Opinions: Part 2

yawning: I am shocked that yawning gets off so easily considering how highly "contagious" and dangerous it is and what a constant threat it plays to destroy us all. Got your attention now, you who sit there and yawn away the afternoon and early evening without a care in the world? Yawning is so "contagious" in that we all have to yawn when we see someone else yawn and I, for one, want to have a choice! Is that too much to ask "yawning"? Do I always have to "follow orders" and "shoot first and ask question later" and "add 1 cup of heavy cream and a half a stick of butter to the sauce" without at least having a discussion about it first? I have a hard time just doing something because everyone else is doing it - maybe that's just me? Now, I have put "contagious" in quotation marks as my not-so-subtle way of mocking that it is actually contagious - what are you a disease all of a sudden? Unless you are really a disease and then a thousand sorrys from me and I'll do whatever you ask of me, my lord, aside from yawning for charity as it just seems to be sending an overly-explicit message to those that run and support the charity that I am yawning to show my support of that I really don't care much. Yawning is dangerous, and those that drive trucks or operate heavy-duty machinery know what I am talking about. But, the big problem with society is that the rest of us think that we can yawn while working and the only bad thing that can happen is maybe a random piece of fluff that has been blowing to and fro, beautifully in the sky almost as if part of the wing of an angel may land in your gaping mouth, mid-yawn, causing a coughing fit which may lead, in some rare cases, to being rushed to the hospital if you just happened to have some highly-elective-to-the-point-of-the-doctors-feeling-used-by-you surgery scheduled. I once yawned at the exact moment I was pouring some scalding coffee into a mug when I used to work the breakfast shift at the restaurant and what resulted from that single lapse was catastrophic and I fully understand how I need to limit or at least cut back on my listing of average events as catastrophes unless I like being referred to as "the man who cries ouch when the scalding liquid poured all over his arm thus causing him to drop the pyrex urn which shattered scaring the customer who, for some yet to be explained reason, threw her hot, buttered muffin at the chef which he took as a stark, but deserve, criticism of his food and then promptly quit which happened to be exactly what our restaurant needed - a kick in the proverbial pants if you will - to do a much better job of "assaulting people's taste buds" as our slogan stated we would". I actually don't mind being labelled in this way and would have already made business cards except that the sample card I printed was so big that I decided to attach it to a picketing sign and just carry it around town leading people from a far to believe that I was protesting something. I could have led the charge against being to blase about yawning in jobs where there are no inherent or obvious reasons to worry as I believe, and I will carry this to my grave unless it is a long walk or it is raining that day, that we must all be on constant guard against yawns and against being too blase about them or blase about anything as I can't stand the word blase unless it is spoken by a woman who knows how to select the correct shade of blush and apply it properly so as not to alarm little children. I mean in a way, yawning is fun - it gives the jaw muscles a good stretch, allows random people on the street to have a good peek at your pristine molars that just don't get enough good press, and it gives all of us, the people of the world, something that we can always share even when times get tough.

