Their Love

He loved her like others loved the rain although he wished she stopped literally showering him with water unexpectedly.

She loved playfully chasing after him in a field of spring flowers up until her allergies caught up with her or until he handed over the allergy medication.

He loved watching her eat despite her protestations that it was creepy and weird especially when he insisted on recording it for exactly those reasons.

She loved invading his space on the couch utilizing the most modern warfare techniques and strategies that she could reasonably afford given their tight budget.

He loved standing in long lines with her because of her unique way of making all lines paradoxically appear circular.

She loved that he never gave up until he actually turned molehills into mountains.

He loved the period of peaceful serenity each morning just after she woke up and just before she started screaming at him for putting lipstick and blush on the dog again.

She loved making him lunch for all of the wrong reasons.

He loved taking her on long romantic walks to his favourite spots while she argued that his definition of romantic needed a complete overhaul.

She loved helping nurse him back to health when he was sick, but she refused to have him sit on her lap while sucking from the bottle.

He loved spending weekend afternoons watching paint dry, while she absolutely adored painting him.

She loved packing up all of her belongings, leaving abruptly and waiting down by the train station that he built for her in the backyard as she needed a place to play make believe with all of her dollies.

He loved her way with words in all of its nonsensical, raving and quite worrisome detail.

She loved smashing his sand castles and then intimidatingly standing over him celebrating the fact that her castles were now clearly bigger.

He loved her smile and her laugh and, to a somewhat lesser degree, her unrelenting and quite brutally sarcastic satirical love letters.

She loved his carefree and whimsical approach to life except in those moments when he was operating heavy duty machinery.

He loved sitting next to her at the table both because it was her, but also because it was just a really fine table which displayed expert craftsmanship.

She loved when he first referred to her as his peach, though as time went on, it became more and more concerning especially considering the crazed smile on his face whenever he said it.

He loved walking a mile in her shoes equally because of the perspective it gained him as well as the comfort that custom-made insoles provided.

She loved his bear hugs which were now thankfully given using 50% less bear.

originally published in The Bitchin' Kitsch 

How to Survive Making Breakfasts and Lunches for Your Family

I oversee the food for my family of four.

I plan, I shop, I cook, I feed, I pack. And then I eat.

It’s a full-time job.

And of all of the meals and snacks and “I’m hungry”s and “feed me, now!”s I get, the morning shift is the toughest. It holds a special place in my heart; the left ventricle.

So many mouths to feed, so little time, so many small tasks, so asleep still.

Each day looks like the straw that broke the camel’s back, and yet, with one eye open at best, I come through in flying colours and I look spectacular flying in colour.

Not only do I get all of those breakfasts and lunches cooked, but I am good at it. Surprisingly good, if you are one of my critics.

How did I prepare for this challenge?

Well, years of working on a line in a restaurant and teaching school have given me the organization and preparation skills I needed to excel. And I shouldn’t forget all the hours directly observing my parents navigate similar waters.

In one sense becoming the dude making the food was the role I was born to play. In another, infinitely more accurate sense, it was an extra in a poorly-funded B film.

So, if you are a parent and have been tasked with providing nourishment (and not solely the metaphysical variety) for your partner and your offspring, then read on. If you are not a parent, but plan to become one and are interested in one aspect of how your life will irrevocably change, read on. If you are not a parent and don’t intentionally plan on ever becoming one, but enjoy a good laugh at other’s expenses (namely me), then you too should read on.

Here is how to prepare breakfasts and lunches for a family in the morning while maintaining your sanity or at least not losing too much of it.

The Calm before the Storm: How to be Ready Before the Morning Arrives.

1) Preparation! I can’t stress this enough (due to time constraints), but being prepared is key in the same was an actual key is key to opening a locked door. You must be ready at the drop of a hat to make any meal at any time. (Note: ban all hats.) To get prepared, start by drawing a picture of a cute squirrel. Now tear that paper up. You don’t have time for that crap! You must be on your game at all times. You must operate like a chess grandmaster — multiple moves ahead and an unhealthy obsession with trapping the king.

2) Seriousness! This job you have signed up for (always read the small print) is 24–7 365 days a year. There are no vacations or sick days or time off for good behaviour. You must be ready to jump up in the middle of deep sleep and perfectly boil an egg or butter some bread or butter an egg if your kids are weird. The toaster is always plugged in. The kettle always a click away from starting to boil. This is not the time to develop a sense of humour and give the wrong person the wrong container of cut up fruit or leave crusts on a sandwich because you think you are funny.

3) Plan! Each Sunday morning, sit down and plan to the most infinitesimal detail exactly what each human you are legally required to feed will require for substance. Then laugh for a while, giddy with the power, before allotting some extra rations. You plan because there can be no surprises! Not on your watch; not next to your watch; the inclusion of a watch at this point is a distraction you don’t have time for. Every possible meal-time request must be anticipated and shopped for. Your ability to know what they want before they ask for it will be called “eerie” and “woah” and “stop reading my diary”.

4) Knowledge! Get to know your family, both as actual humans and as robots, just in case. Sure, you knew them before, but for you to prepare their food, you must be as one with them. Study them. Follow them around at a distance with the binoculars and night vision goggles you requested as presents. Document their each and every move, strength and weakness, and emotional and physical responses to various stimuli. Only then can you properly feed them.

5) Preferences! In a perfect world, each person would eat the same thing and be the opposite of picky. In a perfect world I’d also be taller, have a darker complexion and speak with a deliciously hard-to-place accent. Take notes on each person’s food likes and dislikes no matter how asinine, perplexing or hilarious they may seem. Debate throwing those notes away and having some fun, before remembering that you can be replaced. If it helps, think of yourself as a highly-flammable scarecrow surrounded by crows who possess the knowledge and skill to use lighters — worked for me!

6) Memorize! You must be keenly aware of where everything is in your refrigerator, pantry and freezer. And I mean everything. Every grain, ounce and gram must be accounted for. Then forget everything you learned and memorize it again. And again, until you want to scream. Then scream. You, and you alone, are the master of this kitchen and only you can perform the tasks you perform. This is important — by no means can anyone else possess the knowledge of what is actually in all of those unlabeled Tupperware containers in the freezer.

