for life is sadly not as common as it once was. Though not as normal as it once was, it is still the most natural relationship. A number of aberrations (big word for "strange variations") have moved in like bad squatters. Limited freedom of speech - remember that? - bad laws, and political correctness rule the day, so I am muzzled from saying anymore. Simply extolling the benefits of a monogamous marriage could be considered a hate message. Oh, Canada!

Studies have shown very conclusively that there are economic, medical, spiritual, emotional, and moral advantages to a committed relationship between a male and female. Unfortunately, these are never allowed in the public arena for our enlightenment. Too often positive comments about one man - one woman are shunted aside, lumped with a right-wing, fundamentalist worldview.

Nothing could be further from the truth, but who really cares about truth today? Pleasure-seekers, I think, would describe our culture.

So, here's hopefully to another twenty-seven years, Gwynne. I'm heavier, so there's more of me to love; I'm balder, so I waste less time and money on hair stuff; and I'm slower, so when you chase me, I won't have to give you a head start.

I have a really neat idea for an anniversary dinner: There's lots of variety, the servings aren't too large, the servers are always well-dressed, and we can go to either Medicine Hat or Lethbridge.

The "restaurant" is called Costco. Meet me in one of the sample aisles.