shampoo: Disclaimer: I grew up in a household that oscillated which made the completion of homework or nearly every other chore (aside from sweeping haphazardly) next to impossible. The members of my house, as a child, flipflopped obsessively and randomly between wanton overuse of shampoo and boycotting all stores that sold shampoo based on what was almost certainly a misinterpretation of a Christmas card from Uncle Freddy whose cards were mind-numbing cryptic at the best of times. Due to my odd relationship with shampoo growing up (I always felt like shampoo wanted to get to second base with me and I had no idea either what that really meant and how that would even look in reality, where I was trying to live more and more as I approached the big 20) I have often wondered if  shampoo is more than just a product to clean hair and, after dedicating a lot of thought to this, I have determined that it probably is. But, as those shampoo enthusiasts are always telling me as I wait for the bus, shampoo is quite possibly the best possible thing to have on your head - even better, for some people, than actual hair plus it is really really good at cleaning hair. Those enthusiasts are often challenging me, quite aggressively I must add, to find something that cleans my hair better and I continue ignoring them and go back to reading allegories about the rise and fall of communism. I am currently challenging myself to find more uses for my shampoo as I "accidentally" purchased a barrel full of it from some guy on the street who was really convincing (read "attractive" and "wouldn't take no for an answer" and "obviously very skilled when it comes to offloading barrels of goods on well-meaning and fairly naive passersby who fall for attractive and forceful barreled goods salespeople they meet on the street"). I need to free up more space in my linen closet as it was not quite built to house any barrels at all, so I could choose to be silly and say "why, of course we could use shampoo on our floors to momentarily create a temporary slip-'n-slide" and the others I live with (they insist on being referred to as "the family" mostly for legal purposes up until my writing becomes either less embarrassing or financially viable, at which time they would like their full names printed on the top of any promotional material in a font size at least 1.5 times as large as mine) would mostly enjoy this until the inevitable bumps and bruises occur and child services are alerted by the well-intentioned staff at the local elementary school and I have to come up with a really compelling story that explains why the kids university-educated, gainfully-employed, non-ironic curly hair wearing father chose to waste some perfectly good hair product on a frightfully dangerous "game" that would clearly end in injury and child services being alerted of which I will only say "oops" and offer them some day old pizza. I happen to love the feeling of lathered shampoo in my hair and, to a lesser extent, other people's hair as I am never invited to those kind of parties. The feeling of running my soapy hands through my detangled hair is just about the best feeling I experience in life that involves my hands, soap and my own hair, followed quite closely by the occasional arts and crafts project which never receive the applause and prizes that they deserve. I, for one, hold the producers of shampoo in high regard usually reserved for edible gooey substances like cooked okra - to be that gooey and ambivalent is worth applauding, as much as one person can applaud a vegetable without causing others to "melt down" or "hit the ceiling" or "slide into home plate". Can you imagine the pleasure these beacons of society must garner by waking each morning and striding confidently through the throngs of unhappy regular citizens like you and me on their way to artistically create more hair nectar so that we can divert our obsessive itching to other areas of the body? I can't.

barnacles - I have often pondered, after the screaming and the warranted profanity have subsided, what is the point of having barnacles there in the first place? And is there even a second place? No one ever talks about the second place. All barnacles seem to do is give my feet, which have clearly grown complacent after running and jumping in pristine, unblemished sand and sliding, recklessly, on smooth rocks the return to reality that they obviously need. I mean - what is up with barnacles!?!? And before any of you science-types look up from your microscopes with your freshly-pressed and suspiciously-white lab coats on and proceed to lecture me on all of the wonders of not only barnacles, but every living thing, cram it! And when I say cram it, I am really recommending that you don't cram at all as it has been proven time and again that studying over time is a much better method for the retaining of information. You're welcome! I am sure barnacles serve a purpose and if they were to all magically vanish (in my dreams I am a massive man with huge muscular arms and long,powerful legs and an amazing beard that covers much of my body that allows me to finally save money on fancy belts who brandishes a chainsaw and a vacuum and travels the world in a few steps - don't forget how skyscraper like I am in size - and saws the barnacles into smithereens and then vacuums up the mess) I'm sure there would be millions of barnacle-like holes in our collective hearts. But, what else would be different? Fewer cuts and scrapes when playing on the beach thus allowing everyone to play more recklessly which can only be a good thing up until the recklessness reaches a point where no one can even take a nap in the shade any longer. I wonder how the rocks and shells and wooden posts that support the dock feel being covered with barnacles? Is it annoying where all they want is to be rid of the barnacles sort of like how I don't want to be covered with pieces of egg shells which has never actually happened but is still, for some reason, one of my fears as I move through my life that is suspiciously egg shell-free. I mean where are all of the shells hiding and what are they waiting for? It is to the point where I am so paranoid and anxious about those egg shells confronting me and covering me like barnacles that I almost just want to do go to the store and buy a few dozen eggs, make an amazing roasted red pepper, asparagus and goat cheese frittata, and then attach the shells to my body using all of the extra glue I have just lying around. But, back to the rocks and shells and their relationship with barnacles - maybe I have it all wrong and it is win-win for both, almost as if their relationship is symbiotic and they complete each other. Possibly the barnacles are exactly what the plain old rock needs to parade around town with and not feel out of place or ashamed. Sort of like the barnacle is a badge of honour. If I had more time perhaps I'd monitor barnacles and try to see things from their perspective - maybe write an academic paper or a journal article, get famous around the world as the barnacle whisperer and be able to fight for barnacle rights. But, I don't have the time and I honestly don't see myself doing that as I have tripped on one two many barnacles in my life and have felt the pain and curiously licked the blood to see if it is salty and it was, and I am just not ready to either forgive them or lay the blame elsewhere.