7) Arrange! Despite what others tell you, this is your kitchen, unless you are at their house and then it is their kitchen. Don’t argue this point. When at home alone, take out all plates and bowls and utensils and spend some quality time together — hugging and issuing compliments is encouraged. Rank your pots and pans in order of size and likeability. Make sure the more frequently used foodstuffs are easy to reach as you don’t want to embarrassingly pull anything (“you tore your calf doing what?”). Arrange the plates and bowls in such a way that would make your mother proud if such stuff did, which it doesn’t.

The Storm: The Morning is Here.

8) Confidence! Like an elite athlete or Hollywood star, a certain amount of self-esteem is needed to perform this task. I aim for somewhere between off-the-charts and insufferable. You must believe your own hype or else you have no chance and may very well be eaten alive (to this date, that hasn’t happened, but why take the risk?) Enter the kitchen boldly. Own the room. Remember, you are the straw that stirs the drink; the flame that ignites the fire; the chicken and the egg. Bwaaach.

9) Focus! You don’t have time for distractions! It doesn’t matter how bad a sleep you got or how many nearly-debilitating allergies you are dealing with. Around every corner is a trap that may try to throw you off your game (your phone, the TV, your collection of hilarious wigs) — ignore them all! You must make the food for your family. You don’t have time for niceties and clean shirts and proper grammar. You definitely don’t have time for spilled milk or burned toast or scalding your hand. You must maintain singular focus on your task at hand or else you will fail. You will not fail.

10) The Set-up! It is highly important to wake up early to have the kitchen to yourself. This will give you time to visualize success while enjoying some “me time” which should entail a high-fibre homemade muffin and some r/jokes. Then, as if flipping a switch (by all means, flip an actual switch if that helps), you jump to action and boil some water. Why? Maybe you are preheating Thermoses, or making some tea or obsessively boiling water for the access to free steam. As the clock strikes the exact time (and not a moment sooner) the kids must be woken up, quickly pull out the ingredients that are needed for the battle ahead before racing upstairs to wake/scare/dump water on the kids.

11) The Dance! You are a dancer! Once the kids are awake and out of their rooms, the dance begins as you waltz, jive, two-step and crunk your way from the freezer to the microwave to the pantry to the stove to the kids to the cutting board and on and on for the next 45–60 minutes without pausing to think, dry your brow, contemplate life with bigger bushier brows or eat. The TV is on and your kids sit there gaping, stationary and mostly asleep while you sashay and bellydance around the kitchen putting on an incredible show that goes entirely unnoticed.

12) The Race! One kid likes toasted English muffins (not too crispy!), the other likes a cheese omelette (not too brown!), the first kid wants juice (not too much!), the other wants juice too (a little more than her sister!). You nod and grunt (as a nod to your cave people ancestors) and continue to race to the large freezer to desperately locate some lunches for the others that they won’t stick their tongues out at. Your arm and hand and half your upper body descend deep into your freezer as you dig around blindly as if a small child selecting an exciting prize with the only difference being that freezer-burnt macaroni and cheese or something that may be meatloaf is the prize.

13) Doing the Wave! You race back to the stove and toaster, get their breakfasts, literally throw their food at them and begin to frantically and quite demonically microwave leftovers. As the time counts down on the microwave and before you must leave for work, you are cutting up fruit, wishfully placing raw veggies in small containers and bribing them (and killing a small part of yourself) with small packages of cookies or fruit gummies. Plead with them to eat faster! Exhort them to finish their lunches this time or at least tell you if they hate the food. Drop to your knees and beg them to clean up their dishes. Make plans to hire a personal chef when you win the lottery.

14) The Home Stretch! The clock has hit 7:30am. It is ‘bout to get real. Cram random items into the blender for smoothies and delicately constructing your partner’s breakfast while taking some joy in debating whether to actually hide some jalapeno slices in her eggwich just for giggles. Wolf down your own breakfast (time spent observing actual wolves eating helps with accuracy) as well as signing agendas and fieldtrip notices and spelling tests and checking math homework and literally pushing the kids out the door. Any and all face washing or tooth and hair brushing are optional.

15) Congratulations! Like a star of a sports team, bask in the adulations which are completely of the silent and imaginary variety. Raise your tired arms above your head like a victorious general home from the war. Give some over-the-top fist pumps followed by some animalistic roars. Allow yourself to be overcome with emotions for once again succeeding in conquering this momentous challenging task. You are valuable, you are needed and you, and only you, made breakfast and lunch for your family. Allow a small tear to drop down your cheek. And then another and another like it is raining. Stop playing with tap water, it’s time to go to work.

Happy Holidays from the Paleys: Our Year that Was

Dear Friends, Family and Randomly-Selected Recipients (aka the Control Group),

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the Paley family!

It’s incredible, but another year has come to an end and it is time for our annual recap of the trials and tribulations (metaphorically speaking, of course) of the year that was 2016. We hope this letter finds you in good health and that you are surrounded (in a non-aggressive way of course) by loved ones during this festive time of year. We sincerely hope that you’ve had an amazing year full of joy, satisfaction and clear complexions.

Over at Chez Paley, as our days turned into nights and back to days again only to once more incredibly turn to nights, life has been as busy as always what with the whole family running around like chickens with their heads cut off day in and day out. After some time, we came to an agreement that we would continue to run around, just in a slightly more controlled manner what with all the panting and the collisions and the grotesque analogies involving flightless farm animals that may or may not be considered food.

But where has the year gone? Based on how mean-spirited you are, that question is rhetorical, though we do really want to know. Our older daughter exasperatedly complained that time has just gone so quickly and no matter of explaining that time doesn’t speed up or slow down per her father’s layperson understanding of quantum physics, helped her relax. What does help her relax is horse tranquilizer, but that’s a topic for a very different kind of letter, not one of celebration or at least a very different kind of celebration.

Let me tell you, these kids of ours constantly keep us on our toes, which, while exhausting, has strengthened our toes. Our free time (cue the recording “what free time?” and “nice try funny guy” and “hey, wait, are you recording me?”) was spent shuttling the kids from sports to lessons to activities and once, by accident, to the local Recycling Depot where dad tried to make it look like a planned and much-anticipated educational field trip. The weekly schedule was so regimented that one tired parent exclaimed that it was like we were in prison, and we laughed and laughed and laughed before slowly stopping and then just sitting, staring at the wall lost in our thoughts.