melting cheese - I'm guessing that I enjoy melting cheese more than the average Caucasian male of my size, age and foot speed. It is true - I really gain a lot of pleasure from the melting of cheese. I don't mind the selecting, purchasing, eating and digesting of cheese, but the melting...that is just the best. In fact it is so amazing, that when I am able to witness the transformation from solid slice of either pale yellow or sunset orange to gooey bubbly mess my heart is filled with such joy that it almost borders on a feeling of panic. Also, sometimes my heart is filled with so much joy due to my proximity to the melting that I accidentally inhale the melted mess (use of straw is optional and generally frowned upon by all but a few CEOs of an era gone by) and then my heart is considerably less happy. Some may say it is the power I enjoy when I stand there, at a same distance shielded by the portable plexiglass dome I was given, ironically, for my birthday and observe "the melt" all the while knowing that I was in no real danger aside from any metaphysical "hangovers" I may feel as a result based on my past where my best friend melted one too many plastic bags as a youth, inhaling the toxic fumes, and has believed for a long time now that the trees and bushes in his yard have a by-the-book-captain/renegade-detective-who-do-not-see-eye-to-eye-but-secretly-exchange-recipes-for-shepherds-pie-featuring-some-ground-turkey-to-lessen-the-caloric-impact relationship that he describes as overly leafy. I also love eating cheese when melted in dishes like pizzas, pastas and, on special occasions, my wife's favourite coat. There is just something about that glossy, cheesy coat that I just feel the overpowering desire to wear or lick or bound around the playground with an energy best reserved for springtime in Paris. I should probably get that checked out and also stop ruining coat after coat as my wife's patience is running thin similar to how her patience ran thin when I wouldn't stop spelling her name with powdered soap on the bathroom floor as a misguided means of communication on my part. The one thing I haven't been taking into account all of these years is how the cheese feels. Maybe I should look at this step-by-step, and no, I am not contemplated placing cheese slices on the actual steps of our stairs at this point. I am writing at the moment, can't you see that I am busy? Actually, I certainly hope you can't see me right now as I am subconsciously gnawing on the largest wheel of unpasteurized cheese I could obtain legally. The first step towards seeing things from the cheese's perspective is going back to the milking of the cow when the cheese is still just a thought in the milk's head almost as if cheese is like a baby for the milk. Woah! Is that how milk sees cheese?!?!? And what of the cow? Are they like benevolent godmothers who may intervene if one more slice is melted against it's will? I don't know about you, but my capacity for angry cows coming to my house, knocking quite politely on my door and then passive aggressively bothering me about my treatment of their godchildren is full. Step 2 would be the making of the cheese which is probably quite enjoyable almost as if the cheese is graduation from some sort of self-help program. I can only imagine that when the cheese is finally formed it feels both fulfilled and maybe a little out of shape and that they probably go out and join the nearest gym only to let the membership lapse over time. Step 3 is the buying of the cheese and I figure outside of missing the other cheese in the dairy section of the store, I can only imagine that cheese is adventurous - or else what is with the orange colour? - and totally open to new experiences. From what I hear, at the store, cheese is always the first to put their hands up to when they decide to play truth or dare. And then the slicing step...you know, I can see that the slicing is traumatic. It must hurt and, although I have zero experience with any part of be loped off - and I know that I don't fully show my appreciation for that each and every day - I can only imagine what it would feel like to lose a part of yourself. I'm sorry cheese - many a time I have cut you and sliced you, often while laughing or talking on the phone. The least I could have done was to show you the proper respect and maybe had a ritual ceremony to mark the slicing of the sacrificial piece of cheese. And then I place the surviving members of the cheese family back in the fridge where I imagine they play cards or talk about sports with the eggs and milk all-the-while avoid eye contact with the veggies on the level beneath them. Finally, the melting....I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I will never melt again.