It feels like ages since we’ve seen any of our friends. In some sense, our only contact has been through social media, which paints an incomplete, yet highly humorous and potentially strange, picture of how we are doing. So, we thought we’d break down this wall, and if things go well, to continue breaking down walls (an excuse to buy a new sledgehammer!) and write you all this letter.

Now we could have written a very boring, predictable, generic and seen-many-times-before recap. You all know the type — full of cute anecdotes involving our children; littered with the “hey, check out how funny and cool and high-functioning our family is” photos; a few detailed and gripping real challenges we faced, overcame and grew from and then finishing with a sappy and clichéd inspirational conclusion. 

Sorry, we are not that family. “Just what kind of family are you?” is a great question, which we’ve decided not to answer on advice of our legal team. “Just what kind of legal team are you?” is also a great question as our legal advisor confusingly keeps telling me he is just the checkout person at the local grocery store and that he will call security if I don’t leave him alone.

So yes, we’ve decided to pull the plug (try taking a bath now, Grace!), open the curtains (take that, vampire!) and bake some cookies (take that….ummm…people who hate cookies?) and give you a rundown of all that was unique and odd and wonderful in our year. I have taken creative license to “spice things up” as well as being quite liberal with my spices while cooking. Without further ado, here was our year.

As we said goodbye to 2015, the new year started with a bang as the kids enjoyed staying up till 1am at their aunt’s party. “We want to stay up till 1am all the time!” they said quite ominously as we got into the car to drive home, before falling asleep instantly and having to be carried into the house rolled up in a rug Mafia-style. The beginning of 2016 saw the four of us huddling for warmth as we spent our free time playing hours of board and card games while enjoying the luxuries of central heating and warm woolen sweaters. As we played hundreds of hours of games, the concepts of a humble winner and a gracious loser were works in progress and more abstract constructs than reality.

February brought day after day of rain where both the winter holiday and spring break seem equally far away. To liven things up, Grace dabbled in lovingly mentally torturing her older sister as part of an ongoing experiment that the local university psychology department showed great interest in. Charlotte passed the time playing the same song on the piano again and again and again all weekend long as her own version of melodious torture to be enjoyed by for all. Valentine’s Day where dad “surprises” the females of the family with chocolates arrived once more. Just once dad wants to truly surprise the girls with actual cow’s hearts rather than the chocolate variety just to hear their sweet childlike screams more often.

Spring break provided a welcome chance for the family to catch up on sleep, while Charlotte also began cooking her own breakfasts, braiding her own hair and diagramming detailed gerbil habitats often killing two birds with one stone, figuratively. March was also birthday month for mom and dad. Dad and the kids planned an elaborate birthday for mom that included a special breakfast and an amazing dinner as well as a huge, ear-splitting and poorly thought out “SURPRISE!” while mom was peacefully enjoying her morning shower. Grace told dad not to worry as 45 wasn’t old yet, but that 50, which was old, was only five years away before she walked off saying “tick tock, tick tock” in as endearing a way as one could for a seven-year-old.

Spring was in the air as April announced its arrival. As the days got slightly warmer and longer, every extra minute was needed to fit in all of the ultimate games and yoga classes and piano lessons and dance classes and family air band rehearsals. We were like “ships passing in the night” as mom insisted on reminding us all on a weekly basis; even going as far as making impressively realistic and joyful “tooting” sounds and far less pleasant, yet still realistic, boat horn sounds while walking around the house. Charlotte’s birthday came and she turned 10 which, as she reminded us, meant that she was almost a teenager which we couldn’t decide was more of a threat or a promise.

In May, the girls were in their first piano recital. After hours and hours of practicing their festival songs, the girls went to perform. Not that their dad is biased or anything, but they clearly turned in two of the single best piano performances in the history of humankind which all future performances will unfortunately be negatively compared to, thus reducing their father to a puddle of tears which they confusingly splashed in afterwards. Grace enjoyed her 8th birthday at a local gymnastics facility where she literally bounced non-stop for two hours and that was before she consumed near lethal amounts of sugar.

The end of the school year approached and that meant two things, a much-needed return to sanity and year-end dance shows! As dad had more flexibility in his work schedule than mom, he took on the dance show rehearsals which involved managing complex hairdos and navigating complicated makeup directions. Where some men, when confronted with these challenges, would run away screaming or huddle in a fetal position whimpering like a baby, dad decided to confront his fears head on which meant begging and pleading for some of the infinitely more skilled mothers at the rehearsals to “help a brother out” which led to some beautifully made-up girls and $2.35 in loose change. The kids were wonderful in their time on stage, both absolutely loving the chance to perform in front of an audience that was more significantly more appreciative than a couch full of stuffed animals who are super tough to please.

Summer was here and mom went off to teach summer school to earn money so the family could keep using electricity as well as putting food on the table and then, after a short period of time, eating said food. Dad and the girls hit the beach; literally. Summers have become a never-ending cycle of swimming, drying off and repeating. Dad has also passed down the age-old family traditions of healthy eating as well as living in constant fear of sunburns, thus making summers feel like one long application of sunscreen. The best moment of the summer is when mom would join the family for an evening BBQ and we’d sit there enjoying our meal in the waning sun all the while shooing away seagulls and wasps.

Every few days, the Paleys would pick up the tennis racquets and head to the local courts. These highly enjoyable hits followed a very predictable arc for the kids — (1) complaining about everything conceivable and being lazy, (2) blaming dad for everything and arguing and fighting with each other, (3) digging in and adopting a positive attitude, (4) playing great tennis and promising next time would be different, which it never was. When not at the beach or on the court, the family spent time throwing Frisbees at or to each other, riding bikes with or away from each other, and watching movies.

Each year, September is like a smack in the face, although an actual smack in the face is infinitely more like one (thank you mom, for the help with the comparison). The change from sleeping in to alarms at 6:30 were a challenge. The change from leisurely mornings to the frantic, heart-racing panic of a school day was drastic. The change from a summer of lounging in pajamas or beachwear to actually having to look presentable was really hard. And although we all greatly missed the freedom and warmth of the summer, thankfully the kids love school and were excited to see their friends and teachers and underappreciated school custodians once more.

As the Paleys switched racquets from tennis to squash as well as roasting squash and red peppers deliciously topped with goat cheese, the cool days of October let us know that summer was long over. Both girls ran cross-country this year, though that statement is vastly misleading as far as the actual distance covered. Big strides, alternating with several small ones, were made and each kid showed huge improvements throughout the season. As for many, October is all about Halloween. This year, the girls collected a disgusting diabetes-inducing amount of candy which dad joked about unwrapping, melting and then bathing in, to absolutely zero laughter aside from his own.

In November, the girls enjoyed multiple trips to local swimming pools and skating rinks, as well as getting ready for their acrobatic Christmas dance routines as evidently nothing says Christmas more than backbends and cartwheels. Afterschools were reserved for homework and piano practice and each kid worked really hard as report card time neared. Thankfully, the parents had to spend minimal time cajoling and/or barking and/or threatening to hide the remote for work to be done, as each girl cares about doing well as well as having access to the remote on a regular basis. Evenings were never complete without a painfully slow, drawn-out bathing and brushing teeth routine followed by the howling wails to “please read another chapter if you love me”. Ah, the things the parents will miss when they are 90.

And here we are at the end of yet another year in December. Time really has passed so quickly and it’s amazing that it is almost 2017. Holiday time is always a chance to take a deep breath, or multiple deep breaths depending on your level of stress, and reflect. We personally try to schedule reflecting time in front of a mirror so we don’t have to lug around our heavy portable one.

Life has been good for the Paleys this year — happy, healthy, hungry and…and…just a second while I quickly search for a fourth applicable H word…hesitant (nope), humiliated (not since dad stopped making recordings of his singing for internet distribution), hopeless (not yet), hysterical (sure, why not). 

At this most merry time of year we are wish all of our friends and family the very best for 2017. We just can’t wait for the adventures that lay ahead!

Happy Holidays from the Paleys

"So You Want to Play with my Daughter?" How to be Prepared for the First Playdate with a Boy

So, the other day I was picking my kids up from school and my 10-year-old daughter announced that she wanted a play date with Alexander.

I froze.

A playdate with a boy?

Dazed and confused, as if hit point blank with an undercut, I teetered before supporting myself against the side of the car.

Should I have seen this coming?

Were there warning signs that I had ignored?

Up until that moment, she had only hung out with girls. Life was free of unnecessary complications. It was all going so well.

Or so we thought.

When she came home and said boys were gross, we agreed.

When she said they were disgusting, we nodded our heads.

When she informed us that they were dumb, we couldn’t have been happier.

And now this?

My mind was bombarded with questions from every angle.

What had gone wrong?

What would we do now?

Did we have to move?

Quickly I shifted from “nice and caring father” into full on undercover detective mode and after locating the correct hat and reminding myself that my suspect was innocent until proven guilty, I began the interrogation.

As we drove home, I opened with typical dad comments like “that’s nice” and “what’s he like” and “I’m so happy you have a new friend” to earn her trust. I reassured her “that people won’t make fun of you for playing with a boy”, while plotting my attack.

By the time I was finished with the two of them, I’d have nothing to worry about.

Now, before you start worrying about me and wondering if I am okay, I must explain.

See, from the moment my wife gave birth to a daughter something shifted deep within me. I now saw all boys in a new light. It was like a homing beacon or some sort of radar. Each boy who has ever been in close proximity to either of my girls whether on the playground, in the pool, at daycare or at school has been thoroughly scanned, judged, categorized and then filed away in my memory.

He has no idea what sort of can of worms he has opened.

He has no idea what is coming ‘round the mountain.

He has no idea what he is in for.

So even though I was initially surprised, I quickly settled into an eerie state of calm. Nothing can phase me, not since I have been methodically preparing for this moment for the past 10-and-a-half years. I am so ready for this cute and seemingly-innocent, just turned 9-year-old boy, and all I can say is that he better be ready me.

Here is my fool-proof approach that all fathers of daughters can use in this sort of situation.

1) After weeks of avoiding the boy’s mother’s calls and going way out of your way to not bump into her at school, finally agree to a text conversation only to reveal that your cell phone is “in the shop” so as to buy yourself more time.

2) When you are mentally, physically and emotionally prepared (and not a moment sooner), talk to his mom via text to set up the playdate for a few weeks in the future, thus giving you the option to leave town and adopt new identities. Determine what her “angle is”, where she’s “coming from” and if she “gets it”. It is highly important that you determine without a shadow of a doubt whether she can be fully trusted. If all goes well, down the road marriage may be in the cards, so make sure to ask for a signed prenup upfront during these early conversations.

3) A day, time and venue for the playdate will be suggested, and you must reject the first three suggestions outright (EVEN IF THEY WORK) so as to maintain full control over the situation at all times.

4) Finally, you graciously offer to have him over at your house so you can “boy proof” your turf ahead of time including buying low-voltage “kid friendly” tasers, setting up motion sensors as well as numerous traps and snares containing things boys like as bait (Hot Cross Cars, sloppy joes and salted pork products) in multiple areas of your house in case he needs to be contained on short notice.

5) The second after his mom leaves, make eye contact with him and, whatever you do, do not break the eye contact for a minimum of 5 minutes while also emitting a low, yet audible growl so you let him know who is boss. Also, insist on being referred to as Sir or Master at all times. Whatever you do, resist the impulse to frisk him.

6) You want to strike the delicate balance between having him relax and having him quite tense. Feel free to playfully oscillate between these two extremes for much of the playdate to keep yourself entertained and him on his toes.

7) Plan your musical accompaniment for the afternoon quite carefully and have a series of different playlists at your disposal. All types of music can aid you during this experience from loud ear-shattering metal (hard to have a conversation now!) to peaceful piano music (feeling sleepy?) to foreign (what are they saying? Let’s do some internet research!).