going to see the doctor - At the risk of sounding weird, I don't mind seeing the doctor. I feel like I am in the hands of a true professional, and yes, I do insist on either sitting on their hands or having some sort of their-hand-to-my-body contact at all times. I am aware that many people have a fear that oscillates between irrational, rational and hyper-rational over seeing the doctor and I think it is akin to when the contractor wants to see what's inside the walls - you never know what they will find, how much money it is going to cost and let's not forget about all of the drywall that needs to be replaced no matter how many times I tell him I just have an ingrown toenail. I too have felt that sense of panic and unease over what the doctor may find and what the results of those tests may say and if his falsetto is as good as advertised as that is the main reason I chose him in the first place as my best friend always tells me "never trust a doctor who sings base". But, as much nervous anticipation as I have felt, it feels so great to "win the lottery" when everything is okay and the parting gifts almost always are a welcome prize especially the ones that act as both artwork and a bath toy for my kids. I think the truly horrible part of the "seeing a doctor" experience is calling the-monotone-and-seemingly-uncaring-yet-prying-and-questioning-and-speaking-so-loudly-the-entire-waiting-room-can-hear-all-about-my-embarrassing-and-rare-ailment-or-problem receptionist. I think it is this aspect that has had me delay and delay making appointments when I full well know that I need to. "Oh, it's only light green" I say to myself, "no need to have to call the receptionist about that." I almost wish there were doctors who didn't have receptionists at all! Cut out the middleman or woman or two-dimensional-comic-strip alien! I can just see these doctors in their lab coats hiding from the manical receptionists in dark alleys giving out prescriptions and diagnoses to the welcome masses all-the-while super-conscious of being eyed by either a receptionist or one of their moles. Those receptionists are evil and vindictive and I imagine that the doctors, once freed from under their collective thumbs will be happy and free to practice medicine the way they once dreamed of when they were little kids having odd dreams of writing unreadable notes on small pads of white paper that strangely can only be deciphered by pharmacists. It is quite clear to me when I call that the receptionist is not just taking down my information and looking at their booking calendar to make me an appointment, but they are also ruthlessly judging me and keeping track of my problem for their office pool. And then the next debilitating part of this whole experience is when I show up in the waiting room and check in only to have the same receptionist I spoke to on the phone acknowledge my arrival with a poor and half-hearted attempt at a poker face that quite obviously reveals both their absolute disgust with the medical issue that  I have and also a look of smugness as if to say that they would have predicted that I look as I do based on the said issue. I want to yell at the top of my lungs
"I'm sorry sister, you can't tell I have a horrible bacterial infection between my toes based on how I dress. I threw that shirt out years ago!", but instead I retreat slowly, with my head hung in shame, to a seat that is not next to anyone else, because who in their right minds would want to come anywhere close to a bacteria-housing wretch like me. The waiting room is full of others like me, eyeing each other sideways, checking each other out and gaining the mental awareness that seems to say "oh...my...lord...is that how depressing and gross I look??!?!" Names are called, almost as if there is a lottery and each person, once called, jumps up and looks around for someone to highfive, but everyone else is too mired in their outcast status waiting for Charon's ferry to the underworld. It is my turn and I walk proudly to the doctor's office, uttering a lifeless "thanks" to the receptionist who seems to want a long and emotional thank you note and tearful goodbye hug. In the end we all leave the receptionist behind and, as I walk by, I feel an ounce of sorrow and that is only because I feel that I have neglected the ounce in my life as it has been probably my least used and written about measurement aside from the parsec and the nanometre as neither come up too often in my day-to-day existence. The doctor is usually helpful and brief; always leaving me wanting more.