8) As the kids begin to play Lego or some other innocent-seeming game, find a vantage point that grants you a full, unobstructed view of the kids without seeming too obviously intrusive. Good options include the couch, sitting at the nearby kitchen table slowly and loudly drumming your fingers against the table and the comfort of your own room via hidden camera.

9) It is very important to come across as friendly and cool, so offer a never-ending stream of fist bumps, high fives and playful, yet firm, hip checks while demonstrating your near-perfect use of modern youth lingo. Pull this off and he’ll be figuratively (and potentially literally) eating out of your hands the rest of the afternoon. Bonus marks if he wants to spend the rest of the afternoon with you instead of your daughter.

10) When he asks if he can use the washroom, enthusiastically reply “I don’t know can you?” before breaking out in over-the-top laughter for exactly five seconds before abruptly stopping and looking mournfully off into the distance to give the impression that you are not all there.

11) After escorting him down the hall to the washroom, use this prime opportunity to quietly, yet thoroughly, go through his bag in search of any contraband, recording devices and high fructose snacks that he may have been thinking of sharing.

12) It’s lunch time and you are preparing the food. Resist the urge to show off your skills in the kitchen as this is not about you. Make the food good enough that he eats it and doesn’t complain, but not so good that he will be wanting any more play dates in the future.

13) If either of them suggest playing alone in her room, do whatever you can to prevent this from happening including, but not limited to: offering a bottomless bowl of ice cream, feigning a sudden onset of a contagious skin disease and purposely setting off the smoke alarm.

14) Popcorn and a movie are a great idea. Ensure you’ve properly vetted all possible selections ahead of time for any kissing, hand holding or body contact between male and female characters. Good choices include documentaries about the environment or movies about an animated singing trio of cute, yet exasperating, chipmunks.

15) Now it’s your daughters turn to use the washroom and this is your prime time for questioning. You must walk a fine line here between interrogating this 9-year-old about his true interest in your daughter while still maintaining a friendly and cool vibe. Remember, if he is non-compliant or evasive, you do have the option to treat him as a hostile witness. A swinging lightbulb is a must to complete the mood.

16) But you do want your daughter to have friends and there is nothing inherently wrong with her playing with a boy, so you don’t want to intentionally chase him away. If he just happens to find your never-ending series of strange facial expressions and yelps reason to run, that’s totally on him.

17) They are having so much fun together: laughing, playing hide and seek and make believe. It looks like a real friendship is developing. Whatever you do, don’t panic! It may be time to pull out the big guns (NOT LITERALLY!) and start uncontrollably and awkwardly sobbing until he asks to call his mom to pick him up early.

18) You must be exhausted by now what with the stress and vigilantly watching his each and every move, so give yourself a much-needed break and slip a mild, harmless sedative into his juice. For those of you conflicted by this instruction, pretend that he is a vicious lion about to attack you. I find that this mental exercise comes in handy whenever faced with a slight ethical dilemma. Note: there is no need for a tranquilizer gun unless he is unusually large for his age.

19) Play a game all together on the living room floor. This is your final prime opportunity to observe him up close to make careful and detailed observational notes and rudimentary sketches. Throughout the game expose him to a wide variety of different stimuli and stressors to accurately assess his responses and to aid you in your overall analysis of the playdate. If he asks you what you are doing, shake your head from side-to-side with a slightly disappointed look on your face, before resuming taking notes.

20) The play date is over. He has gone home. Your daughter is happy and still your little girl. You’ve done well. Grab a shower and take a nap. If you’ve played your cards right, there won’t be any more of these playdates until she’s 21.

My Letter to Roger Federer

Disclaimer: I am writing this as myself and I do like Roger Federer, but I am NOT this crazy about him in any way. I am attempting to be funny and the huge majority of what follows is completely ficitonal. 

Dear Mr. Federer,

Let me start by saying that I have been a huge, huge fan of yours for many, many years and it is just so exciting to write this letter to you! I have been a tennis player my whole life, but when I started following you I became inspired me to work harder and train more often as well as become a better person, which I believe that I have and I owe it all to you. Whether on a court, in the gym or running through the cemetery in the middle of the night wearing a bear costume – it makes sense, but you’d have to be there – I am always thinking about tennis and of you, you wonderful man, you.

Now, please don’t get creeped out by this, because I am totally normal – exact words from my therapist, scout’s honour – but I have dedicated the past ten years of my life to you, all to you, trying to live my life how Roger would, which is tougher than it sounds from afar. Now, I know what you’re thinking, I have done my meticulous and thorough research, I am not a crazed lunatic who wants a lock of your hair – though I wouldn’t turn one down if you felt so inclined or were getting a haircut anyways and you don’t want to let all of that glorious hair just go to waste, do you? You do not need to alert the authorities, or if you must, at least order your favourite chicken salad off the lunch menu as you do need your protein, beforehand.

I remember the day I first watched you play, when your slim, yet muscular and positively gleaming Swiss body smoothly graced my television screen like a smooth, silky bar of wonderfully delicious Swiss chocolate. For a short moment I thought a bomb had gone off in my mind as I sat there, on the edge of my seat, watching you play like I was watching a god, until I realized that my roommate was loudly and abruptly pulsing ice in the blender while sitting right behind me, so he could observe me and take notes for science. He is always claiming to be a behavioural scientist, but I’m fairly sure he just makes smoothies at the mall. My mom claims he’s imaginary, so who knows.

If you came to my house, and I hope you do one day – a special seat at the dining table is yours as well as much orange juice from concentrate as you can drink – you’d see that my house is decked out in Roger gear! From my custom-made throw pillows in the shape of your racquet, to the Roger-themed museum housed in my garage, to the huge close-up photograph of your face that makes up an entire wall of my living room, you’d love my place. I often stand there, looking at the huge photo of your face for motivation, while swinging an imaginary tennis racquet wearing nothing but knee-high white tube socks and cut off jean shorts.

Each night before I go to sleep, I drink a cup of warm milk, check and re-check my list of people I must exact revenge on, and trim my toe nails, before dropping to my knees in front of my lamp that my girlfriend snidely, yet aptly, christened “Roger” before she angrily slammed the backdoor and left my life forever, and I pray that you will fully recover from your most recent injury and fight off your increasing age to once again take your rightful spot atop the tennis world. Those who say you are over-the-hill or too old or clearly a robot are so wrong and hateful and jealous and need to stop demanding that I forward her mail to her. 

You have provided me with years and years of joy! I just want to repay you in some way especially if it meant a larger tax return for yours truly. Each time you win and raise your toned and tanned arms, I feel like we have both won and that you couldn’t have persevered without my screaming “Go Fed” at the top of my lungs until my neighbour called the police to complain. Just being there, with you, as you stand with yet another trophy raised triumphantly above your head, a feeling of pride rises from deep within me. And when you look to the camera and smile, our eyes meet for a moment, and I know that smile is all for me, almost like we are sharing a private joke that the rest of the world just wishes they were in on, but they aren’t because they are losers, not like us. “Wonder twins activate”, I barely audibly whisper as my fingertips caress your face on the screen before some moronic commercial begins, taking you away from me once more.

As I sit alone in the darkness, or as I called it, Fridays, I clutch my gigantic Federer plush toy to my chest, I think of the amazing day when we will finally meet and I mutter to myself “you can do this” and “nothing and no one will stop me, this time” and “cut down on the air quotes while talking to yourself Tommy, people will think you are a tad strange.”

All the best Roger. I can’t wait to watch your return to form in the New Year.

Tommy

Back to School

September.

It's that time of year again.

The leaves are turning colour, the air gets colder at night and I'm getting ready to wear nothing but white seeing as Labour Day is almost upon us.

And, it's the final few days before school starts.

Time, predictably, has flown.

Just the other day, I was fleeing leaving school on the final day of work in June, ready to pick up my kids and meet my wife and literally eat some ice cream. The long expanse of summer was in front of me and I almost believed that it would go on forever.

The past two months have been a spectacular combination of lazy mornings, late evenings, throwing frisbees, family barbecues, playing tennis and slow, timeless afternoons flaked out on the sand with the ever present melodic gentle waves providing the soundtrack.

And now? Now, it's about to get real...again.

Soon the alarm clocks will have to be set, checked and double-checked, outfits that don't give others seizures prepared the evening before, and detailed schedules arranged and organized down to the very minute including lessons and activities and appointments that suck up every ounce of free time before rinsing, gurgling and spitting them out.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I feel like I've been here before.

42 times before, to be exact.

For the majority of my years on Earth (plus some of the years when I was stranded on the moon), as summer ends, life in a classroom resumes.

As beach blankets and sandals are stored, backpacks and pencil cases are dusted off.
As sunscreens and sunburns and the sun itself become but a memory, the rain begins to fall with great regularity.
As life transitions to math homework and spelling tests and notices from parks and playgrounds, courts and surf, it just feels right even when it feels so wrong.

It's the order of things.

It's my personal, life-long order of things.

It's the way.

From Tiny Tots to preschool to elementary to secondary to university to teaching to a masters degree to counselling to having my own kids and wife all decide to strangely go to school as well that I'm choosing to see as a complement, September has meant school.

Aside from a year of travelling, a year of exchange teaching in Australia and that amazing year when I was one, the end of August has always indicated one thing; pencils, books and teacher's mostly really pleasant and encouraging looks aside from those times when I didn't listen and follow instructions and, thus, deserved whatever I got (okay, that was three things...maybe I made a mistake or maybe I was practicing my division skills. Think about it.)

Not that it's all bad. Seasons come and seasons go. To attempt to refute that would be an exercise in futility unless you knew some of my friends. Autumn is my favourite. Mornings are crisp, days are warm and it is easier to sleep in the relative coolness of the breeze. And I enjoy my work, the kids love school and my wife is like a rabid attack dog that rips strangers to threads, only the type that enjoys teaching teenagers about science and math.

And the first week of school is always exciting.

Wheeee!!!

New clothes, new students, new beard (that's an inside joke, that makes much more sense when you look at the place on my face where a beard would traditionally be worn, and even then, it's just not that funny a joke).

The first few weeks fly by as the family literally springs up ready to learn. "We don't miss summer at all," we tell ourselves in unison like an almost-unwatchable family from a completely-unwatchable sitcom. Its all going swimmingly until we speed over a speed bump one particularly tough morning when I get up after a horribly inconsistent sleep that makes the use of the word "sleep" ironic at best.

You know those mornings, where you burn the toast and scald your hand and pack a set of lunches that NO ONE WILL EVER EAT! The kids have magically devolved into immovable, unrouse-able, barbaric, do-not-disturb beings (still cute, though) that will never be able to get up, eat breakfast and look sort-of-presentable within the next 45 minutes. Every moment from the second I wake up at 6:30 until I somehow arrive in my office the second the bell goes to start school is jam-packed with the panic of being late which goes a long ways towards explaining why I frequently spill my lunch.

Afternoons are passed, in a stupor, gazing longingly out the window as a smiling woman goes for a jog, an old man playfully walks his dog and the sun beats down on a seasonably warm day that would easily be mistaken for summer if I wasn't trapped, sweating in my office.

Grrrrr.

Was I ever so dumb to be glad that summer was over? I look at myself in the mirror and decide that, yes, yes I was. I would smack that adorably, sad, dumb look off my face if I wasn't so adorable and dumb.

Gone are the wonderfully laid-back mornings of a few weeks ago.
Gone are those lunchtime debates over "how should we use the next 5 hours today?" "That's right, any way we want!"
Gone is the flexibility and freedom and fiduciary duty (I know, I know - it makes no sense at all here, but I needed a third "F" word to use in this spot and it seemed the "funniest". Don't believe me? You try saying it out loud a few times without laughing. Note: much funnier when wearing a large set of fake eyebrows.)

But, time waits for no one.

You know who else waits for no one? That was an actual question. I really don't know.

I like school, I do. Though if it comes up in court while I'm being attacked by a tall, dark, handsome, legs-for-days and exotic-looking attorney I'll deny all plausibility (always wanted to say that before). But, I do like it.

I've always felt at home in a school, but never enough to actually make it my home, and once back in the flow of the routines and subroutines and sequences of program instructions that perform a specific task that almost make it seem like I'm actually inside of a computer (thank you, Wikipedia!) it's all good. 

It is just so jarring when summer comes crashing to a halt and I have to wear actual shirts with actual sleeves (in the summer, I'm quite anti-sleeve) and shoes and comb my hair every morning!?!? (to be honest, I use my hands to carefully arrange my locks as well as the hairs on my head).

So as I sit here in a cafe on a Friday afternoon I am both aware that I won't have the luxury of doing this again for months, but also that I believe I'm ready for what inevitably comes next.

Summer, it's been good.

We had fun, you and I.

You tickled my toes, wrapped me up in your warm arms, helped my world glow and made me feel young again. I'd call you the father that I never had, but that would make things weird and awkward (especially when I hang out with my actual father who is doing his best, thank you very much. I mean, he's no summer, I'll grant you that, but...I think I'll stop before I go too far).

Take it easy summer.

You deserve a break, until next year.

I can't wait.

How I Deal With Boredom

Do you ever get bored?

Do you ever come close to clawing your eyeballs out due to extreme boredom only wishing you could do something, anything to feel less bored?

Do you ever wonder if this only happens to you?

Do you wish you had some tools in your toolbelt to escape this feeling?

Well, I too have momentarily felt bored and over time I have developed a handy list of ways to handle situations or experiences that are less that exciting.

You are welcome!

1) Pretend you are being followed or stalked. Not fun, but definitely not boring.

2) Make up a game with an intricate set of detailed and confusing rules. Hours of fun playing and arguing with yourself all afternoon that you are cheating.

3) Every crack you hear from above your head is one less crack before your roof collapses. Think about that for a while. Not boring!

4) Consume a ton of honey and then reorganize the furniture in your place and see how "bee-like" the end product is.

5) As your friends are busy, take out a handful of chocolate chip cookies and name each one with the name of one of your friends and then proceed to aggressively eat each of them. Confusing and a field day for your therapist, but a great way to pass the time.

6) Invent a dance that is heavy on eyebrow movement.

7) You're a spy! Now you're a princess! And then you become a cowboy! Followed by a hyena! Your only limit is your imagination and the selection of clothes your wife/husband/roommate/grandmother/cellmate has.

8) Log on to social media and refresh each minute for an hour to see if anyone has liked any of your many late-night posts from the previous evening, and therefore, you. Ultimately potentially depressing, but the sheer amount of rapid eye movement will make that hour seem like 48 minutes.

9) Write a play about a lonely person who was tremendously bored, was friendless, never accomplished or amounted to anything and then died alone. Now turn on some upbeat Broadway show tunes and notice how quickly your story comes alive.

10) Re-read emails from work associates and your boss with as much paranoid speculation as you can. Step back and allow your neuroses to do their job. Start plotting your revenge. Ultimately this will cause you hours of stress and may potentially cause you to look for employment elsewhere, but the afternoon will go flying by.

11) Remove your clothes and literally coat yourself with a thick layer of peanut butter, allow it to dry and then enjoy spending the rest of the afternoon in the bath trying to scrub yourself clean.

12) Imagine your existence as a variety of inanimate objects in the room: a window sill, a raincoat, a plastic straw, a filing cabinet. Now stand up and walk around the room resisting the urge to taunt. Enjoy the flexibility and freedom that is easy to take for granted. If still bored, chose four new objects and repeat. 

13) Play a rousing game of Hide the Wallet While Blindfolded in the Dark After Spinning Around Till Dizzy. It's a crowd pleaser!

14) Read the headlines from the newspaper out loud using delivery styles that alternate between cute old lady and savage animal. Be careful to avoid the temptation to maul yourself.

15) Pretend you are trapped inside a box with limited access to oxygen and all you have at your disposal is some dental floss, a toothpick and some unchewed bubble gum. A great way to use your problem solving skills and creativity! Bonus marks for actually trapping yourself inside a box. 

16) Call your most boring friend and spend the next thirty minutes listening to him or her drone on about the plights of their existence and instantly you'll feel a whole more exciting relative to that loser.

17) Start writing your tell-all autobiography full of every sordid detail, shady backroom deal, explicit affair and any actual events that may have occurred that are truly interesting. Note: this activity may yield tears and a feeling that some/most/all of your life has been a waste. Consider this - when crying, you definitely aren't bored and this list isn't about how to feel better or raise your self-esteem. That's a whole other list for another day.

18) Wrap yourself up in all of that asbestos-free insulation you were saving for a moment like this. Take pictures using your Polaroid camera in a variety of hilarious poses and ridiculous facial expressions. Put photos away for the next time you feel bored.

19) Sit by the window and smile, wave and jump up and down enthusiastically at each passerby with as much energy and fanfare as you can summon. Barking, yelping and slobbering are optional.

20) Don't fight the boredom. Embrace it. Accept yourself for who you are and where you are at. Love yourself in all your glory. If that doesn't work consider entirely removing all hair from your body.

How to Ask a Girl Out in High School

So, you are in high school and you think you've found the girl of your dreams. You don't want to mess things up you say? Well, you've come to the right place as I've been where you are so many times in my past and said and done the wrong things enough to be considered a Rhodes Scholar on the subject. Do you want to get the girl? Follow this advice.

Approach with confidence. Nothing says "don't date me" louder than a total lack of spine. Check those feelings of self-doubt, no matter how strong, at the door. If confidence is generally a challenge for you, consider an accessory like a hard-to-place accent or freshly baked cookies.

Timing is everything! Attempt to catch her at a moment of weakness. Tears are your friend and your queue to enter. If you are lucky she will have just been asked out by a real loser making you seem relatively cooler in comparison.

It is important that she is alone when you approach so you can have her undivided attention in case you decide to perform some magic tricks. Don't perform magic tricks.

In all likelihood she will be surrounded by her girlfriends, who are like a pack of wild dogs. If they believe their friend is under attack, and they will, they will rip your face off. Bring raw steaks.

Don't forget about hygiene! Any extra washing or positive aromas or sparkling teeth are a plus. Now is not the time to show off your acne or your recent ability to grow a handlebar moustache.

I can't say enough about being prepared. Stretch, warmup your vocal chords, liberally apply moisturizers and memorize all of her posts on social media in the past 12 months.

Open with a compliment about her appearance. Don't be too descriptive or graphic or overly verbose. You may be the next Shakespeare or star soft porn director, but now is not the time to show off. Keep it simple and appropriate as if your grandmother happened to be around. Don't bring your grandmother.

Make small talk. This is a perfect opportunity to demonstrate that you are down-to-Earth and normal. Ask her about something general and non-personal like school, music, or taxation.

Don't be too subtle. It is okay to be transparent about how you feel in your comments. If you are aiming for actual transparency, consider opening your science textbook on a more regular basis. It may not be safe for you to be around other humans.

Tell her you like her and want to go out with her, but not in those words. Strike a balance between perplexingly vague and creepy.

Obvious signs to watch for that she is not interested include, but are not limited to, shrieking, constant warning of imminent bear attacks, vacant looks by her where she looks as if she is dying a slow death and being tasered.

If you have gotten this far, good job! You may now proceed and ask her out on a date. You may never know if she is truly into you or is using you as part of a detailed plan of revenge. Thankfully you don't care.

Present a detailed date proposal analyzing the costs, benefits and risks of plans A through H and then step back in anticipation of a standing ovation followed by a brief question and answer period. 

With plans set, excuse yourself. Walk off slowly and proudly on a grassy field in the gleaming sun towards the horizon like a general returning from war. You are a hero and the things of which statues are made on.

An Open Letter to My Cat

Hi Piper.

I hope you are well.

I have some things, complaints if you will, that I've been meaning to share with you for a while, but I just could never find the time. 

Please don't take this letter the wrong way, and I know once I say that to a fellow human it is usually a trigger for them that they almost definitely will. You? Well, you are a cat and I'm not at all sure of your ability to pick up on nuances like that. I don't want to underestimate you, and in general, estimating in any sense rarely comes up in my life when interacting with cats.

Where to begin? I guess I could ask you a variety of questions on a wide array of topics, but since it is 2am and I should get to sleep, I'll get right to it. 

For starters, you make me sneeze. A lot. All the time. I just sneezed before typing this letter and the countdown is on before the next eruption.

Also, my eyes must be rubbed all day and night until they are puffy and watery. And I itch and itch and itch! I just can't stop! My fingers are constantly covered with red dots that I must scratch or rub incessantly. All of the sneezing, eye rubbing and itching is starting to greatly affect my personal and professional lives. Women I am trying to date think that I have nervous ticks and evil eyes and that I cry too easily during movies (and once during a public service announcement about the benefits of quitting smoking). 

My coworkers act like I should be quarantined. Even my boss is starting to wonder if I have a drug problem as my nose and eyes are suspiciously either red or crusty and I often look like I haven't had a solid sleep in weeks (that part is true). I try to tell them that cat hair is making me cough and wheeze, but the boss and my coworkers are looking more and more unconvinced as time goes on.

Doctors, experts and random passersby on the street have told me that I am highly allergic to you. In my weaker, more paranoid moments (Friday evenings through Monday mornings) I have this unshakable feeling that you are doing this purposely to me in your efforts to bring me down. Like you have been sent here from the cat world, to infiltrate my house, cozy up to me like you were a friend, and then slowly put in motion the plot to destroy me. One small step for felines?

But, you are so cute and I have a soft spot for cute and furry animals. You know where that spot is - right between my lap and my neck. I know, it's large. Hard to miss. 

I’m sorry that I used to call you Furball. I understand now that a name like that may be considered offensive from your point of view. Those feline sensitivity classes I was court-ordered to take for 8 consecutive weekends were highly constructive.

You shed a lot! There are always piles of cat hair wherever I look and you never even lift so much as a finger to help clean it up. And don't tell me that you don't even have fingers, as I have heard the excuse a thousand times. I do feel some regret, because if I had planned ahead, I could have made quite the wig or small rug or at least better insulated my bedroom with all of the hair you have so graciously left for me around my apartment.

I've also been told that your hair is literally floating around in the air in my apartment and that I am breathing it in constantly throughout the day which goes a long way towards explaining the constant wheeze I have and the incessant coughing as well as the odd and slightly disarming texture that my skin has developed over time which one friend once described as animalistically coarse.

You are also quite the chatty cat! You meow pleasantly in the daytime when you'd like some food and it is quite lovely. However, something changes within you when it turns to night time when I'm trying to sleep. From the second I turn my light off and close my eyes, you howl and whine very loudly. Whatever you think that I've done, I'm truly sorry - I just want to sleep. I'll buy you some tuna in the morning.

I’ve tried to explain that going outside at night just isn't an option as there are raccoons and coyotes nearby. You'd be attacked and I'd never forgive myself, until after a short period of mourning, when I'd buy a new cat. I've said too much!

Those wild animals are vicious and always hungry and, how do I say this nicely, you are a bit on the large side. I'm sorry! In one sense, it's all my fault as I am the one that feeds you, but, in another, much more accurate sense, it is yours. It's hard to hear the truth sometimes, Piper, but you could cut back a bit on the eating.

A smaller you would be able to actually jump up on to the couch without assistance. A slimmer you and you'd be able to walk past the mirror with pride. A thinner you and you wouldn't entirely block the heat vent and I'd have to rethink all of my large cat remarks that I know hurt you on some level. I am insensitive when I'm freezing cold.

Finally, if you don't mind, I'd love for you to stop using my couch, chairs, and pants as your personal scratching posts. Stop thumbing your nose at the store-bought scratching post I bought! And yes, I'm fully aware that you don't have neither a thumb nor a protruding nose.

It seems that no matter how often I trim your nails, they grow and grow and are always very sharp. I'll be laying there on the couch after a long day and you will walk across me and it feels like you are poking me with nails. A friend once asked if I considered having you declawed and I haven't as that it cruel, but I wish you'd just let me know when it is time for me to cut your nails without clawing me or the furniture. That is not meant at all to sound like a threat, more just a plea from one sane being to another, shorter, more defenseless, easily sold or traded or given away being.

Anyways Piper, I hope this letter is not too harsh and that you understand where I am coming from. Just a few small changes on your part and our lives together can be even better.

with love

Tommy